“True love,” I said. “Of himself.”
He phoned Moe Reed. Nothing on his end about the newlyweds’ hotel accommodations; same for Sean and Alicia.
Milo said, “Keep trying,” and clicked off. He put his weight on the accelerator.
At Reseda, I said, “I’m thinking to call Basia again.”
“About what?”
I told him.
He said, “You really see a connection?”
“Depends on what she tells me.”
Lopatinski was at her desk. “Hello, I was just about to call you — Milo, actually.”
“He’s right here, driving.”
“Hi, Milo.”
“Basia.”
“There will be an autopsy on Mr. Lotz within the next few days but I don’t expect it to reveal much. His bloods likely tell the story: heroin plus fentanyl plus diazepam. A lot of diazepam.”
I said, “A Valium appetizer followed by an opioid entrée? Or everything mixed together?”
“No way to tell, Alex.”
“Was there enough Valium to put him under before the hot-shot?”
“You’re wondering if it’s the same process as DaCosta: Immobilize then strike.”
“Exactly.”
“Unfortunately, with a long-term addict it’s hard to say what does what. They build up tolerances, the brain changes, they can handle dosages that would kill you and me. All I can tell you is the three drugs combined were far more than needed to stop his heart.”
Milo said, “Ever see a mixture like that before?”
“I have seen accidental overdoses in polydrug users but not a premixed cocktail. None of the other pathologists around here have seen it, either. I believe it makes homicide likely. For an addict, adding a tranq to a fix would be a needless expense and distraction. One more thing: Mr. Lotz’s insides haven’t been explored yet but his outsides do tell a story. Eight tattoos, six of them conforming to samples in our prison-gang photo file. Two are typical of the Scottish Clansters, they’re active in southern Ohio and Kentucky. Four are your basic neo-Nazi garbage.”
“Nasty stuff.”
“A good candidate for someone looking to hire out for a nasty job.”
I thought: living beneath all those students.
Milo said, “What about the other two tattoos?”
“Mother in a heart with an arrow through it and a cartoon wolf.”
“The world of fine art.”
“I prefer Monet. Anything that I should know from you?”
Milo said, “Not yet.”
I said, “Did you have time to check Cassandra Booker’s file?”
“Not yet but it’s unlikely anything in the autopsy’s going to add clarity.”
“I’m not interested in her organs, just what she was wearing when she came in.”
I told her why.
She said, “Something a psychologist would think of... I’ll take a look and text you.”
Five minutes later, I was reading her message aloud to Milo.
“Pale-blue cotton dress, size six, Miss Bluebell label; blue-and-green-checked sneakers, size seven and a half, Vans; white cotton panties, size S, Young and Free label.”
The best saved for last. Basia’s sense of drama:
“White mid-thigh tights, size S, Tone-Upp label.”
I looked up the company. One product: “invisible body shapers.”
Milo didn’t respond.
I said, “Not impressed?”
“Unpleasantly impressed, life just got more complicated. If my damn head explodes, duck.”
Dealing with my best friend can be like doing therapy. What you don’t say matters more than what you do so I kept my mouth shut.
We’d just merged onto the 405 South before he spoke again, droning at a low volume.
“The kid’s from Iowa. So what, I talk to the parents? It’s telephonic, talk about hampering my charm. Even if I could fly out there and meet them face-to-face, what the hell would I say? The daughter who destroyed your lives by ending hers — accidentally — was maybe spurred on to shoot herself up, or better yet murdered by some power-hungry psychopath who’d already had his way with her and convinced her to wear Lycra? Not that I know this for a fact or have anything resembling evidence in that regard, Mr. and Mrs Booker. It’s just one of those detective feelings. So I thought I’d share.”
I said nothing.
He said, “You’re the shrink. Can it be done with greater sensitivity?”
“Not that I can see.”
“So I just stash this morsel away.”
I said, “I’d look for a link between Suzanne and Cassy.”
“A habitually lying stripper and a nineteen-year-old Iowa girl? Only link I can see is The Brain somehow knew both of them and right now, he’s arm in arm with his honey sucking on a cone of gelato.”
“I’ll keep trying with Maxine, see if she can learn more about the DIY program, even confirm a relationship between Cassy and Amanda. You were talking about surveilling Amanda. Maybe now would be a good time.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Definitely.”
Chapter 31
He stopped in front of my house, keeping the engine running. “Gonna set up the watch schedule for tonight, maybe I’ll get lucky and catch Mandy doing something bad. Have a nice rest-of-the-day.”
Before I could answer, he’d sped away.
Robin’s Post-it was stuck to the inside of the front door. Out delivering a Baroque lute to a rock musician in Pacific Palisades who didn’t play Baroque music or the lute. (“Took Blanchie. I need intelligent conversation.”)
I went to my office and tried Maxine Driver again.
She said, “You are persistent. I was just about to text you, good, this saves my fingernails. Unfortunately, I don’t have much to report. I made all the calls I could think of without arousing suspicion. Got a general sense that no one wants to talk about the program.”
“The suicide?”
“I was told it just didn’t work, kids dropped out. What I did manage to pry out is that it wasn’t a touchie-feelie group thing. No meetings of all the kids, just individual mentoring when requested.”
I said, “When requested. Sounds like a loose setup.”
“That was the point, another do-your-own-thing. That’s the way it is nowadays, Alex. Too much structure’s a no-no because if you offend the little bastards they slime you on Yelp, you might as well be a sushi bar or a shoe store. You’d expect administration to back up the faculty. You’d be wrong. They read the ratings and get all antsy about fewer applications leading to a lower rating in U.S. News leading to Academic Armageddon.”
I said, “Toddlers running the nursery.”
“Except toddlers are cute. Or so I’ve heard.”
“Who mentored these tots?”
“Outside advisors.”
“Not regular faculty?”
“Nope.”
“Academics from other colleges?”
“No idea, Alex. For all I know they used volunteer alumni. The program only lasted two quarters, which in postmodern, ADHD college terms means it never happened.”
I said, “Poor you, Maxine. Short attention spans must be tough for a historian.”
“It’s death on wheels. I mention Darfur I get blank looks. I talk about socialism and the little darlings think it means a lot of likes on Facebook and Instagram.”