City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(41)

Milo said, “If we’re talking mega-bucks, maybe a theoretical interest.”

I said, “Or he just liked the sound of Delage.”

Robin said, “French does have that elegant connotation. Well, maybe you can find a name change application for him.”

Milo said, “Already tried. No one bothers anymore, you don’t have to. And this guy, even if he had to, probably wouldn’t. He’s been working without a license for years.”

“The shadow economy,” she said.

“Alex puts it down to too many rules.”

“That and people get lazy. There’s another steak once you finish that one.”

“Thanks, but even I have discretion.”

He’d gotten three massive bites down when his phone beeped a text. “?’Scuse.” He got up and walked back to my office.

When he was out of earshot, Robin said, “In the middle of a meal? Must be important.”



* * *



—

During Milo’s absence I thought about Cordi Gannett and Caspian Delage reinventing themselves. L.A.’s the place for that, a company town where illusion’s the commodity and the best pretenders become the elite. The city sprawls westward manically until it confronts the Pacific. Last chance for a new persona before you hit the edge of the continent.

So many people intent on burying the past. All those abandoned identities moldering in psychological graves.

The real city of the dead.

Robin said, “What’s on your mind, baby?”

“Great meal.”

She let it pass and filled my glass. Sometimes a great relationship depends on not challenging falsehood.

I smiled and held her hand and took a long, slow swallow of Spanish wine.

Milo returned to the kitchen, looking straighter and taller.

“Sorry for the interruption. I put an alert on to let me know when anything about Cordi shows up and it buzzed. Nothing in the newspapers or the networks but the e-citizenry is weighing in.”

I said, “Anything of value?”

“Mostly the usual fast-and-loose.” He ticked his fingers. “Cordi was a psychologist, a psychiatrist, a sociologist, a professor of human relations. One genius confidently offered that she’d once taught at Yale. Obviously, he hadn’t. But tucked in with all the bullshit was one post that sounded as if the person actually knew Cordi and, God bless her, she left her real name. Turns out, she’s a makeup artist Cordi used for some of her videos and, double halo, she answered her phone. Poor thing was pretty shaken up about Cordi and she got really worked up when I described about Delage, she knew him, had to take a cry break before getting back to me.”

“She knew him, as well?”

“Through working on Cordi. She has no idea what his real name is, though she thought it might be Charles something. I asked her to meet me and she said sure and gave me her address. Tomorrow morning at ten. I also asked her—her name’s Shari Benedetto—to post about Delage and see if anyone knew him and she said she would.”

“Model citizen,” I said.

“Without them, I’d be toast.”





CHAPTER


    20


Shari Benedetto seemed to be one of those trusting souls parents worry about.

She’d accepted Milo’s story without asking questions and agreed to meet at her apartment on Fountain Avenue in West Hollywood.

Lovely old Spanish building just east of La Cienega, mercifully preserved and beautifully maintained. Easy entry from the street, no security of any sort.

Two stories of units formed a C around a courtyard edged by ferns and sagos and palms and centered by a blue-tiled fountain that spat glassy bits of spray into the morning sun.

Shari Benedetto’s unit was in the central arm of the C, on the second floor, accessed by wide, stone steps. A bronze-framed peephole formed an eye in the carved, varnished door but no movement behind it before the door opened on a beautiful woman around thirty.

Not bothering to check.

“Lieutenant?”

“Ms. Benedetto. Thanks for seeing us.”

“Of course.”

Shari Benedetto had long, gleaming, black, side-parted hair that enhanced an olive, heart-shaped face. A baggy, gray cashmere sweater hung to the knees of black leggings. Her feet were bare. A gold ring banded the big toe on her left foot. Other than that, no adornment.

Her eyes were wide-set and nearly as dark as her hair and fringed by long, curving lashes. Pretty eyes but a bit blurred by fatigue. If she was wearing any makeup besides mascara, I couldn’t tell. In her line of work, maybe the mark of professionalism.

As if making a sudden decision, she shot her hand out toward Milo’s. They shook briefly then she looked at me.

“Alex.”

“Hello, Alex.” Soft fingers touched mine and retracted. She ushered us in.

A tiny front space was set up with minimalist furniture and abstract art prints biased toward gray and black. A single doorway to the right made me think of the place where Cordi Gannett had died.

The front area was an ode to multitasking: sitting, dining, and whatever cooking you could pull off in an open kitchenette the size of a broom closet. Clear counters and the absence of food smells said no recent attempts.

The almost-home of someone prone to frequent absences.