City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(52)

“Nothing to hide, go for it,” said Mona Kramm. “Since you’re a detective you can probably figure out who uses the tampons and who uses the electric shaver.”

He laughed, did a quick search, exited a moment later. “No prescription meds.”

“We’re both healthy,” she said. Her face fell. “Were.”

Sharing the right side with the lav was an even smaller bedroom, not much larger than Milo’s office, with a high, narrow window admitting a struggling spray of murky light.

No bed, just a futon on the floor. Three wire-mesh boxes were filled with precisely folded clothing. One was topped by a slab of plywood that served as a nightstand. Four pairs of shoes were lined up at the bottom of a particleboard closet. Inside, hanging garments and a couple of shelves.

“See what I mean?” said Mona Kramm. “But that’s the way they built it.”

As I thought about cells for captive women, Milo got busy, checking garment pockets, finding nothing. A reach to the rear of the closet’s top shelf produced a bag of marijuana and a bottle of pills prescribed to Amalia Beniste.

Mona Kramm’s eyeblink said she knew about the weed. A puzzled look said she’d never seen the pills.

Milo turned to me. “Frovatriptan?”

I said, “Migraine medication.”

“Oh,” said Mona Kramm. “That makes sense, sometimes he complained of headaches, could really eat ibuprofen—you saw the big bottle. His, not mine.”

“Any idea who Amalia Beniste is?”

“Never heard of her. Probably someone being nice and sharing.”

She pulled a phone out of a kimono pocket, did some thumb-work. “Here she is, works in wardrobe at Warner Bros.”

She showed us the Instagram page of a chipmunk-cheeked, purple-haired, steel-pierced woman in her twenties trying to pull off a gang sign but coming across goofy.

Milo copied in his pad. “Thanks.”

“You guys still use paper?”

“And buggy whips.”

Mona Kramm smiled. “Maybe Caspian met her on a job, got a bad headache and she felt sorry for him.”

“Makes sense.”

“You’re going to talk to her, too?”

“Any reason we shouldn’t?”

“Not really,” said Mona Kramm. “I just figured it’s not about Caspian, it’s about her.”

The rest of the room search turned up nothing; Caspian Delage had led a life curiously devoid of details. And of pajamas. Or sweats. Anything resembling sleepwear.

I said so.

Mona Kramm said, “Oh, that. Caspian said he had sensitive skin, always slept in the nude. I had no problem with it. I mean…”

“No sexual tension between you.”

“Well, yeah, he was— does that matter? I mean…c’mon, is it really necessary to always be judging? Does that have to be part of your job?”

Milo smiled. “We dig stuff up, other people judge.”

“If you say so,” she said, sounding doubtful.

My thoughts were elsewhere. No sexual tension here or with Cordi Gannett.

Two victims, neither of whom appeared to have any sort of romantic relationship.

Had that been the basis for their bond? Or, as Mona Kramm suspected, was it just another hero-worship thing?

Either way, for Caspian Delage a sleepover at his idol’s house had been a big deal.

Light banter, food and wine, slipping into peaceful, platonic, naked sleep.

I hoped his final dreams had been blissful.

Mona Kramm said, “Are we through?”

Milo said, “We are, thanks. Where can we find Caspian’s car?”

“He doesn’t have one, used Uber and Lyft. So do I.”

“The traffic.”

“And the cost,” she said. “Caspian said L.A. driving scared him. But I still think the main reason was the money.”

“Speaking of which, any idea where he keeps his money?”

“I’m not sure he had any to keep other than some cash in his wallet for expenses.”

“What kind of expenses?”

“Like I just said, transportation. Plus food plus his forty percent of rent and utilities. He was never late and since I did have a good first impression I decided to give him a break on the utilities. Flat thirty bucks a month and trust me, that’s a deal. I also cut the rent I was asking because his room is even dinkier than mine. But still, all that probably ate up everything he earned.”

“Can I ask what the rent is?” he said.

“Eighteen hundred a month—yeah, I know. Again, don’t judge me. I already hear enough from my parents and my sisters.”



* * *



—

On the elevator ride down, Milo hummed “Eleanor Rigby.”

I said, “I’ve had more than one patient scared by that song.”

“All the lonely people?”

“That, minor key, the graveyard stuff, and the fatalism.”

“Still, it’s a jaunty tune, no?”

“Makes it worse.”

“Beatle-phobia,” he said. “What do you do to cure them?”

“Tell them to listen to something else.”

“What’s that, tough love?”