Compulsion (15 page)

“I guess,” she said. “You know who can answer these questions better than me? Her friend Beth. She works at a jewelry store up the block. She’s the one who told Kat about the job opening.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Milo.

“Anything I can do to help.”

She walked us to the door, straightening garments along the way.

Before Milo’s hand touched the knob, she said, “This is probably nothing, but maybe there is something I should tell you. About a customer.”

We stopped.

“It’s not really an altercation, but – I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Everything’s helpful, Amelie.”

“Okay… About a month ago, maybe five, six weeks, I was off for the morning and came in after lunch and found Kat was in a real goofy mood. All giggly, which wasn’t like her. I said what’s up and she said the most hilarious thing had happened. A customer – a man – had just come in and started pawing through the sale items. Kat assumed, just like I did with you guys, that he was looking for a gift. Kat ignored him like she always does. The guy kept examining the goods, concentrating on the larger sizes. After a while, it made Kat nervous and she finally went over and asked if he needed help.”

“What made her nervous?”

“Being alone with him, how long he was taking. We’re not some huge department store, how much time does it take to go through the merchandise? And most guys have no patience at all, they’re in and out or asking for help. Anyway, this guy said he was fine and Kat returned to the counter. But something gave her a funny feeling and she checked him out again. Couldn’t see him, but heard him behind one of the double racks and she went over and peeked. The guy had taken out a dress and was holding it up against his own body. Stroking it – like fitting it on himself. Kat said she couldn’t control herself, she just broke up and the guy heard it and nearly fell over himself putting the dress back. But instead of apologizing, Kat just stood there. And instead of rushing out, the guy turned and stared at her. Being… blatant. Like he needed to show he wasn’t ashamed. Kat told me that really pissed her off, she wasn’t going to take shit from a weirdo, so she stared back. I guess you could call that conflict.”

“Sounds like an assertive weirdo,” said Milo.

“Kat thought it was hilarious,” said Amelie. “I was appalled. Everyone’s got their secrets, why make them feel stupid?”

“Then what happened?”

“The guy stared some more, finally gave in and left quickly. Kat said she made sure to laugh some more. So he could hear her as he slunk away. It’s probably nothing, but you asked about problems.”

“Did Kat describe this guy?”

Black-rimmed eyes rounded. “You think it
could
be him? Oh, no, what if he comes back?”

“I’m sure there’s no connection, Amelie. We just need to collect as many facts as possible.”

“That would really freak me out,” she said. “The thought of being here with-”

“You’ll be fine, Amelie. Did Kat describe him?”

“No, no. She just told the story and laughed. It kept her giggly the whole rest of the day.”

A jewelry store named Cachet was visible at the end of the block.

Milo said, “Being a big-time hoohah detective, I’m willing to guess that’s where Beth Holloway works. But first, blood sugar therapy.”

I followed him into the coffee store. The place was nearly empty but it took a while to get the attention of the iPod-wearing kid hiding behind the espresso machine.

Milo bought two Frisbee-sized bagels smeared with crème fraîche, filled a small paper cup with free water, brought his bounty to a corner stool.

One bagel down. He wiped his chin. “Been a while since I worked a case with
overtones.
”

Years ago, he’d reported to a captain who’d made sure to assign him every homicide with “unconventional overtones” that came through the division. Meaning anything but male on female, the more lurid the better.

Kat Shonsky’s body bore the signs of a lust homicide – blitz-attack head wound, overkill knifework, sexual positioning, the contemptuous placement of the driver’s license. But nothing suggested it was anything but male on female.

“I’m not sure I see overtones, Big Guy.”

He smiled.

“What’s funny?”

“Wherever it leads.”

Glitter and temptation filled the jewelry store’s windows. A spade-faced young man in a dark suit studied us before buzzing us in. Once we entered, he kept his hands beneath the counter.

Milo identified himself and asked for Beth Holloway and the guy relaxed.

“That’s Beth.” Eyeing a petite honey blonde showing a gray velvet tray of cocktail rings to a stooped white-haired man around eighty.

Beth Holloway had large pale eyes, flawless skin, smooth, bronze arms. A mini-collection of bangles circled delicate wrists. She wore a clingy, low-cut taupe dress, enjoyed frequent bends that flashed a freckled wealth of cleavage. The customer’s attention kept shifting between all that skin and the toys on the tray.

She said, “Pretty gorgeous, Mr. Wein. No?”

The old man sighed. “This is always difficult.”

Beth touched his wrist. “You always know what to do, Mr. Wein.”

“If you say so…” He held up a platinum-and-sapphire piece. “What do you think?”

“Perfect, she’ll love it.”

Wein held the ring to the light and turned it.

“Would you like a loupe, sir?”

“Like I know what I’m looking at.”

Beth laughed. “Take it from me, Mr. Wein, these are really great stones. And those are teeny baguettes, not chips.”

A few more turns. “Okay, this is fine.”

“Great! I’ll have it sized and ready for Mrs. Wein in two days. Would you like me to deliver it to your house?”

“No, not this time, I’m going to give it to her at dinner.”

Beth clapped her hands. “So romantic! She’s a lucky woman, Mr. Wein.”

“Depends what day you ask her.”

He left and she turned to us, smoothing her dress. “Hi!”

Milo introduced himself and told her why we were there.

She froze.

Burst into tears. Covered her face with one hand and pressed the other against the countertop.

The man in the dark suit took the tray of rings, locked it up, and looked on curiously.

Milo said, “Sorry to have to tell you.”

Beth Holloway ran toward the rear of the store, threw a door open, and disappeared.

The dark-suited man said, “We’re talking Kat, from La Femme?”

“You know her?”

“Wow,” he said.

Milo repeated the question.

“I went in there a couple of times, maybe get my wife something.”

“Kat waited on you?”

“She was there, but she didn’t do much,” said the man. “It’s her, huh? Weird.”

“What is?”

“Knowing someone who got killed.”

“What can you tell us about her?”

“Nothing. I’m just saying.”

“Saying what?”

The man’s lips screwed up.

I said, “She wasn’t a helpful salesperson.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t bother me,” said the man. “I like to do my own thing. With jewelry, you’ve got to guide them. But clothes, it’s whatever works for you.”

Beth Holloway reemerged wearing a chocolate-brown sweater over her dress. Her eyes were puffy. Her lips looked bruised.

“What happened to Kat?” she asked.

Milo said, “We don’t know much yet. Can you spare some time?”

“You bet. Whatever it takes to find the animal who did this.”

“Any candidates come to mind?”

The man in the dark suit had sidled closer.

Beth Holloway said, “I wish, but no.”

Milo said, “Let’s take a walk.”

When the three of us were outside, he pointed to the coffee emporium.

Beth Holloway said, “I’d throw up. Let’s just walk.”

She took off, arms swinging. “What I really need is a ten-mile run.”

Milo said, “We’d need the EMT rescue van for me.”

“You should get into it. It’s therapeutic.”

“Kat into exercise?”

“Not a lick. And I tried.” She slowed down, picked up speed again. We hustled past storefronts, dodged pedestrians. Beth Holloway forged through the crowd like a woman with a plan.

Milo let her dissipate energy for a block and a half. “Anything you want to tell us before we start asking questions?”

“Kat had a thing for losers but I can’t imagine anyone that evil.”

“How about some names?”

“There was Rory – Rory Cline. With a C. Works in the mailroom at the CRP agency, thinks he’s going to be a big-shot agent. Must be forty but he tries to look younger. Kat met him at a club, I don’t know where. She was attracted to him but he had no interest in sex, just wanted to hold hands and listen to music. That made her feel unattractive.”

Milo wrote down the name. “Next?”

“Next was Michael… what was his last name…” Tapping her hair. “Sorry, it’s escaping me. Michael… unlike Rory, he
loved
sex. All the time. Kat said he was a stud but turned out he was married. An accountant or something… Michael Browning, there you go.”

“Did Kat stop seeing him when she found out?”

“Nope. But she got bored. With him
and
the sex. All quantity, no quality, she said. The third one was a real asshole – some hick who worked on Rolls-Royces.”

Milo said, “Clive Hatfield.”

Her shoulders tightened. “You suspect him?”

“Riana gave us his name so we went over to talk to him.”

“And?”

“No Prince Charming. Unfortunately, he’s got a tight alibi. Any others?”

“No,” she said. “Rory, Michael, and Clive, the loser brigade.”

Milo had her recount the last night of Kat Shonsky’s life. She was forthcoming about her “growing serious” relationship with Sean the surfboard sander. “It’s a real connection, you know? I mean I’m sorry Kat had to drive home alone, but that’s not my fault, right?”

“Of course not.”

“She was p.o.’d. Did what happened to her relate to drunk driving or something?”

“Doesn’t seem that way.”

“Thank God, I’d feel terrible about that.”

“Beth, is there anyone besides Rory Cline and Michael Browning we should know about?”

“No one I can think of.”

“No one Kat met at the club that night?”

“She didn’t meet anyone. That was what p.o.’d her. We thought of inviting her but figured it would be uncomfortable.” She walked faster, gritted her teeth, cried silently.

“Beth, did Kat ever talk to you about problems with anyone?”

“Just her mother. They didn’t get along.”

“What about people at work?”

“She hated her job, thought the girl she worked with was a suck-up. That made me feel a little bad because I was the one who told her about it.”

“What’d she hate about the job?”

“Lousy money, boring, you name it. Kat had a tough life. Her real dad died when she was young. Her mother was a slut, had men coming and going all the time. Finally, she found a rich guy.”

“How’d Kat get along with the rich guy?”

“She actually liked him better than her mother. Said he was more laid-back, didn’t pressure her. With her mother it was always criticism.” She sucked in breath, took a long time to exhale. “Kat was beautiful but didn’t know it. The truth is – I’m realizing this now – I’ve never seen her really happy.”

“How’d she deal with her unhappiness?”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes people escape.”

“Oh,” she said. “Her drinking. Yeah, it could get out of hand. But you just said DUI had nothing to do with it.”

“It didn’t. So there’s no one she had conflict with recently?”

“I can’t think of anyone.”

“Someone told us a strange story, Beth.”

“What’s that?”

He repeated the incident with the cross-dresser.

She said, “Oh, that.”

“Kat told you.”

“She thought it was
hilarious.
” A trace of a smile said Beth had agreed.

“She describe this guy?”

“Omigod – you think
he
could be-”

“We’re just collecting facts, Beth.”

“Did she describe him… just that he didn’t look queer-y on the outside, you’d never know.”

“Masculine.”

“I guess.”

“Let me ask you something else, Beth. Would Kat have been impressed by money?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“How about a special attraction?”

The pretty face went slack with confusion.

“Fancy houses, expense accounts – real nice cars. Any of that float her boat?”

“Sure, all of the above,” said Beth Holloway. “That just makes her normal.”

Milo ran backgrounds on Rory Cline and Michael Browning.

Cline was easy – one motorist with that name in L.A. County. Studio City apartment, no criminal record, wants, or warrants, eleven-year-old Audi.

Sixteen Michael Brownings. Narrowing the search to the three who lived in the Valley and cross-checking business listings turned up one accountant: Michael J. Browning, office on Lankershim, near Universal Studios.

One-year-old Saab, another clean record.

“A mailroom flunky and a number cruncher,” said Milo. “No reason for either of them to have car-boosting skills, but let’s talk to them anyway.”

Creative Representation and Promotion occupied a travertine-and-green-glass fortress near the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica. Inside was more of the same beige stone. A mural of stiff people watching a movie dominated the three-story, skylit lobby. A milky sky-light aimed for an indoor-outdoor effect but missed. Mussolini loved travertine but got strung up before he could remodel Rome.

A pair of male receptionists in gunmetal silk shirts hid themselves behind a high counter and whispered into tiny phones suspended from their ears. A beefy black man in a bad suit stood to their side.

Milo strode up to one of the gray-shirts and held out his badge. The security man smiled and remained in place. The receptionist kept talking. From the sound of it a personal chat.

Milo waited, slapped a hand on the counter. The security guy smiled wider as the receptionist jumped.

“Hold on.” Sudden smile, as sincere as silicon. “Are you here for a meeting?”

“We’re here to see Rory Cline.”

“Who might that be?”

“He works in the mailroom.”

“The mailroom doesn’t take calls.”

“It’s taking this one.”

“Uh-uh-uh. Working hours are-”

“Irrelevant. Call him.”

Grayshirt shrank back. Glanced at the security guard. Saw a broad back.

“Look, I don’t even know how to get anyone there.”

Milo said, “Time to learn.”

It took several calls delivered in a perplexed whisper, and frantic repetition of the word “police” before Grayshirt said, “He’s on his way, you can wait over there.”

We hung by the brown chairs. Five minutes later an elevator slid open and a narrow, round-shouldered, dark-haired man strode toward us.

Rory Cline looked every minute of forty and then some, with hollow cheeks and eyes to match. His spiky do fit him like lipstick fits a goldfish. His white shirt was wrinkled and limp as a used Kleenex. A skinny black tie dangled below the cinched belt line of gray pipe-stem trousers.

He pointed to the front doors, hurried past us, left the building.

We found him half a block down on Linden Drive, hands jammed in his pockets, pacing.

“Mr. Cline?”

“What are you doing to me? Now everyone’ll think I’m a felon!”

Milo said, “In your business, maybe that could be career-enhancing.”

Cline’s eyes bugged. “Funny funny funny. I can’t believe she sent you here. I already gave you guys my version and they believed me that her story was total bullshit. Now you’re back? Why, because she’s got beaucoup bucks, that’s the way you guys do it, like that Eddie Murphy movie? What, I’m living a fucking Beverly Hills
comedy
?”

Herky-jerk movements, rat-a-tat speech, constricted pupils.

“She,” said Milo.

“Her, she, whatever,” said Rory Cline. “Let me cue you in: The only reason she’s pursuing this is she probably heard I’m due to move up and she wants to get in on the gravy train.”

Milo said, “Congrats on the promotion.”

“Yeah, it’s happening. Or
was
going to until you guys showed up and maybe fucked everything up. I’m being considered for an assistantship to Ed La
Moca. Get
it?”

“Big-time guy.”

“As
in,
” said Cline, rattling off a list of movie stars. “Everyone wants to work for him, it’s taken me shit-all
years
to get in position, and now you show up and they’re going to think – how could you
do
this just because those
assholes
tell you to? They’re fucking lying, the whole thing is a fucking put-up.”

The pace of his speech had ratcheted from frantic to nearly unintelligible. I wondered if the building was vast enough to conceal a meth lab.

Milo said, “Who do you think called us, Mr. Cline?”

“Who do I
think
?
Them.
Persian
bitch
and her
fucking
Persian husband. No matter how they’re spinning it,
she
hit
me,
fucked up
my
bumper, fucked up
my
trunk, fucked up a
taillight.
I was in front, she was behind me, and there’s no fucking way I rolled backward, it wasn’t even uphill. I didn’t call you guys because there were no injuries and she admitted it was her fault, promised to pay A-sap. Then she goes home, tells her rich fucking asshole rug merchant husband, he starts spinning. Fine, they wanna fight, I’ll fight. What I don’t get is you wasting your time when I already gave a statement to her insurance and they said they believed me, it’s obvious I didn’t roll back into her. The only reason I didn’t have my own insurance was it lapsed after I moved here from ICM and if you read the insurance reports you’d know that.”

He embarked on a ten-step march, came back. “May I go back to
work
and try not to get fucked
up
?”

Milo said, “This isn’t about your fender-bender.”

“Then
what
? I’m
busy
!”

“Calm down, sir.”

“Don’t tell me that. You probably just ruined my life, so don’t-”

“Stop-”

“You stop-”

“Be quiet.
Now.
”

Something in Milo’s voice killed the tirade. Cline wrung his hands.

“Let’s start over-”

“What now? Oh, man,” said Cline, “I haven’t slept in I don’t know-”

“Then we have something in common, Mr. Cline. I’m investigating a homicide.”

“Homi-who? Someone got
killed
?
Who?
”

“Kat Shonsky.”

Cline’s posture loosened as if he’d been shot up with Valium. “You’re kidding.” He smiled.

“You think it’s funny?”

“No, no, it’s – that’s – totally bizarre. You really came at me from left fucking field. Who killed her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. What’s bizarre?”

“Someone getting killed.” Cline’s mouth got hard. “Why are you talking to
me
about it?”

“We’re talking to everyone she dated.”

“Count me out, we never dated. She picked me up in a club, we had sex for a few months, then we both realized we were faking and said why bother.”

“Hard for a man to fake,” said Milo.

“You’re being literal,” said Cline. “Don’t tell me it hasn’t happened to you. I’m not talking losing it, I’m talking being there without
being
there.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“Fine,” said Cline, “you’re macho mellow, can do it with a can of liver. For me, it got empty. Because she was never
there.
We decided to be friends, just hang out. That didn’t work either.”

“How come?”

“’Cause we didn’t like each other.” Cline drew back, maybe realizing the implication. “Listen, the last time I saw her was maybe half a year. I’ve had two girlfriends since then, you want to talk to them, be my guest, they’ll tell you I’m safe as milk.”

Cline fired off names. Milo wrote them down.

“You’re actually going to call them? Unreal. Fine, do it, why not, could work for me with Lori, maybe she’ll get interested again.”

“Why?”

“Making me look dangerous and all that,” said Cline. “Being safe is my issue. Lori thought I was average to nothing. Mostly I feel like nothing. Don’t eat, don’t sleep, and now you’ve fucked up my career.” Shrill laughter. “Hell, maybe I’ll cut my wrists.” Rubbing his arms. “And it’ll be your fault.”

Milo said nothing.

Rory Cline said, “I know, I know, get some rest, do yoga, take my vitamins. Sorry, Charlie, it’s like the ad for that gym. ‘I’ll rest when I’m dead.’”

Milo said, “Then I guess Kat’s resting.”

Cline shut his mouth. Tried to stand still and settled for rocking on his heels. “Unbelievable.”

Milo asked where he’d been when Kat Shonsky left the club.

Cline said, “Here.”

“In L.A.?”

“Here,” said Cline. “Working. Down in the bowels, eating shit.”

“Working over the weekend.”

“What’s a weekend? You want to check with the security logs, I can’t stop you, but please don’t, it’s only going to fuck me up further.”

“You do that a lot?” said Milo.

“Do what?”

“Work weekends.”

“Fuck, yeah. Sometimes I don’t go home for days. Ed LaMoca set the record twenty years ago, ten days without bathing. Dominated the droobs with radioactive ambition and cosmic body odor. They fade easily, the droobs, mostly Ivy League brats thinking they’re gonna waltz from Harvard to repping Brad Pitt. I went to Cal State North-ridge. Hunger gives me the edge.”

Milo said, “Anything you can tell us about Kat Shonsky?”

“Big faker,” said Cline. “Not just about
that,
about everything. Like she wanted to live someone else’s life.”

“Whose life?”

“Someone lazy and rich. She had half of it down.”

“You didn’t like her.”

“I already told you that.”

We asked a few more questions, slipping in cues about fancy cars and sexual kinks. All of that went right past Cline as he talked about himself.

When we turned to leave, he stood there.

Milo said, “You can go back to work.”

Cline didn’t move. “Listen, if it does turn out to be a story, let me know. If it’s something Brad or Will or Russell can use, I’ll make sure you’re in it in a way that pays off big.”

“Gee, thanks,” said Milo.

“Excellent.” Cline pumped air, ran back inside.

As Milo drove to the Valley, I reached one of Rory Cline’s past girlfriends, a lawyer named Lori Bonhardt. She described Cline as “a wimp and a dishrag,” denied ever witnessing a violent side.

“What’s he done?”

“He knows someone who got hurt.”

“Knows someone?” She laughed. “If that’s all it is, forget it. Aggression would take effort and Rory’s hobbies are drinking and sleeping. I used to tell him he should get on speed or something. Might give him some ambition. My Lhasa apso used to hump his leg and Chi never does that to anyone else. Know what that means?”

“Submissive personality,” I said.

“Beta male. Pure vice president.”

Michael Browning’s eyes got moist when he heard about Kat.

He was a barrel-chested, rust-bearded fireplug, five six in thick-soled shoes, with sturdy, hirsute wrists and lumberjack hands. He wore a yellow-and-blue windowpane shirt, a big-knotted red tie of gleaming silk brocade, leather knit suspenders. The shoes were mocha suede wingtips, maintained impeccably.

The stylish duds of a full partner at Kaufler, Mandelbaum and Schlesinger, but Browning’s office was a cubicle on the ground floor, one of two dozen in a fluorescent warren.

He spoke freely. Kat had stopped seeing him four months ago after learning he was married.

“I wasn’t cheating. My wife and I were having problems. Debbie was doing her own thing and so was I. I met Kat at Leonardo’s – the one on Ventura that closed down. Kat found out about Debbie when Debbie called my cell at Kat’s place. Debbie was cool with the whole thing but Kat told me she didn’t want to be space-filler and kicked me out. I didn’t blame her.” A curling thumb brushed a tear duct. “This is so incredibly sad. She was a nice girl.”

First time anyone had used that adjective to describe Kat.

I said, “You parted on friendly terms.”

“Of course,” said Browning. “Kat was right about not wanting to be used. I told her I was sorry. She said she forgave me but we both knew it could never be the same.”

“Did you see her after that?”

Tucking bristly beard hairs into his mouth, he chewed. His eyes shifted to the left. “Not often.”

Milo and I waited.

“Don’t tell my wife, okay?” said Browning.

“She’s not cool with it anymore.”

“We’re back together. Expecting our first in two months.”

“Congrats,” said Milo. “How often did you and Kat see each other after the breakup?”

“We didn’t really
see
each other,” said Browning. “Not in the sense of a consistent relationship.”

“But…”

Browning flashed what he considered a charming smile. “There were a couple weekends – retreats thrown by the firm.” He glanced around the warren. The symphony of computer clicks hadn’t slowed when we entered and no one was watching us now.

Milo said, “Where were the weekends and when did they take place?”

“Palm Springs and Mission Bay. As for the when…” Browning consulted his day planner. Read off dates.

Nine weeks ago and less than a month ago.

“Did she drive down and meet you or did you travel together?”

“Palm Springs she drove herself. San Diego, we went together. Please don’t tell Debbie. We’re happy now, it would be disruptive.”

“No doubt,” said Milo.

“Look,” said Michael Browning, “I’m being totally open with you. Even if I had reason to lie, I wouldn’t because I’m no good at it. Debbie says I’m one big poker tell.”

Milo asked where he’d been the night Kat disappeared.

Another page flip through the planner. The color leached from Browning’s cheeks. Milo took the book. “Says here ‘meeting, year-end deductions, TL.’ What’s that stand for?”

“Code,” said Browning.

“For what?”

“Is it really important?” Browning asked.

“Now it is,” said Milo.

“Sir, I’d never hurt Kat. Nothing but affection ever passed between us.”

“Until she booted you out.”

“When we were together it was always loving. I swear. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t lie and I have no reason to. A part of me might’ve
loved
Kat. I certainly wouldn’t hurt her.”