City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(40)

Just as he made it to the driver’s door, a gangly West Hollywood meter cop rolled up in a golf cart and stepped out looking hungry.

Milo saluted, gave the wolf grin, said “Thanks for your service,” and flashed his badge at the guy’s gaping mouth as we traded places.

“Sir,” said the parking enforcer. Pimply with a gaping mouth. He looked to be around fourteen.

“I know, amigo, it’s a red zone. As in blood. As in we’re investigating multiple murder. Appreciate your cooperation.”

Gunning the engine, he pulled into the westbound traffic stream, cursing silently.

I said, “Delage no longer works there.”

“No one has any idea who the hell he is. All the barbers are freelancers, longest any of them has been there is a seasoned veteran hand of eleven months. She said the place was sold two months after she arrived to a group based in San Diego that has a bunch of other facilities. One thing, though, there’s a little cooler next to the register. Free beer while you wait.”

“Thinking of trying it out?”

“The thought occurred. Anyway, no brick-and-mortar workplace fits with Delage going to clients’ houses. The night of the murder, there were no signs he’d cut Cordi’s hair so it’s definitely looking like a social visit. So maybe just like you said, her new BFF, she was the target, he was unlucky. Let’s pray for the whole mess to go public soon and kick something up. I’ll get you home.”

At a light near the Roxy, he said, “There’s still the databases to run Delage through. Your computer’s faster than mine. Mind if I bop in for a sec, see if I can learn anything about The Hair God?”

I said, “Mi casa es su research facility.”

And su cafeteria. I phoned Robin.

She said, “Hi, handsome. When are you coming home?”

“On the way.”

“Great. I felt uncharacteristically domestic so I’m going to fix us a nice dinner.”

“Looking forward to it,” I said. “Milo wants to do some work in my office.”

“Got it,” she said. “Take out an extra steak. Or two.”





CHAPTER


    19


There’s nothing like a dog to make you feel appreciated.

When I get home and Blanche is in the main house, she runs up to greet me as if we’ve been separated for eons. When she didn’t show herself, I figured she was out in Robin’s studio. Then I smelled kitchen aromas and got it: Devotion has its limits.

The table was set, complete with pitcher of ice water and a bottle of Rioja.

“Hi, guys.” Robin stood over the range, managing two skillets as she pan-seared massive slabs of beef.

Blanche sat at her feet, beatific expression on her flat face. Messiah’s arrival was imminent.

Milo’s eyes took on a similar glow as they shifted to the steaks. Counting.

Robin turned and smiled and winked.

He said, “You shouldn’t have.”

“I’ll call you when it’s ready, do what you need to do.”

He kissed her cheek. I kissed her lips.

Blanche ignored both of us and kept her nose on the prize.



* * *



—

During the eight minutes it took to set up dinner, Milo had conducted enough research to learn that no database recognized the existence of Caspian Delage.

He entered the kitchen, announcing and grumbling. But discontent melted at the sight of rib eyes, pasta salad, Romaine tossed with olive oil, salt, and pepper.

Before his butt had hit the chair, Robin had forked the largest steak onto his plate.

He settled heavily. “This thing is massive. No room left for veggies. I love you madly.”

She brought him a second plate. “Just in case chlorophyll beckons.”



* * *



—

Blanche knows where to go for handouts and stuck by my ankles as I sneaked her bits of meat. She accepted the offerings with a soft mouth, licked my fingertips after swallowing, swooned and pressed her head against my shin.

Robin said, “I know what’s going on down there.”

I said, “Whatever it takes to get some love. Want me to stop?”

“No, she’s had two nice walks and was a patient little girl while I worked, so she deserves some upgrading. Just keep it reasonable, darling.”

She turned to Milo. “Caspian Delage sounded phony to me the moment I heard it. Like something plucked from a movie. Or random words.”

He said, “The Caspian’s a sea, don’t know about Delage.”

“A French car manufactured a while back,” she said. “Up to the fifties I think.”

Milo wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Didn’t know you were a motorhead.”

“I’m not,” she said. “One of my clients drove one. This was years ago, Brian Bonnaro.”

Milo looked at me. I shrugged.

Robin said, “Hair-band star for about five minutes. He went into real estate, bought himself all kinds of toys, including a bunch of vintage cars. I remember the Delage because I’d never heard of it. He offered to give me a ride.”

“Ah,” said Milo.

“Nothing to ah about, Big Guy, I declined. He was staggering at the time. All the time. That plus the way he’d tortured his guitar told me his motor coordination was shot. But it was a pretty thing, a blue convertible. So maybe your hairdresser also had an interest in fine motoring.”