City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(62)

“Twenty-eight-year-old white female named Lisette Montag. It’s possible she has nothing to do with it and someone used her phone—stolen, lost, lent. But if she does end up being a dirty-bird, no reason she couldn’t have enlisted muscle.”

“Any criminal record?”

“No. Her place in Venice is maybe twenty minutes from Hoffgarden’s, so yeah, he coulda been trying for a booty-grab. Obviously, I need to talk to her.”

Lisette Montag had triggered a trace of recollection. Nothing I could put a fix on but I brought up my online case notes and quickly got the answer.

I said, “Montag could be Hoffgarden’s love interest, past or present. But she’s also someone who lived in Palm Springs the same time as Hoffgarden and Slope.”

“How’d you find that out?”

“I bookmarked the Desert Sun article on Slope’s death. She’s one of the people quoted about what a great guy he was. Here’s the exact quote: ‘The attorney’s hairdresser Lisette Montag described Slope as nice, reliable, and super-generous. The two of them were scheduled to have dinner.’?”

He said, “Hmmph. I’ve got it bookmarked, too. Only I didn’t think to check.”

“You would’ve once you got Montag’s history and found a previous address in the desert.”

“Supportive psychotherapy. Gracias. So what, she cuts Slope’s hair and becomes a big fan?”

“Dinner for two says maybe more. And now that I think about it, she’s the second hairdresser we’ve come across recently.”

“Her and Caspian,” he said. “Ten paces and draw your scissors? Jesus. Yeah, I’m getting more and more fascinated by Ms. Montag. Gonna comb through her social media and see if I can find out who she hangs with and where she is at various times of day. Then I’ll get a face-to-face with her. You have time?”

I checked my appointment book. “For the most part.”

“Booked with the normal stuff?”

I said. “We’ll work it out.”

He said, “We always do. What a life you lead.”



* * *



—

I polished two reports, one child custody, the other personal injury, got in the car, drove down the Glen, and dropped them in a mailbox. When I got back, I began some light background on my next custody interviewee.

Conrad Deeb was a visiting lecturer at Cal State Northridge, teaching a class titled Rock ’n’ Roll, Reality TV, and Rust: Shifting Values, Symbols, and Perspectives in Popular American Culture.

B.A., Princeton. Not history, American studies. A year at Oxford, then a Harvard Ph.D. and lectureships at NYU; the University of Florida–Gainesville; Rochester; Indiana U.–Bloomington.

Moving around, no tenure, but this early in the game, no sense over-interpreting.

I brewed coffee, delivered a mug to Robin at her studio, got kissed and hugged and smiled at by Robin and Blanche. Then back to my desk, where I conducted my own dive into the online world of Lisette Montag.

Her pages showed her to be a flamboyantly tattooed hard-body with wide-set, ultra-blue eyes and a lean, angular face built around a longish nose and plump but narrow lips. The clothing she chose to share with the world consisted of thong bikinis and lacy black things. Hairstyle and color shifted frequently, the most recent choice an unevenly hemmed, feathery do with the left side buzzed to the scalp and the rest tinted turquoise and cool pink. Streaks of both hues segued smoothly as if applied by an airbrush.

Given her profession, the variety and the flash weren’t surprising. Why not be your own billboard?

I looked for a salon address, found none. No phone number, either, just an email address enabling contact for “personalized styling at home or work.”

The rest of her public life was heralded by long lists of favorite TV shows, movies, and musical artists.

At the bottom, a single book: Perfecting Yourself Emotionally and Physically.

Recreation consisted of “Living life to the fullest.”

Travel meant “getting away to Maui or Kauai,” illustrated by more bikini shots.

As I combed through her friends, it became clear that Lisette Montag’s social net had scooped up two distinct catches: imaginary pals aka celebrities and a few people she actually seemed to know.

Her real-life contacts were all around her age. Women and men, gays and straights, a level of racial and ethnic diversity that would do a human resources department proud.

Varied every way but in terms of body shape.

The folks Lisette Montag held dear lacked any visible body fat.

Thumbnail after thumbnail of toned, spray-tanned physiques ranging from dancer-lithe to iron-pumper bulging. Lots of posing, flexing, stretching, and just plain being adorable.

No sign of Tyler Hoffgarden.

Had he been erased actually and virtually?

I searched for someone large enough to overpower Hoffgarden and two men jumped out at me.

Identical twin behemoths in flesh-colored bicycle shorts managing to grin as they each deadlifted six hundred eighty pounds.

The near-equivalent of three Hoffgardens.

Rodney and Renny Tabash, aka The Buff Brothers. I switched to their pages.

Not much there, just a single shared Instagram site featuring the ongoing quest to conquer iron. The same hypertrophic flaunting, bulging blood vessels, and the kind of smiles you see on constipated infants straining to fill their diapers.