City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(16)

I said, “That could be the reason she opted for solitude.”

“Been-there-done-that.”

“And with that much income flow, why bother? Anything else on the phone?”

“Nah, just health stuff. Physical, not mental. Dentist, gynecologist, optometrist, so maybe I can learn something from one of them. In terms of the eye doctor, I found contact lenses in a container in her nightstand drawer and a pair of glasses on top. Big black frames.”

“She wears those on her videos. I wasn’t sure they were real.”

“Putting on the scholarly image? Well, these were definitely real. Strong from what I could tell. You see where I’m going?”

I said, “Poor vision could’ve added to her vulnerability.”

“Exactly.”

“How deep were those defense wounds?”

He said, “Pretty shallow, as a matter of fact. Why?”

“Nothing we know about her says she was passive so more likely she was incapacitated quickly. With a neck slash it’s much easier to exert force from behind. I’m thinking she was flipped around, immobilized, and cut. To me it has a premeditated feeling.”

“Even with a weapon of opportunity?”

“Every house has kitchen knives.”

“Good point,” he said. “You’re thinking assassination, not a crime of passion?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “Planned doesn’t have to mean long-term plotting. And a sleepover doesn’t have to be limited to two people.”

“A threesome? Cordi, Naked, and another person…maybe Hoffgarden.”

“Interesting setup.”

“How your mind works. So what, a threesome that didn’t work out?”

I said, “Maybe Naked got the couch but Number Three, whoever he was, got asked to leave. Cordi went upstairs to her bedroom thinking everything had been worked out. Then Three decided he wasn’t going to be blown off like that and stayed in the house unbeknownst to the other two. Or right outside, keeping the back door unlocked. He stewed for a while, finally decided to act, took a kitchen knife from the block. First step, take care of his rival.”

“The collision masked a stab wound?”

“Or blunt-force trauma if he decided to bash the guy over the head and deal with him later. A crush injury could’ve easily been masked. Once that was taken care of, he went for Cordi. But before he could get to her bedroom she came downstairs because she’d heard something. She’s drowsy and myopic and unprepared. Meets Three in the hallway, there’s a brief confrontation, she holds her hands out, gets cut superficially, he overpowers her, slits her throat, and leaves her body there.”

He said, “And takes Naked outside.”

I said, “Maybe to confuse the scene.”

“Sex, jealousy, money, stick with the classics. Okay, I’m gonna call whoever’s doing the autopsy and see if they can separate any sort of earlier wound from the mess the van created. Thank you, Doctor, I can always count on you to lead me interesting places.”





CHAPTER


    9


I looked up the Desert Sun article. Nothing beyond what Milo had abstracted. What I found interesting were the sources of the quotes about Forrest Slope.

“Personal trainer” Tyler Hoffgarden; a female barber named Lisette Montag, who described Slope as a client and friend and with whom he’d scheduled a dinner date; a married couple named Yokum who managed the landscaping at Slope’s weekend house; three retirees, two accountants and a banker, who’d formed a regular golf foursome with the lawyer.

The duffers had been the ones to check out Slope’s house because “Forrest was fanatical about making tee time.”

What seemed to be relatively casual connections, every comment a variation on “he didn’t deserve it.”

No spouse or kin.

I searched for anything else on Slope’s death, found only a funeral notice from a mortuary in Palm Springs. So he’d probably moved full-time to the desert.

Still no mention of family. An invitation to contribute thoughts about “the life and times of Forrest Slope” had elicited nothing.

Like Cordi Gannett, another social isolate?

All the lonely people.

That could lead to bad ends. Enough misfortune to populate a city of the dead.

Switching back to Gannett’s social network pages, I took a closer look at her celebrity “friends.” Probably puffery, but I copied down names, had gotten through a dozen before a familiar one came up.

A singer named Mare Nostrum. A few years ago Robin had patched up her guitar, and Nostrum had come by to pick it up when I happened to be in the studio. She’d shrugged off Robin’s invitation to try out the instrument, looking uncomfortable at the suggestion. I figured the instrument was a prop.

Later, Robin had confirmed it. “Just spoke to someone who knows her, she can’t play a note. And her voice is pro-tooled up the wazoo.”

“Playing a role.”

She said, “That’s why they call it performance.”



* * *



—

In real life, Nostrum had been slumped and emaciated, with a plain, round face and downcast eyes.

Her stage persona was a shrieking, galloping, spidery visage in Spandex wearing white-face makeup, kohl around the eyes, and spiky Technicolor wigs.