Dead Soon Enough: A Juniper Song Mystery (12 page)

Instead there was nothing, just a temporary room belonging to a stranger. Wherever Nora was, it was clear she wasn’t here.

“What’d you do with all her stuff?” I asked.

“Police took anything they thought might help them. Her computer, her phone, anything she might have written on. The rest is with her parents.”

“Where are they?”

She hesitated. “Nearby. Glendale. But it’d be best if you didn’t bother them. I know you’re not in the tact industry, but they’re having a rough time, from what I could tell.”

“When did you see them?” I asked, making no promises.

“When I dropped off her stuff. They had already talked to the police, and were pretty devastated.”

“Is Nora close to her parents?”

“In her own way, I think. They wanted her to stay in law school, get a stable job, live with them until she married Chris. She didn’t do any of that, and she resented the expectations.”

“Rebel girl.”

“By their standards, definitely. But they love her. You should’ve seen her dad crying. It was like the dad in
Twin Peaks
.”

“Bad example.”

“Yeah, shit. Not intentional,” she said. “In any case, maybe hold off on interrogating them if you don’t know what the police are up to. No reason to make them run through everything twice if it isn’t necessary.”

“That’s fair,” I said. “I guess I’m the third person to interrogate you.”

“Oh, I don’t mind, really. I can handle it. Anything I can do to get her back.”

*   *   *

It was almost ten when I got home, exhausted by chasing a missing girl who wasn’t mine to chase. Lori was gone, at Isaac’s for the night, and I noted with resignation that her room was starting to look uninhabited. The desk was uncluttered and a stack of dresses lay on the floor, ready to be packed and whisked away. Pretty soon there’d be no sign of her left. Nothing to indicate that we’d spent two years sharing a wall.

I woke up my computer and started the business of finding a new roommate. I’d never had to do it before—I’d lived alone since college, until I moved in with Lori. It crossed my mind that I could return to that solitude. I’d never hated it, really, and it was preferable to living with someone annoying. But there were practical concerns. The lease wasn’t up, and besides, I liked our apartment overlooking the Echo Park Lake. I was used to it, and I didn’t warm to the idea of leaving it behind.

I posted solicitations on Facebook and Craigslist, seeking a roommate who could move in as soon as possible. I looked at other postings to get an idea of the format, and discovered a lot of optimistic people attempting to design their own roommates, as if they might get all the traits they asked for like toppings on a pizza. Sociable, cleanly, responsible. Educated, liberal, shared taste in music a plus. I wondered who I’d want to live with, and couldn’t think of a ready profile. I described the room and noted candidates must be okay with smoking.

I hit Post and lay in bed, refreshing my e-mail and killing time before the trash pull. The apartment was peaceful and empty—I was aware all at once that I didn’t fill it. I closed my eyes and thought of Nora. I wondered if we would have gotten along.

I waited for midnight to start getting ready. Arturo had given me a roll of white trash bags, a match for the ones I’d find in the bins—Arturo had done his research, at least. He’d lifted the lids before shoving the rest onto me.

I changed into a sweatshirt and sweatpants, both black, and snapped on a pair of latex gloves. I gathered all the garbage and recycling in the apartment and stuffed it into two bags. I would need a lot more volume.

It was garbage day on my street, too, and I went down and raided two of the blue recycling bins on the curb. These bins weren’t clean or anything—the plastic containers collected a lot of dust, dirt, spiderwebs, plant life—but they beat plain old garbage. There were a lot of dog walkers on my block, and I knew the black bins got shoveled full of dog shit. This shortcut meant I would end up sticking some recycling bags in a non-recycling can, but I hoped it would all get sorted out in the end. Even if it didn’t, whatever altruism I had stopped short of lovingly subbing in garbage for garbage.

I packed the new bags full of recycling, double bagging to protect from anything wet, sticky, or sharp, then loaded them into the trunk of my car over an extra layer of empty trash bags—protection from stains, spares in a pinch. I drove to Silver Lake and switched my lights off before turning onto the right block. There were no other cars driving by.

I found the address, a small house up a hill about a mile north of the freeway. I parked in front of it—no one would notice my car without first noticing me, a dark figure raiding garbage in the night. The bins were where Arturo said they would be, and they were full past the brim, with bags spilling out and preventing the lids from closing.

I brought the decoy trash from my car and placed it by the containers, where I was sure I wouldn’t mix them up with the real ones. Then there was nothing else I could do. I held my breath and dug in—the faster I got it over with, the less likely I was to get caught, not to mention the faster I’d get it over with. I filled the bins back up, using every bag I had and lifting a couple extra from a neighbor to pad the bottoms. Then I hauled the waste into my car, where it was sure to stink things up for a good while, especially since it would sit there ripening overnight.

I tried to picture Philip Marlowe Dumpster diving, decided it didn’t fit his image. He dressed too well and cracked too smart. He would be the guy who shook his head at the other guy for spending his hours sifting through garbage when he could solve a mystery by drinking whiskey and evading seduction from dames.

When I got home, I took a thorough shower and went to bed. I hoped to God that Rubina would call the next day.

Six

I was still tired when I woke up, just after nine. I made coffee and took my time getting ready for work. I tried to block out the garbage smell in my car as I drove to work.

Arturo was in his office when I arrived, wearing the same clothes as the day before. This happened at least once a week, and I wondered if it was because he slept at the office or at his lady’s. I would’ve believed either, but I wouldn’t have dared to ask.

I walked in and set up the tarp before going back to my car for the garbage bags. I snapped on a new pair of latex gloves and got to work. It took three trips, and Arturo and Chaz watched in amusement as I traipsed back and forth. Neither offered to help, and by the time I returned with the last batch, they were standing in front of the tarp, arms crossed and grinning.

“It’s like the good old days,” Chaz said to Arturo. “Back when she was an intern.”

“I was never an intern,” I said, doing the call response to one of Chaz’s favorite jokes. “You paid me.”

“Did I?” He scratched the back of his neck, then turned to Arturo, squinting. “Did I, really?”

Arturo nodded. “We both did. And that’s why she’s a garbage professional.”

I laid out the trash on the tarp. “You guys are free to help.”

“We’re busy,” Chaz said, giggling.

“Sure, you look totally slammed.” I squatted in front of the spoils. “Well, I don’t mind. I’ve got nothing better to do. What am I looking for?”

“Client is a rich man in his fifties,” said Arturo. “Target is a penniless woman in her mid-twenties.”

“Oh,” I said, swinging my arms together in a mock swoon. “This sounds like a love story.”

He nodded. “Our client, who is paying us lots of money—something to keep in mind if he happens to visit the office while you’re here—is gearing up to buy a fat piece of Harry Winston.”

“And before he signs up for a hefty future alimony, he wants us to check out his potential wife’s character?”

“Very good. That’s exactly it.”

“He’s worried she’ll want to marry him for something other than his shining personality.”

“That’s part of it.”

“And he has just enough self-awareness that he knows he can’t ask for a prenup.”

Arturo smiled and rocked on his heels. “Not quite. He already asked.”

“And she cried and asked why he’d even want to marry her if he didn’t trust her? Actually, it’s a good question.”

“That’s exactly what happened.” He turned to Chaz. “Is Song as smart as you say she is or are we all just that predictable?”

I felt a blush come to my cheeks, the praise momentarily negating the smell of garbage, still waiting for my exploring hands.

“Combination,” Chaz said. He winked at me, sharing my pleasure at the compliment. “Song’s a smart lady, but this client is fresh from central casting.”

“Who is he?” I asked. “Do you have a picture?”

Arturo smiled, and I knew he’d indulge me. “I don’t have one on me, but his name’s Harvey Emmanuel.”

I took off my gloves and googled him while Arturo and Chaz watched. I found a company photo. He was a CPA at KPMG, round, balding, and mottled. His head rose straight out of a blue suit—he had as much neck as your average snowman. I passed my phone to Chaz and he squinted at the screen then put it down, laughing.

“He’s no Brad Pitt,” he said.

“He’s not even Paul Giamatti.” I turned to Arturo. “Well? I know you have a picture of the girlfriend.”

Arturo nodded and passed me his phone, the photo in question already enlarged on the screen. “This is Brandy.”

“Of course it is,” I said, staring. She was a young tanned blonde with balloon tits straining against what must’ve been a Baby Gap tank top. “This is the picture Harvey sent you?”

Arturo nodded.

“Daddy must be really proud,” I said. I looked closer. She had a pretty face, not extraordinary but well above average. “I think she’s selling herself short. She could probably nab an accountant her own age. Maybe I should send her an anonymous tip, tell her to hire a PI to run down his finances. He can’t make more than a couple hundred thousand a year.”

Chaz laughed. “Look at Miss Moneybags over here. All three of us together don’t make two hundred thousand a year.”

“And I don’t see anyone trying to marry us for our money. Arturo, does he have an ex-wife? Any kids?”

“One ex. Two kids.”

“So I figure he takes home, what, a hundred and twenty? And I don’t know how much child support is, but I imagine it’s not nothing. We’re talking take-home pay of maybe $80K, and that has to do for both of them. She has to sleep with
this
”—I held up my phone screen—“for limited use of eighty-thousand dollars a year. I hope she has a friend who’s laying out the math for her.”

“As much as I share your concern for this moral paragon,” Arturo said with a smirk, “our job is to audit her, not the client.”

“Okay, okay,” I said. “Just anything that looks like dirt?”

“Yes, anything that might embarrass him, or give him pause about marrying this woman.”

Chaz laughed again. “Didn’t
he
send
you
that picture?”

“How do we even know what stuff is hers? She can’t live in that house by herself.”

“You’re right, she doesn’t. She lives with her mother. But generous Harvey sent mother out of town, a ten-day vacation to Mexico. He decided it was a good opportunity to get some eyes on his girl.”

“A real sweetheart.”

It was amazing what you could learn about someone by sorting through her trash. Habits, lifestyle, even values came through in the garbage, the waste telling stories about the lives that produced it, sure as shit gave a window into diet. After an hour of dirty work, I had a pretty good handle on Brandy.

I started with the recycling. I learned right away that she didn’t know how to cook. She’d gone through a lot of microwave dinners in the past week. I sympathized, though even I’d left Hot Pockets back in college where they belonged. She drank Diet Coke but never finished the cans, and the warm liquid splotched almost everything in the bags.

She was also a potential compulsive shopper. I found ten paper shopping bags and over twenty receipts, all dated within the past week. There was one for groceries, where I found the bulk of her frozen meals, but most were for random frivolous purchases, made at various shops around town. Tops, earrings, cosmetics, housewares. There was one receipt for a felt fedora. None were for more than $50, but they added up, I tallied, to over $600. There was also a cardboard box from Amazon—at least one online purchase, which wouldn’t have generated a paper receipt.

The trash was grosser and trickier to sort. I was thankful that I was right in my initial assessment—that she wasn’t much of a cook. None of the wet egg shells or pungent oils that made trash hits truly terrible. There were some wrinkled Luna Bar wrappers, vegetable packets from instant noodles discarded whole. The few takeout boxes were more or less empty—just rice grains and a localized spill of cornstarch-thickened sauce. A couple of black banana peels looked and smelled well over a week rotten, but that was the worst of the food.

The used condoms were easy enough to isolate. There were three of them, and I nearly retched at the thought of fucking the neckless accountant three times in one week, though there was no way to know whether they all belonged to him, unless Emmanuel wanted to test the sperm. I noted the number, at least, assuming he’d know how many he’d been responsible for. I checked them for holes, just for good measure. I’d never actually seen a sabotaged condom. There was no evidence of other birth control, or of a menstrual cycle, but most of the trash from these things was limited to specific windows. I was happy enough to miss out on tampons.

There was a lot of bubble wrap, packing foam, and ripped plastic, the molted remains of newness. There was also an empty tube of purplish lip gloss and an empty container of foundation. Might have been coincidence, but it seemed likely that she went through makeup a lot faster than most women I knew. I didn’t wear much, and even Lori, who always looked perfect, rarely finished using a lip gloss before she’d had a chance to lose it. This had the look of an expensive habit, though probably one that Emmanuel would have to be willing to maintain.