Mystery (35 page)

“How’d the girls find you?”

“Craigslist,” said Marshbarger. “I tried ads, agencies, all that did was attract losers. And like I said there was a time element, so I did what everyone does nowadays. I didn’t expect much. But they showed up with the goods. Financially speaking.”

“Anything else you want to tell me about them?”

“So I shouldn’t evict them.”

“No grounds I can see, Mr. Marshbarger. You shouldn’t contact them, period. They haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Porn’s okay?”

“There’s no evidence they’re into porn.”

A beat. “So why are we talking?”

“They know some people who’ve come to the department’s attention. Speaking of which, let me run some names by you. Steven Muhrmann.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Tara Sly?”

“Now, that’s a porn name,” he said. “Or a stripper name—is that what they are? Pole-riders?”

“Markham Suss.”

“Nope.”

“Anyone named Suss?”

“Nope.”

“What’s the rent on the house?”

“I wanted two thousand, we settled for sixteen hundred plus they handle all the utilities and gardening. And plant flowers and keep them up nice. The place looks okay?”

“Charming. Do they pay by check?”

“Auto-pay account through Wachovia,” said Marshbarger. “They never miss. So it’s okay for them to stay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Okay … what did you say your name was? Just in case things do get complicated.”

“Phone West L.A. Division and ask for Lieutenant Sturgis.”

I gave him the number.

He said, “That’s not you.”

“Lieutenant Sturgis is the boss.”

“Sure, but—”

I hung up, silently thanking Robin for insisting we get a blocked number. Left a detailed message at Milo’s private cell, plugged in
divana layne lori lennox lingerie
.

The computer spit out five Japanese websites and two from Bangkok. Canned translations turned the text into malaprop-laden gibberish that elevated camera manuals to Shakespeare.

Not a problem; the images said it all.

Page after page from Asian trade shows. Divana, Lori, and other similarly endowed beauties strutting Tokyo runways in various combinations of satin, lace, rayon, fishnet.

Name recognition for underwear models. They’d achieved minor celebrity in a culture with a genius for micro-delineation and exquisite refinement.

The most recent show was three years ago. Both women were old enough to have begun modeling over a decade ago.

That gave them plenty of opportunity to hook up with any combination of Suss males. A few years on the other side of the planet, then back to L.A. where they’d reunited with the twins.

So far they’d made the grade.

Tara’s fate said they’d better hope that continued.

The house on Old Topanga Road was owned by one Olna Fremont.

I turned the name into a keyword. The information highway spread out before me.

I sped. Slowed to rubberneck.

Screeched to a halt.

ori Lennox née Lorraine Lee Bumpers came to her door, hair in curlers, wrapped in a white terry bathrobe lettered
Hilton
on the breast pocket.

Female Caucasian, five seven, 121, a DOB on her license that made her thirty-two.

A genuine birth date on a twenty-one-year-old LAPD arrest form made her thirty-nine.

Only one arrest in L.A. County, but a sealed juvenile record implied priors. The solicitation for prostitution charge was nothing glamorous; she’d worked Sunset and Highland as an eighteen-year-old runaway, got nabbed her first week, was sentenced to a group home and counseling. A year later, she’d been picked up on a similar charge in Vegas but since then had stayed out of legal trouble.

The six-figure income she’d claimed was real but limited to the five years she’d modeled in Japan, buttressed by residuals from a few TV commercials filmed there and partial ownership of an apartment building in Laughlin, Nevada. Since her move back to L.A., a yearly gift of twenty-six thousand dollars from unnamed sources filled in some blanks. Gift tax was exempt for only half that amount, so most likely a pair of donors.

This morning her feet were bare, toenail polish chipped, face stripped of makeup. A reflexive smile corroded when she saw Milo’s badge.

“Morning,” he said.

“I thought it was.” She looked at her wrist. Pale band on a tan arm where her watch usually sat.

“Eight fourteen,” said Milo. “Hope it’s not too early, Ms. Lennox.”

She worked up another smile, produced uneasy dismay. “Actually, it kinda is.”

White teeth were flawless. Her breath was stale.

“Is Divana awake yet?”

“Just,” said Lori Lennox. “What’s going on?”

“Can we come in?”

“The police? It’s a little …”

“No big deal, Lori, all we want to do is talk.”

“About?”

“Phil and Frank Suss.”

Slate-blue eyes shuttled back and forth like ducks in a shooting gallery. Wanting to lie but insufficient smarts to come up with a good one. “Okay.”

“You know them.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s why we want to come in,” said Milo.

“Are they okay?”

“They’re great, Lori. Coupla happy campers.” He pointed to the pale strip of arm. “Nice tan. I’m betting real rays, not bronzer.”

“Yeah, it’s natural.”

“Not a tanning bed, either,” he said. “More like a swimming pool.”

She relaxed. “I wish.”

“I’m not saying you own a pool, Lori. You’ve got something better. Access but no maintenance bills.”

“Huh?”

“Old Topanga Road.”

Her eyes fluttered.

Milo pulled out his pad, searched, read off the address. He knew it by heart but using paper makes it official, can kick up the intimidation level.

Lori Lennox began playing with the sash of her robe.

Milo said, “Three p.m. yesterday.”

No answer.

“Black bikini. Not that it stayed on very long.”

She blushed from sternum to brow. I liked her for that. “You have no right.”

“To what?”

“Spy.”

Milo thumbed his chest. “Us? God forbid. Then again, it could be worse. So if you don’t want to talk—”

“What do you mean worse?”

“Tara Sly.”

“Who?”

“Cute little blond girl.”

“Lots of those,” said Lori Lennox.

“Now there’s one less.” He showed her his card. Tapped a finger next to
Homicide
.

She gulped. Made a third attempt at smiling, stopped midway, and stood back to let us in.

The house was bland, bright, kept up meticulously. Glass tabletops gleamed, cushions were plump, fresh flowers overflowed vases, bad poster art hung strategically. The nugget of garden on the other side of sliding glass doors was overplanted but green and glowing. Oral Marshbarger would be pleased.

Lori said, “I’ll go get her,” and returned wearing a baggy beige blouse, faded nonskinny jeans, flat sandals. She’d taken down her hair, put on hoop earrings. Divana Layne née Madeleine Ann Gibson trudged behind her in a gray
Power Gym
sweatshirt and black yoga pants.

No prostitution record for her but her young adulthood had been marked by a trio of shoplifting episodes and she’d ended up at the same group home as Lori.

Milo said, “Hi, ladies. Please sit.”

“We’re okay,” said Divana. No reason to laugh but she did. Same throaty glee I’d heard from the deep end of the pool.

Milo said, “Please sit anyway. So I don’t have to stretch my neck.”

The women looked at each other. Settled on the edges of blue-velvet chairs, ankles crossed demurely.

Milo said, “So who wants to start?”

“Start what?” said Divana.

“The saga of Phil and Frank.”

Lori said, “We’re friends, that’s all.”

“Swimming buddies,” said Milo.

“Is it against the law?”

“To what?”

“Do a married guy,” said Divana. “If you think that, maybe you should live in Arabia or something.”

Lori said, “It’s a good deal. Keeps everyone happy.”

“Twenty-six grand a year keeps you happy.”

Divana twisted a ring. Small stone, maybe real.

She said, “We keep the peace, you guys should thank us.”

“Keep the peace and pay your rent,” said Milo. “Not that fifty-two grand a year means much to guys like Phil and Frank.”

Both women bristled.

Divana said, “Why are you here?”

“Steve Muhrmann.”

Blank looks.

“And, of course, Tara Sly.”

Divana’s nose wrinkled. Baffled.

Lori said, “Who are these people? You’re weirding us out.”

“Maybe you know Tara by her real name. Tiara Grundy.”

Divana giggled. Lori turned to her.

Milo said, “Something funny?”

Divana said, “Grundy sounds like an old lady. Like from a movie or something.”

“Unfortunately for Tiara, she’ll never get old.”

“Bummer,” said Divana. “What does that have to do with us?”

Milo showed them Tiara’s SukRose bikini shot.

Divana’s smugness vaporized. Lori said, “Oh. Omigod.”

Divana said, “That’s crazy—I need a drink. Anyone else?”

“Coke Zero,” said Lori.

“We’re fine,” said Milo.

“I’m not fine,” said Lori. “I’m freaked out.”

Half a Bloody Mary later, Divana licked brick-colored grit from her lips. “Yeah, we know who she is, she’s their father’s girlfriend, so what?”

“You met her.”

“No, they told us about her.” Pause. “Showed us her picture.”

“In what context?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did she come up?”

“Hmm,” said Divana. “I think it was at Cabo … no, it was Sedona, right? Yeah, Sedona. Right, Lore?”

Lori drew her legs up, yoga-like, tapped a sandal. “I’m thinking yes.” She nudged an earring. “Yeah, definitely Sedona.”

I said, “One of your trips with Phil and Frank.”

Nods.

“You do a lot of those?”

“Not enough, let me tell you,” said Divana.

“Their schedules,” said Lori.

“At least they don’t have kids,” said Divana. “Just business.”

“And wives.”

I said, “Kids tie you down.”

“That’s what they tell us.”

“Phil and Frank?”

“No, our friends who have them.”

“But even with wives, the brothers manage to get away.”

“The brothers,” said Divana, shooting a lopsided grin. As if she’d never thought of them that way. “They’re the best little boys.”

“How did the subject of their father’s girlfriend come up?”

“Hmm … we were … I guess in bed. Right, Lore?”

“Probably.”

“We spend lots of time in bed,” said Divana. “Room service, champagne, pay-per-view, what’s better? That day, they went off to see some red rocks. Frankie and Philly, not us. We said suit yourselves, boys, we’re staying here with Mr. Moët and Mr. Chandon.”

I said, “But at some point all of you were in bed and the subject of Markham Suss’s love life came up.”

“Love life?” said Divana. “More like sex life. They said he was a total horndog, that’s where they got it from.”

“Proud of their heritage.”

“Huh?”

“They liked taking after their father.”

“Yeah, exactly. And then one of them said—I’m not sure if it was Philly or Frankie—he said guess what, the old guy’s hooked up with some piece he found online, he didn’t even used to like the computer. They thought it was funny.”

“They knew that because …”

“I don’t know,” said Divana. “Maybe he told them.”

Lori said, “Maybe he was proud so he told them.”

“At his age, Lore? Probably super-proud. Probably Viagra, but still.”

“One thing I
didn’t
like,” said Lori, “was their making a big deal about her being young.”

“Tiara.”

Nod. “They were like, ‘She’s fresh, not a wrinkle.’ I said keep pushing it, Bad Boys, and we’ll kick you hard in the you-know-whats.”

“They like to be talked to that way,” said Divana.

I said, “Submissive.”

“Not really, they just like when we have spirit.”

Lori said, “That’s what they call it. Spirit.”

“So they were impressed with how young Tiara was.”

Lori said, “Philly started, I remember ’cause that time I was with Frankie and she was with Philly and Frankie started to laugh after Philly said it and his chin bumped me and I got p.o.’d, almost pushed him off.”