Mystery (36 page)

“That time you were with Frankie,” I said. “Other times you’re with Phil?”

Both women looked at the floor.

I said, “There’s no formal arrangement, everything’s relaxed.”

Divana’s eyes locked on mine. “It’s not illegal, okay?”

“You bet.”

“Think of it like a club. Fun Club, exclusive membership.”

I said, “This may be a stupid question but do their wives know?”

“Maybe,” said Lori.

“I think so, too,” said Divana. “Maybe.”

I said, “Really.”

“They don’t seem real careful. Use credit cards for everything and they’re like gone a lot.”

“With us,” said Lori. “Two months ago we went to Jackson Hole, hot-air ballooning. Private balloon. It was beautiful.”

“So was the Four Seasons,” said Divana. “That fireplace. Yum chocolates.”

I said, “What did Frankie and Philly really think about Tiara?”

“We just told you,” whined Lori. “They were happy. That he was having fun. They thought it was funny. It didn’t bug them.”

“They didn’t resent her?”

“No way.”

“Any money their father gave her they’d never get.”

“They don’t care about money,” said Lori.

“They’ve got tons of money,” said Divana. “All they care about is you-know-what.”

“They never expressed any bad feelings at all toward Tiara?”

“They’re not like that, they’re happy. Like little boys.”

“Boys,” Lori echoed.

Milo spelled out the time of the murder. “Do either of you have any idea what Phil and Frank were doing then?”

Lori said, “C’mon, you can’t really think they would do something horrible like that.”

“If we find out they had opportunity, we’ll be after them and you won’t be able to stay under the radar.”

“What did we do?” said Divana.

“Had the wrong kind of friends.”

“
You’re
wrong. They’re not
like
that.”

He repeated the time frame. “Can you vouch for their whereabouts?”

Lori shook her head. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

I said, “It does sound like a fun club.”

“We’re just having a good time, what they do with their wives is their problem.”

“Or don’t do,” said Lori, giggling.

“About Tara Sly,” I said. “What else did they tell you?”

“Just that.”

“Their father’s girlfriend.”

“Yup.”

“It didn’t bother them.”

“Not at all.”

Lori said, “Who killed her?”

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

“How’d she die?”

“She got her face blown off.”

Divana said, “With like dynamite?”

“With guns.”

“Oh, no,” said Lori.

“Yuck,” said Divana. Tougher timbre in her voice. But she was the first to water up. “Why would someone do that?”

“Once we know that, we’ll catch whoever did it. You’ll notice I said ‘guns.’ Plural.”

Lori said, “Two guys did her?”

“Looks that way.”

Divana’s eyes got huge. “You’re kidding—no, no way.” She squirmed in her chair. Recrossed her ankles. Looked away from her friend. “Actually,” she murmured.

Lori leaned toward her.

Divana gave a long, chest-heaving sigh. Two hair tosses.

“Divvy?” said Lori.

“It’s no big deal, Lore.”

“What?”

Milo said, “You know where they were that night, Divana.”

Nod.

“
What
, Div?”

“I know, okay?”

“That was the night you said you had to visit your mother.”

Divana’s smile was sickly.

Lori’s mouth dropped open. “You—oh, wow, I can’t believe—”

“It’s not my fault, Lore. They
called.
”

“I was here.”

Divana said, “I know, but …”

“But what?”

“It’s them, not me, Lore.”

“I was right here!”

“I’m
sorry
, okay? They didn’t
want
that, okay?”

“Didn’t want
me
?” Lori clutched her abdomen.

“It wasn’t like that, Lore. It wasn’t not you, it was … they wanted to try something different, okay? It’s no big deal, they still dig you, look at all the times since then—it was once, okay?
Okay?
”

Lori’s jaw worked.

Divana reached for Lori’s hand. Lori yanked it away.

“It’s not my
fault
, Lore.
They
wanted it,
they
asked for it. Like specific.”

“Just you, huh? They said that? Or you
suggested
it.”

“Why would I do that, it would just be more … they wanted to
try
it, okay? For something different. It’s. No. Big. Deal.”

Lori heaved her cola glass across the room. It landed on carpeting, bled brown, rolled still. “I don’t fucking believe this.”

“It’s no big deal, Lore.”

“Maybe not to a total slut.”

“I’m a slut? You’re the one made me watch when you—”

“That’s
different
! You were
there
, everything was
honest
. What you did was … was
 … cheating!
”

Divana crossed her arms. “I don’t see it that way.”

“Like hell you
don’t
.”

“Okay.
I’m. Sorry
. Okay?”

“It’s definitely
not
okay.” Lori stamped out of the room.

Divana looked at us. “Now see what you’ve done.”

Milo said, “Can you prove you were with Philip and Franklin Suss that night?”

“Why would I make it up and fuck up my thing with Lori? Yes, I can prove it. We checked into the Beverly Hilton at like eight, watched a porn, then another. Then … afterward we had room service, we didn’t get out of there until early the next morning. I couldn’t go home earlier because Lori thought I was at my mom’s and she lives in Oxnard and I always stay until morning. Frankie had to leave first, he had work, had this procedure, this laser whatever, he put on his doctor stuff—scrubs, white coat—and Phil made some crack about how I could be the patient. Frankie laughed, said that would be a lot more fun than burning out some old broad’s liver spots. We were all in Phil’s car, so we all left and drove Frankie to his office, it was still early, probably around seven thirty. We had the room until eleven so Phil … it’s not important.”

I said, “You and Phil went back for some private time.”

“Whatever. The main thing is they were with me.”

“Neither of them left the entire evening.”

Divana grinned. “Trust me, they were there. They were
totally
there.”

Lori never reappeared and Divana remained in her chair. Examining her pedicure as we exited the house.

When we were back in the car, Milo phoned the Hilton, verified the room and the payment with Philip Suss’s platinum card. Records from electronic keys said no one had left until seven forty-eight in the morning, with reentry half an hour later.

I said, “Talk about an ironclad alibi.”

Milo’s smile was wider than Divana’s. “Titanium-clad.”

“Bet that was more fun than your meeting downtown.”

“Death would be more fun than my meeting downtown. That was nirvana.”

We high-fived.

“Bro.”

“Bro!”

Next stop: a quarter hour east on the 101 to North Hollywood.

The old man lived in a calamine-pink bungalow just south of Victory Boulevard. Cutest house on the block. When we got there he was pruning a massive bird-of-paradise that nearly obscured his picture window. A back bent at birth lowered his stature so he needed a footstool to reach the middle of the plant.

I supposed he’d needed some kind of lift to work the bar at the Fauborg. All those years, I’d never thought about that.

When he saw us he put down his clippers.

“Can I help you?”

Teutonic accent. I’d never heard him speak.

Gustave
.

I’d pulled a surname from an
L.A. Magazine
article on the city’s best mixologists.

Milo said, “Mr. Westfeldt, we could use some help.”

The old man listened to the request. “Sure, no problem.”

ress for success.

For this job that meant my best suit, a black Zegna I’d found on sale, a yellow tab-collar shirt with French cuffs, a black-and-gold Hermès tie purchased at the same closeout, Italian loafers so infrequently worn their soles remained glossy.

One hand swung free. The other clasped the handle of a chrome-plated case fitted with stainless-steel clasps.

“Very James Bond,” said Robin. “Aston all gassed up?”

“With jet fuel.”

“Try not to eject.”

She walked me down to the Seville, touched an ancient Detroit-fashioned flank. “Guess this’ll have to do.”

“A boy can dream,” I said. “Zoom zoom zoom.”

The mansion’s copper pedestrian gate was locked. After I pressed the buzzer, the closed-circuit camera rotated. Seconds later, the front door eased ajar and the Slavic maid—Magda—studied me through the crack.

Manfred the cat sat by her feet, a plump bundle of feline confidence.

I smiled and waved.

She pushed the door fully open, came forward. The cat remained in place. “Yes?”

“Dr. Delaware for Mrs. Suss.”

“Doctor?”

“Dr. Alex Delaware.” I checked my watch.
Things to see, people to do
.

She studied me. “You here before.”

“Sure was.”

Her forehead rumpled.

I let her study my faculty card. The venerable med school across town prints nice-looking credentials, replete with an impressive gold seal. My appointment’s in pediatrics as well as psychology.

Clinical Professor, hoo-hah-hah. A couple of lectures a year, no salary, I get the title. Everyone figures they’re getting a deal.

Magda said, “Missus know you come?”

“You bet.” I hefted the chrome-plated case.

“She sick?”

“Just a checkup.” In a sense, it was.

I pocketed the card. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

Nothing like a good suit. She unlocked the gate.

Once we were in the house, Magda seemed unsure what to do with me. I left her pondering in the entry and saw myself into the same delft-blue room. Sitting on the same downy sofa, I placed the metal case next to me, released the clasps but kept the lid shut. Crossed my legs and sat back and enjoyed the art and the glorious view to the glorious garden.

Magda came in, flummoxed.

“Go get her,” I said.

“Doctor?”

“Delaware.”

“She sleeping.”

Hardening my voice, I said, “She
needs
to wake up.”

Leona Suss racewalked into the blue room wearing body-conscious mauve velour sweats, rhinestone-spangled running shoes, and full-metal-jacket makeup. White fingers clamped a cell phone that matched the sweats.

Pale brown eyes zeroed in on mine. The lavender I’d seen last time was a contact-lens invention.

Artificial lashes fluttered like breeding moths.

“Morning, Mrs. Suss,” I said.

“What do you think you’re doing? I need you to leave.”

I rested my hands behind my head.

“Did you hear me?”

Flipping the metal case open, I removed a shiny black laptop, placed it next to me.

“I thought you were a cop.”

“Nope.”

She said, “Well, I don’t care who you are, I’m calling the
Beverly Hills
police.”

She began punching a number on the mauve phone.

I said, “Suit
your
self, Olna.”

Her fingers stopped moving. Her chin jutted forward like a switchblade. The phone lowered to her side. “What do you
want
?”

“To reminisce.”

“About what?”

“Old Hollywood,” I said. “Ancient Hollywood.”

She recoiled as if slapped. “Don’t be rude.”

“I didn’t mean you,” I said. “I just like vintage cinema.”

Opening the laptop, I gave her a direct view of the screen.

Out of the case came a cordless mouse that I rested on the lid.

Click
.

The screen filled with opening credits. Garish green letters over black. A film title.

Guns of Justice
.