City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(10)
Ettinger smirked. “I posit that familiarity can breed contempt, Your Honor. Which is precisely what Mr. Slope has shown this court and these proceedings by attempting to foist a charlatan on a profoundly serious—”
Slope gun-aimed a finger. “You. Are. Veering dangerously close to slander.”
“Quite the contrary, Forrest. I’m speaking truth to the abuse of power.”
The judge, looking shell-shocked, said, “Let’s reconvene in a week.”
The following day, the father relinquished his custody claim.
* * *
—
Milo said, “Because of Gannett?”
“I’m sure that was part of it,” I said. “But he also got his ex to write him a check for half the gym’s worth and he really didn’t care about the kid in the first place.”
“Sentimental fellow. So my victim was a big-time fraud.”
“And a big-time risk-taker,” I said. “Imagine trying that after being brought up by the state board for practicing without a license.”
“How’d that resolve?”
“She pled no contest, promised not to repeat, was let off with a warning. A few months later she was on the Web selling herself as a relationship expert.”
“No restrictions on that?”
“Nope.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, thought for a few seconds. “I can see a gambler letting a naked guy enter in the middle of the night. How’d you figure out she was phony?”
“I didn’t, it was luck. A few weeks before, I’d heard about her from a colleague. One of his patients had left to see her and it ticked him off so he researched her.”
“He the one who reported her?”
“Him or someone else in a similar position,” I said. “Anyway, once I told the mother’s lawyer, she did a quick internet search out in the hall and got plenty of ammunition. Later, I was curious and did my own research. Gannett’s pre-doctoral work history was unconventional, to say the least. Figure model, nude dancer, and there were suggestions she made a porn movie though I never found evidence of that. She got a mail-in degree, hooked up with a D-list actor, and began inserting herself into the almost-celebrity circuit.”
“Sounds like perfect training for a relationship expert. Which actor?”
“Don’t recall.”
“Shame on you, son. This is L.A., where are your priorities?” Out came his hands, fingers restless, like typing without a keyboard. “So maybe the neighbor was onto something and she hadn’t left the other stuff totally behind.”
“Or,” I said, “she chose the wrong relationship to coach.”
* * *
—
Despite the lack of activity in the bedroom, I asked to see it, so we climbed the awkward staircase. The steps and the landing were carpeted and clean, as was Cordi Gannett’s sleeping chamber, a modest, dim rectangle set up with a low queen bed in a bamboo box-frame. A quilted coffee-colored spread showed no sign of disturbance but for a turned-up corner. Red velvet slippers sat in front of a nightstand bearing nothing but a gooseneck lamp.
Meticulous woman but maybe not about the things that mattered?
I scanned the room. Residue of fingerprint dust appeared at various touch points.
Milo said, “We got a bunch, mostly one set, likely hers.”
He was right. Nothing had happened up here.
We left the house and returned to the sidewalk.
“So,” he said, “any way you can see fit to give me the name of the daddy whose kid didn’t like him?”
I said, “Tyler Hoffgarden.”
He blinked. “Just like that? No confidentiality issues?”
“Custody cases are public record.”
“Once they squabble and put themselves out there, no protection?”
“Not unless you can get a suppression order.”
“Who does that?”
“People with serious money,” I said.
“Regular folk are fair game.”
“As always,” I said. “The main thing is the kids don’t become fair game.”
Noise from beyond the tape zone caught our attention.
Moe Reed, heading our way from up the block, had been waylaid by two women who’d come out of flanking houses on the east side of the street. One Colonial, one Mediterranean, each with a Range Rover in the driveway.
The women stood side by side, hands on hips, a mini-gauntlet. Both were in their thirties, slim, attractive, and well tended, wearing black cashmere tops that ended mid-thigh, leggings, and Technicolor running shoes.
A pair of blondes, one uniformly honey-gold, the other platinum alternating with black tips and intentionally irregular black roots.
Black tights for All Blonde, flesh-colored for her brindled friend. As if part of a dance routine, each of them freed a hand at the same instant and began wagging index fingers at Reed. Polished nails sparked in the sunlight, setting off tiny, luminous dots of color. Pretty faces scowled.
Unloading on Reed. The young detective tolerated it with Buddhic calm, was about to respond when Honey spotted Milo, pointed to him, and asked Reed something. Whatever he said caused her to turn her back on him and march toward us, her companion following close behind.