City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(11)
Milo said, “Time for public relations, hold on.”
Loping toward the women, he met them at the tape line, did his own listening for a while though he appeared distracted. Finally, he said something that seemed to mollify them. They started to leave and I heard him say, “Just one more thing, please?”
Platinum-and-Black said, “What?”
Her volume must’ve made him conscious of his own. He dialed down, spoke for a fraction of a minute, listened for a whole lot longer.
An avuncular smile failed to pacify the women as they headed for their respective front doors.
Milo returned, shaking his head, and checking his phone before pocketing it.
I said, “You’re the one in charge? Fine, enough with the disruption, open the street so we can take our kids to school and get our days going.”
“You could hear all that?”
“Nope.”
He stared at me. “That’s pretty much word for word except for a couple of F-bombs.” He laughed. “New generation of mothers, can’t imagine mine cussing like that. How’d you nail it?”
“Call it a hunch. You agreed, huh?”
“No reason not to.” He laughed. “Hell hath no fury like a mommy scorned.”
CHAPTER
6
Reed remained standing where the women had stopped him, talking on his phone. When he clicked off, Milo beckoned him over, murmuring, “Uh-oh, the kid’s got that no-news-is-bad-news look.”
When Reed got there, he said, “Zippo on the canvass?”
“Unfortunately, L.T. So far no clothes or wallet. We do have another block to go. If nothing shows up, should I expand it?”
“Yeah, go another three. Any problem getting access?”
“We’re batting around….700.”
“Better than the majors,” said Milo. “That include the indignant mommies?”
Reed laughed. “They’re a pair, aren’t they. Yeah, they okayed me talking through their doors. Then they must’ve called each other, decided they were ticked off. I did manage to ask them if they knew Dr. Gannett and the one with black patches in her hair blew me off and got back into opening up the street, her kid has a test, it’s just not fair he should suffer. I said I’d ask you what the schedule is but when they found out you were the boss, they beelined.”
Milo said, “Flattered. One of them also told me Gannett had been overly flirtatious with her husband but said it was no big deal. In any event, they’re right about Gannett being a faker.”
He related the in-chambers confrontation.
“Checkered past,” said Reed. “That could complicate it. Anything else we should know about her, Doc?”
I shook my head.
“Anything else you want me to do, L.T.?”
“No, just keep searching for clothing and I.D. I’ll let you know if that changes.”
When Reed left, he said, “The kid’s right, it could lead to complications. I’ve got a victim with a loose concept of the truth who flirts with other women’s hubbies, invites naked guys into her home, and maybe continued to lead a double life as a wild child and human relations pooh-bah. Can you find out more about her? Like you said, she could’ve poached patients from other docs. How about contacting the shrink who told you about her and see what he or she knows?”
I glanced at the blue house. “What I saw in there didn’t look like professional jealousy.”
“Not to me, either, I’m just groping. But looking for anyone who had conflict with her could lead to something. Is it a problem, calling?”
“Nope.”
“Great, thanks for taking the time. Give both of the beauties who put up with you a hug.”
He’s always inventive when he tells me to leave.
* * *
—
My drive home was smoothed by light traffic and polluted by bad pictures.
My house, designed by Robin, is white, crisp, generously windowed, and rests on stout round concrete pylons with a high entrance that maximizes view. I parked the Seville in front and vaulted the stairs to the wraparound entry terrace.
On the other side of the door was white, bright space, silent but for my echoing footsteps. Crossing the living room and the kitchen, I exited through the service door and descended to the garden where I stopped by the pond to feed the koi. When the fish had finished slurping in gratitude, I continued to the casita that houses Robin’s studio.
She builds and repairs expensive stringed instruments, has an international reputation, and keeps getting busier. Today’s agenda was triple-fold: emergency neck repair of a thrash-metal icon’s acid-green Ibanez bass, continuing the painstaking restoration of an exquisite, century-old Martin, and fixing loose braces on a Nahhat oud made in Aleppo, Syria, in 1927, when that city was beautiful and civilized.
She was seated at her bench, petite and curvy, auburn curls kerchiefed by a red bandanna, wearing black overalls over a white T-shirt and square-lensed magnifying specs. One hand rose in a five-fingered welcome. The other tweezed a micro-tile of ivory inlay.
Flash of smile. “One sec, hon.”
“Take your time.”
A monumental blast of guttural noise shot forward from the rear of the studio.