Mystery (10 page)

“Or various body parts.”

Rosalynn said, “Before we began, we vetted extensively. The courts have already considered the issue of multiple services and—”

“We know,” said Milo. He leaned forward. “Sorry to disappoint you but your guess is wrong.”

“About what?”

He showed them his card.

Suki’s eyes widened. “Homicide?”

Rosalynn said, “Another Craigslist psychopath? Damn. But not on our database, I can assure you, no way. We screen carefully. By that I do not mean just some boilerplate records search like other sites do. We check every single criminal database that’s available to us. We even scan court records for civil suits.”

Suki said, “Which is in our best interest, anyway. Who wants some litigious jerk making your life complicated?”

I said, “Anyone who’s been in civil court is excluded?”

“Of course not, that would eliminate just about everyone with money. What we do—what Brian does—is evaluate to see if there’s a clear pattern of duplicity, any sort of major financial impropriety or habitual obnoxiousness. What we call pond pebbles—the kind that trip you up when you’re swimming in a lovely, pristine stream.”

“Like at our place in Arrowhead,” said Rosalynn. “Two acres, we just got it.”

She played with Milo’s card. “So, who got murdered?”

“A young woman, who we’ve been led to believe advertised on your site.”

“Led to believe?” said Suki. Her hands flew to a keyboard. “Give me a name and I’ll let you know either way.”

“We don’t have a name yet.”

She sat back, spun her chair a couple of times. “Then why in the world would you think she was a Sweetie?”

“We’ve been informed that she was.”

“By who?”

“I can’t say.”

The sisters looked at each other. Each shook her head, as if ruing the delivery of bad news.

Suki said, “Guys. C’mon. That kind of bluff is not going to cut it. Even if it is true, your informant could be a competitor bad-mouthing us. Or someone we rejected trying to get back at us.”

“Or just an annoying jerk hacker,” said her sister. “The Internet brings them out.”

“Did they give you their name?” said Suki. “So we could at least evaluate their veracity?”

“Anonymous tip.”

Both girls laughed.

Suki said, “Like on TV, huh?”

“They’re for real,” said Milo. “They solve murders.”

“Anonymous tip,” Rosalynn repeated. “I know you guys are just doing your job, but obviously following up on something like that would be tenuous, to say the least. Who’s to say there’s any validity to it?”

“Only one way to find out,” said Milo. “Furnish us with a list of Sweeties, including headshots.”

The sisters studied each other. Silently calculating who should handle the situation.

Finally, Rosalynn said, “You seem like nice guys, but why on earth would we turn over our entire data bank on the basis of something so far-fetched?”

“Because it could help solve a murder.”

“Could-should-might-maybe?” said Suki. “The cost-effective potential is pathetic. Especially considering the multiple assaults on privacy that kind of excavation would entail.”

Milo opened his case, removed a death shot of Princess, and passed it to her.

She stared for a second, pushed it away. “Okay, you’ve grossed me out, that’s utterly repugnant. However, even being grossed out doesn’t stop me from raising the cardinal question: If she doesn’t have a face, how could you possibly match her to someone in our data bank?”

Rosalynn said, “Let me see it, Suk.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to.”

“If you saw it, I need to see it, Suk, otherwise I’ll be hungry for dinner by seven and you won’t have any appetite and we’ll get on a different schedule and we’ll be messed up for days.”

Suki played with her hair. Passed the photo.

Rosalynn stuck out her tongue. “Beyond repugnant. Hard to believe it’s real, there’s almost a special-effects quality.”

“It’s real,” said Milo.

“I’m just saying. It’s so gross, it’s almost like it’s phony.”

Suki said, “We respect the police, our great-great-grandfather was a police chief in Armenia. But without a face—it’s beyond tenuous, it’s
remote
.”

Rosalynn held the picture out to Milo. He took his time retrieving it, searched the case, and came up with Alex Shimoff’s portrait.

Suki Agajanian frowned. “If you have an intact face, why did you show us that
monstrosity
?”

Her sister said, “Obviously for shock value, Suk, in order to jolt us into compliance. You don’t need to manipulate us, guys. We’re on your side.”

Suki said, “We’re not First Amendment–obsessed dweebs ready to fight you in court for every shred of data. Give us a name and we can tell you in seconds if she was one of ours. If she was, we’ll also tell you who she linked with. But absent a name, there’s nothing we can do and no logical reason for us to release our data bank. Like we told you, it’s almost twelve thousand names, most of them Sweeties.”

Milo said, “I’m a patient guy.”

“You’d go through that many photos? That sounds incredibly inefficient.”

I said, “Do you subdivide by personal characteristics? Our victim was blond with dark eyes.”

“We do subclassify,” said Rosalynn, “but that won’t help you because nearly eighty percent of our Sweeties are blond so we’re still talking thousands.”

“Apparently, fair hair connotes youth and vitality,” said Suki, fluffing her own raven coif.

“Same for small noses,” said Rose, wrinkling her aquiline appendage. “Anything that evokes childhood in an overall sexually mature package does the trick with the male animal.”

Her sister laughed. “Apparently guys are all pedophiles at heart.”

I said, “What percentage of your blondes have dark eyes?”

“Uh-uh,” said Suki. “You’re not getting in through the back door.”

Milo said, “Five four, a hundred and five.”

“We don’t categorize by weight because it fluctuates and people lie and we don’t want to be held to anything. Plus, we’re not running a meat market.”

I said, “More like a gourmet deli.”

Both sisters stared. Broke into simultaneous smiles as if a cluster of shared neurons had fired.

“I
like
that,” said Suki. “Maybe we can figure out a way to work it into our promo.”

“Gourmet deli,” said Rosalynn. “It’s a little overtly oral, but yeah, maybe some variant would work—the haute cuisine of romance.”

“We could do the slow-food angle, Rosie. Look at the ratings chef shows pull in.”

“Gourmet deli … food … for the soul.”

“Sublime
nourishment
for body and soul.”

“Satisfaction for body,
mind
, and soul.”

“Encompassing the entire realm of the senses.”

Milo said, “How about nourishing some curiosity?”

“Tell you what,” said Suki. “We’ll check with Brian.”

“Fine, we’ll wait.”

“Oh, no, sorry,” said Rosalynn. “These kinds of decisions can’t be made impulsively.”

Her sister said, “Brian’s the last person you’d call impulsive.”

“Aw c’mon, girls,” said Milo.

“You’re so sweet,” said Suki. “But I’m so, so sorry, we can’t. In the end it’s in your best interests, as well. Well-organized decisions work out better for all concerned.”

“Infinitely better,” said her sister.

She followed us out of the suite.

Milo said, “Call as soon as you’ve talked to Brian.”

“You bet. And if you know someone who’d profit from our services, be sure to clue them in. We really are the best.”

had Stengel said, “Mommy’s going to die.”

It was four p.m. and he’d been home from school long enough to have a snack and watch a couple of videos.

We were in his room, a sky-blue alternate universe filled with books, toys, costumes, art supplies. When I arrived he was sitting next to Gretchen in the living room, pretending not to notice as she introduced us. Before she finished, he left.

She said, “Has a mind of his own.” Smile. Cough. “I know what you’re thinking, big mystery where that came from.”

I smiled back. But she was right.

When I entered the room, he was lying on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling.

I said, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

I sat down cross-legged on the floor. He blinked. “You’ll get dirty.”

“Should I sit somewhere else?”

He pointed to a chair lettered
Chad
on the splat in gold script.

“Do you know who I am, Chad?”

“A doctor.”

“I’m a psychologist, the kind of doctor who doesn’t give shots—”

“We s’posed to talk about feelings.”

“Mommy told you that?”

“Aunt Bunny.”

“What else did Aunt Bunny tell you?”

“Mommy’s afraid to talk.”

“About what?”

“She’s going to die.”

He crossed husky arms over his chest. His face was a soft white sphere dotted with freckles. A grave little boy, broad and solid with a low center of gravity. His oversized yellow Lakers T-shirt was spotless. Same for baggy knee-length skater’s pants and red-and-black Nikes. Dark hair styled meticulously hung to his shoulders. Eighties hair-band coif on a six-year-old.

His eyes were a tone shy of black and active. Looking anywhere but at me.

“Aunt Bunny told you Mommy was going to die.”

The arms clenched tighter. “She’s sick. It doesn’t stop.”

“Mommy’s sickness doesn’t stop.”

“Aunt Bunny said.”

Instead of completing the sentence, he snatched up an action figure from a collection of dozens. One space ranger in an army of miniature centurions posed to do battle, green-scaled, fanged, plated with steroid muscles.

“Aunt Bunny said—”

“I didn’t give it to her.”

“That’s true.”

Silence. His mouth tightened into a sour little knot.

“Aunt Bunny told you the truth, Chad. You didn’t give Mommy her sickness.”

A low, gravelly noise rose from his tiny torso. The sound an old man might make when grumpy or congested or waking up tired.

“You’re not sure?”

“The teachers are always saying stay home if you’re sick. So you don’t give it.” Tossing the action figure to the side, the way you’d fling lint. It hit the wall, dropped silently to the bed. “She stays home.”

“There are different types of sickness,” I said.

Silence.

“The sicknesses your teachers talk about are colds. The sickness Mommy has you can’t get from anyone else. Ever.”

He retrieved the green warrior, tried to pull off the head. Failed and discarded it again.

“Do you know what Mommy’s sickness is called?”

“I gave her a cold.”

“Colds are different. You can catch colds from someone else if they sneeze on you.”

“One time I was real sick.” Touching his abdomen. He tossed the green figure across the room. It hit the wall, fell to the floor.

I said, “One time your tummy hurt?”

“Before.”

“Before Mommy got sick.”

Grunt. “I was coughing.”

“Mommy coughs.”

“Yeah.”

“There are different kinds of coughs, Chad. You didn’t give Mommy’s sickness to her. I promise.”

Rocking on stubby feet, he got off the bed, dropped to his knees as if praying, searched underneath the frame, and pulled out a drawing tablet.

Professional-quality Bristol board. A handwritten note on the cover said
To My Genius Artist, Your Worshipful Ma-mah
in loopy, oversized red script.

Chad let go of the pad. It slapped carpet. He touched his belly again. “I throwed up.”

“When your tummy was—”

“Mommy throws up. All the time.”

“People throw up for all kinds of reasons, Chad.”

He kicked the drawing tablet. Did it again, harder.

“Even though everyone keeps saying you didn’t give Mommy her sickness, you’re worried you did.”

His toe nudged the pad.

“You don’t believe anyone.”

“Hunh.”

“They’re telling you a lot,” I said. “Over and over.”

“Hunh.”

“Maybe that’s making you worried. Everyone talking so much.”

He stood, snapped small hands upward in a boxer’s stance. Kicked the bed hard. Did it again. Five more times.