City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(44)

When we were back in the car, he said, “Nice kid but she told us zilch. Unless you think the tension between Cordi and mom coulda led to something.”

“Big stretch, doubtful,” I said. “One thing, though. When you looked at her phone directory it was all businesses and that fits with what we just heard. She didn’t have an extensive social life, was obsessed with success. Caspian went from doing her hair to being close enough to sleep over. Maybe he’s on her contacts list as Hair or something similar. That means you’ll be able to pinpoint when the two of them spoke. More important, there could be other mixed listings.”

“The friendly plumber gets too friendly and things go bad.”

“She wasn’t one for boundaries.”

He chewed his cheek and phoned Moe Reed.

The young D said, “Just about to call you, L.T. Alicia and Sean are both back, I filled them in. So far they haven’t picked up any 211s or other minor stuff and they’re gung-ho to help.”

“Perfect timing, Moses.” He gave Reed Caspian Delage’s possible real name. “Start digging on that, if you confirm, let me know A-sap. Also, Alex raised an interesting point about Cordi’s phone. It might tell us more than we thought so get it from the evidence room and have a look.” He explained my theory.

Reed said, “Interesting point, I’ll give it a go.”

“For all we know Hoffgarden’s also in there under Health or Exercise or whatever. And speaking of Cordi’s phone, any progress from her carrier on the complete records?”

“Not yet,” said Reed.

“Then there’s another assignment for whoever can take it. Also, give Hoffgarden’s landlady a follow-up call on the off chance she’s seen him since you were there. Nothing turns up on him by tomorrow, we’ll go with the BOLO on his car.”

“Landlady might be tough over the phone,” said Reed. “Like I said, her English isn’t great.”

“Rely on charm.”



* * *



—

Milo took La Cienega north to Sunset and drove through the Strip, passing the shop where Caspian Delage née Charles Baxter had once worked a chair.

Just before we reached Doheny Drive and where clubs, restaurants, and office buildings transitioned to stately ficus trees and gated estates lining Beverly Hills’ share of Sunset, Reed called in and reported no sighting of Tyler Hoffgarden at home or anywhere else.

He’s not one for long recitations but he kept talking, maybe to blunt any kill-the-messenger response from the boss. “I’m starting with the Baxter thing, Alicia’s phoning the contacts, Sean’s dealing with the carrier. I figured his patience level would sync well with being on hold.”

“Psychology,” said Milo. “Our favorite social science. And y’know what, get that BOLO rolling now.”

At Sunset and Beverly Glen, his phone played Puccini’s “O Mio Babbino Caro.” More gorgeous music reduced to electronic beeps. It hurt my soul. One day I’d say something.

He said, “Who? You’re kidding…okay, keep him there, I’ll be there A-sap.”

He clicked off. “As if it couldn’t get any weirder.”

I said, “Hoffgarden showed up?”

“Nope but Cordi’s little brother did. Fifteen years old, walks up to the desk and asks for whoever’s handling his sister’s murder. If he witnessed anything, I’m allowed to talk to him without parental consent. I don’t see it going over too well with Renata but if he did see something, I’m not turning him away. You mind a change in plans? As in being there?”



* * *



—

Detective II Alicia Bogomil and a blond boy waited near the locked door to Milo’s office. If the thought was a woman would be softer with a minor, false assumption. Alicia’s tough-minded, action-oriented, and doesn’t suffer fools. I don’t know if she rides horses, but with a rangy build, sharp eyes, a tight jawline, and weathering skin stretched across a handsome face, she brings to mind a veteran cowgirl.

One change since I’d last seen her. She clipped her long brown hair to ear length and tinted the edges pale blue. Maybe Al Freeman, her new boyfriend, liked it that way, maybe she just wanted a change. She wore a short gray bomber jacket tailored to accommodate her handgun, a black blouse, fitted black jeans, and black suede Chelsea boots. Tucked behind one ear was a pen. She studied her notepad, showed no interest in the boy.

He didn’t seem to mind, working his phone with two busy thumbs.

Alicia saw us and said something to him. He looked up from his mini-screen, pocketed the phone, and watched us approach.

“Loo, this is Aaron. Aaron, Lieutenant Sturgis, he’s in charge.”

Aaron Blanding made eye contact with both of us in turn and nodded. Six feet tall or close, he was slope-shouldered, milky pale, lightly zitted, had his father’s soft, bulky build.

Waxy blond hair long on top awned a tightly clipped side fade that jugged his ears. Huge dark-blue eyes and moist lips that failed to completely cover his incisors suggested a newborn calf. A bile-green polo shirt bore a single food stain above the navel; something tomato-based. Brown cargo pants sagged over graying white Vans. Give him a few decades and he might be a master of Milo-chic.

Milo said, “Hey, Aaron. Do your folks know you’re here?”