Breakdown, p.19
Breakdown, page 19
“Taxpayers deserve it from you.”
When she left, I said, “How many of your hidey-holes don’t I know about?”
“What—oh, this? A stopover.”
“To where?”
“Like I said, right on the way to your place.”
“You need to fuel up before you visit?”
“Don’t get touchy. On certain days it helps to settle my system a bit so I can be civil to Robin and the pooch. You, I don’t care.”
The drinks came. My beer tasted like Bud.
I sat there as Milo drank and loosened his tie and plucked at an X of duct tape patching the arm of the booth.
He put his whiskey down, traced a line in the frost coating the iced-tea glass. “Let’s say Enid is a rich lady who had the misfortune of being invaded by Zelda. Maybe or maybe not she had the colchicine on her property. Maybe or maybe not she watched Zelda die instead of calling for help and is covering her own ass by making up a cockamamie story. What bothers me is that next big step: offing two innocent bystanders. You see her able to transport corpses? Trucking them away in her Porsche or her Rolls and putting the bodies where they haven’t been found? The alternative is a classic domestic: Maria Garcia did kill Alicia. But the problem with that is Imelda. I know Lorrie suggested her case could be unrelated to Alicia. But two women, same job, go missing at the same time?”
I thought about that. “There is another way to turn the prism. Imelda and Alicia aren’t dead. They went off together.”
“Imelda’s gay and just came out?”
“What if they met while schmoozing during lunch hour and something clicked? Most affairs begin at work.”
“Imelda would just bail on her family and leave them with all that anxiety?”
“Telling them could seem worse,” I said. “Maybe she’s still figuring out how to do it.”
“Hey kids, guess what, Mom’s got a see-cret…yeah, that could be messy.”
He picked up his whiskey and finished it. “Alicia and Imelda being an item could lead somewhere else: Maria found out and dispatched both of them. She might’ve even surprised them at work. All we have is her word that she didn’t know where Alicia worked.”
“She’s got no driver’s license.”
“So she borrowed wheels. Or hired a lowlife from the park to do a contract killing. Seeing as we’re fact deprived, anything’s possible. Hell, we sit here long enough, we could create a mini-series.”
He called for a refill. Mary looked at me. I said, “I’m fine.”
“Maybe you’ll get thirsty when the pizza comes. We put too much salt in it.”
A few minutes later she returned with Milo’s drink and the pie, a massive disk laden high with a few things I could identify, many I couldn’t.
“Clams,” said Milo, picking up an amorphous pink chunk. “Excellent.”
“Even more salt to help your blood pressure,” said Mary. To me: “Try it, see if I’m right.”
I peeled off a slice and tasted. One of the unidentifiables might’ve been eggplant. Or another species of ocean invertebrate.
“Well?” said Mary.
“You’re right.”
“The magic words. Now teach my boyfriend how to pronounce them.”
When she left again, I said, “Even if Enid’s renting, she probably pays for some utilities under her own name.”
He groaned. “So damn obvious—too late to call the power companies, I’ll try in the morning.” Pizza vanished down his gullet, washed down with the second whiskey and iced tea. “Any other wisdom you’d care to share? Pick your topic—including my horoscope.”
“You feeling out of cosmic alignment?”
“The oracle in the paper says it’s my month to be charming and sociable but I ain’t feeling it.”
I smiled, though I wasn’t feeling it, either. Plagued by the intrusive thought I couldn’t shake.
No matter what had happened to three women, an eleven-year-old boy was out there somewhere.
One way or the other.
I finished the lousy beer, augmented with water because I’d be drinking wine with Robin. Lots of it.
CHAPTER
28
My head still throbbed and my eyes were gritty when my private line rang at eleven twenty-five the following morning.
Milo said, “No dice. She pays for gas, electric, and water in Bel Air, but nowhere in the desert. On the off chance she goes through Loach, I did call the assistant. Guess what: Britnee’s not working there anymore and her replacement’s a temp who came across brain-dead.”
I said, “Too chatty and the boss found out?”
“I’m definitely going to connect with her. I also talked to Lorrie about an Alicia–Imelda romance thing. She says no way, Imelda was religious and conservative. But you never know. Bottom line: Enid made up a story and it’s bothering me more than it did yesterday. She wasn’t a suspect. Why lie?”
“People overreach when they’re nervous.”
“Exactly and I’m also liking your idea about liability. Her level of money could cause someone to do all sorts of things.”
“Covering her assets.”
He laughed. “In terms of a loony lurker, before I got to the office, I did a drive-by on St. Denis and neighboring streets, talked to a few residents and maids walking froufrou dogs. Everyone’s happy in 90077. One guy even thanked me for doing my job. Just to make sure, I combed through a year’s worth of incident reports in the entire old Bel Air area. A few burglaries but nothing psycho and the only prowler complaint was a bogus call from a spurned wife when her husband showed up to get his golf clubs.”
“Busy morning.” I popped my third Advil.
“The best kind,” he said. “I also located Britnee. Axed, disgruntled, and saying so on Facebook. I sent her a like on her rant, asked if she’d talk to me. She answered right away with a whole bunch of happy emoticons. She lives in the Fairfax area, likes modern dance and Thai food. Can’t do anything about the former but I found a place on Melrose. Couple of hours. That work for you?”
—
Britnee Leah Fauve was twenty-five, tall, leggy, blond with pink streaks, alluring in body-hugging black.
“Asshole,” she said, chopsticking a nugget of shrimp into a perfectly glossed mouth. “I didn’t deserve that.”
Milo said, “Mr. Loach.”
“Mr. Roach. He is a damn bug. Kept looking at my butt when he thought I couldn’t see but barely spoke to me. It’s like I was…decoration. I never got why he even needed an assistant, he’s in the office like once a week and doesn’t do much when he is there. I figured it would happen soon.”
“Getting fired?”
“Getting hit on. Didn’t have to deal with that on the job I had before. Then she died. My first boss.”
“Also a law firm?”
“No way, dental office. Dr. Regina Korovnick, DDS, old Russian lady, never smiled but all business. I started working for her right out of the U., was there for two years. Not exactly what I wanted for a career, I was a theater arts major. But if you don’t have a trust fund…Dr. Korovnick gave me responsibility. I ran her entire front office and if I worked late one day, she’d give me time off for an audition when I needed it.”
“Nice setup.”
“Then she had a stroke and the office closed down and I had nothing for four straight months, then I got stuck with him. His HR assholes put me on sixty days probation at sixty percent pay, no health plan. On day fifty-nine—three days ago—they ditched me. It’s a scam. You get peons to work cheap then ditch ’em. My boyfriend’s pre-law, he says I should sue.”
She looked at us for confirmation.
I said, “Did Loach give a reason for letting you go?”
“Loach never said anything, it came through the damn HR. Email. At night when they knew I wouldn’t see it until morning. Don’t come in tomorrow, we’ll be sending you a severance check for one week. Which so far they haven’t.”
“Not nice,” said Milo.
“You think?” She sipped water. “Looking back maybe I should’ve expected it. Something happened the week before. I didn’t think it would come back and bite me but obviously it did.”
She picked at her food.
Milo said, “What happened, Britnee?”
Putting her chopsticks down, she gave a theatrical sigh and aimed deep-blue eyes at us. “It was kind of gross. Not that they shouldn’t be able to do it, I don’t discriminate against anyone. But be discreet, okay?”
“They being…”
“Old people. As a group, I’ve got no problem with them. I respected Dr. Korovnick. I respected and loved my nana, she was awesome. I’m just saying…you want me to go into it? Maybe it’d help with a lawsuit?”
Milo said, “We kinda need to know what you’re referring to.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal. Last week, I got a call from downstairs to pick up a whole bunch of papers Loach had requested, Xerox and collate and staple and bring them back. Tons of paper, boring stuff—real estate laws, I think. As usual, he wasn’t in the office, I’d been doing my typical sit around and wait. So why would I assume? It took a while, the first copy machine had a jam, but I finally finished and brought the stuff back up and knocked on his office door and went in. Expecting no one, a formality, you know?”
Her smile was sudden, sly. “Unfortunately…oh, man, that was some scene.”
“Loach was there…”
“Him and a woman,” said Britnee Fauve. “An old woman, maybe even older than him. And they—you really want to hear this? Hey, why not?” She licked her lips. “What I see when I go in is him standing in front of his desk and she’s down on her knees in front of him. His face turns red and he makes this little squawky noise and she gets up real quick. I dropped the papers on the floor and bailed.”
Milo said, “Caught in the act. Talk about awkward.”
“It’s crazy, right? You’re in the mood for some head, why wouldn’t you lock the door? Sean—my boyfriend—says that’s contributory negligence, I have a solid case.”
I said, “Loach sure put you in a tough situation.”
“It’s always that way, right? You catch someone at something and they end up blaming you because they feel crappy about it. That’s how it was with my boyfriend before Sean.” She pondered. “Sean’s different.”
Milo said, “Catching someone being naughty and getting blamed for it. Kinda sounds like police work, Britnee.”
“Yeah, I guess so…I was grossed out and went to Starbucks and didn’t come back the rest of the day. They’re probably using that against me. Can you blame me for not wanting to be around when he finally came out of the office? Hi, boss, enjoy getting your knob polished by some GILF in Chanel? I mean, yuck, gross.”
“Had you seen the woman before?”
“Once or twice, she’d show up, they’d go out. So she’s probably his girlfriend or whatever. But don’t blame me if you’re not careful. Asshole.”
Milo said, “Can you describe the woman?”
“Old, white hair—why, is she some kind of suspect?”
“Just collecting background on Mr. Loach.”
“I meant to ask you about that,” she said. “What exactly’s going on with him? Please please tell me he’s in serious trouble, some sleazy lawyer thing.”
Milo smiled. “I wish we could get into that, Britnee. But too early in the game.”
She smiled back. Perfect teeth. “At least there’s a game. Okay, great. But can you promise me one thing? If whatever he did helps me with my lawsuit, you’ll let me know?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thanks, guys,” she said. “I mean, if he’s an ax murderer or something, that would help, right?” She laughed. “Sean says I could sue him, the firm, maybe even the agency that got me the job. Luck out, I can score some serious F-U money, finally get a vacation.”
I said, “Haven’t had one in a while?”
“Like in never. School and work and nothing else since my sophomore year in high school, which is when my dad died.”
Milo said, “You really do deserve a break, Britnee. Good luck—can you describe the woman a bit more?”
“Old,” she reiterated. “Tall, skinny. Not a bad figure, I guess. Not bad, she might’ve been cute a long time ago. Rich-looking. That Chanel was real. So were her Louboutins, when she was going down on him I saw those red soles. I’d say she could be his wife but he’s not married. Which he told me after I’d been there for a week. After shamelessly letch-leering my butt.”
She ran a hand down one smooth flank. Flipped her hair.
I said, “Rich older lady.”
“What else…I said white hair but it was really white-blond, probably cost a fortune…oh, yeah, GILF lipstick, coral red.” She grinned. “All smeared up on the side of her face. She did move fast, kind of graceful, I’ll give her that. Like maybe she danced when she was younger? Or she takes yoga, whatever.”
Milo showed her Enid DePauw’s DMV photo, careful to cover the name with his hand.
“Oh, wow. Yup, that’s her. She doesn’t look so great here.” Shaking her head. “Itchy lips, lock the door, bitch. Guess I’m lucky to get out of there, it was only a matter of time before he’d be trying to get me to do it.”
She ate another piece of shrimp. “Tell you one thing: I feel sorry for the next person they exploit.”
I said, “There’s a temp working there now. Not too bright.”
“Figures. Not that the job involves brainwork. Taking messages from his Audi mechanic? His tailor? Sean says that’s what senior partners do. Loaf around and exploit everyone below them. He calls it modern-day feudalism. Says the rest of us are the new serfs. Maybe I’m lucky. Maybe working for Loach is bad karma. The assistant before me had it a whole lot worse.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know her name,” said Britnee Fauve. “Don’t even know if it was even a her or a him. But soon after I started working there, some dude downstairs in the mailroom made the crack about a voodoo hex up in Suite 1100. Like ‘Good luck, hope you do better than the last one.’ I said what are you talking about and he told me. Pretty tasteless, joking about it.”
We waited.
Britnee said, “Death isn’t funny. I was fifteen when my dad died.”
Milo said, “Loach’s previous assistant died?”
“That’s what the dude said. I didn’t ask anyone to confirm it, there was no one to talk to anyway, I was basically in solitary confinement up there. And when I came downstairs I couldn’t wait to get out of there because of all the chemical smells—toners and whatnot.”
“Do you remember the dude’s name?”
“Antoine,” she said. “He’s black, some kind of French-like accent. Maybe he was just messing with my head. But if he wasn’t, you think it could be important? For my lawsuit?” She ate another piece of shrimp, said, “This is delicious, going to bring Sean here. Thanks, I mean it.”
Milo said, “Our pleasure. Take the rest to go. And get some dessert—get two, for you and Sean.”
“That is really sweet, sir, but I’m really not much of a dessert person.”
“Given what you’ve been through, maybe you should be. Go ahead, on us.”
“Naw—you really think so?”
“We know so, Britnee.”
“Well…I do try to stay away from white sugar. But maybe they use something else.”
Milo called for a menu. She scanned. “Coconut custard…I do like coconut…custard’s eggs, that’s protein—okay, custard. Thanks.”
“How about Sean?”
“I’m not sure if he’d eat anything, he’s like Mr. Workout…hmm…okay, mango and coconut rice. He loves mango. Puts them in the blender for smoothies.”
Milo put in the order, asked the waiter to pack it up along with her barely touched lunch, and handed over cash.
The waiter smiled. Britnee Fauve smiled.
Milo and I worked at keeping our faces neutral.
When the take-out bag arrived, she stood up and briefly touched Milo’s shoulder. “Bye. You really know how to take care of people.”
Her breath caught. “My dad was like that.”
—
We ordered more tea. The still-happy waiter brought a pitcher and a plate of cookies.
Milo said, “Lawyer and client extending the relationship. That remind you of anything?”
Last year we’d worked on the murder of Ursula Corey, a wealthy importer of Asian goods, gunned down in the parking lot of her divorce lawyer’s office building. The attorney, Grant Fellinger, was also her sometimes lover and became the prime suspect.
I said, “These two are both alive.”
“But people around them are trending dead. Let’s chat with Antoine from the mailroom. Black guy with a French accent, can’t be too many employees who fit that bill.”
Keywording the name and that of the firm, he googled. Held up a Facebook page, said, “Thank God for the social network,” and began scrolling.
“Antoine Philippe Bonhomme. Xeroxes but bills himself as an administrative legal assistant…originally from Port Au Prince, Haiti…came to Florida as a kid in a boat…bunch of sad pictures…likes Mexican food and, get this—light opera…graduated four years ago from Columbia U., majoring in anthropology, did research on…some biological thing on alleles.”
“Genetics,” I said. “Welcome to the age of lowered expectations.”
“Him and Britnee, both. Tough being a kid, nowadays. Old age, on the other hand, seems to present erotic opportunities. Enid being naughty in Chanel. Who’da thunk?”
“The pleasure principle is an equal-opportunity employer.”
“Nothing surprises you?” he said. “That could get boring.”
“It’s the reason I take your calls.”
“Let’s hope Monsieur Bonhomme is just as amiable.”
—
It took a while to connect to someone in the law firm’s mailroom. “Tony” Bonhomme was out sick. A DMV search produced an address on Fuller Avenue in Hollywood and a photo. The reverse directory supplied a landline that went unanswered.
Milo said, “Let’s chance a drive-by, I can leave him my card.”
