The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(26)

I said, “This feels different from a practice run. All performance, no rehearsal.”

He shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “Doing that to a pooch. Why does that make me even madder?”





CHAPTER


    11


Beverly Hills High is a twenties-era French Normandy concoction sprawling across twenty prime acres that had once served as a racetrack. By three twenty Milo and I were parked near the main motor exit watching for either Shirin Amadpour’s one-year-old white Porsche Boxster or Todd Leventhal’s two-year-old black Dodge Challenger to emerge.

The Dodge was the first to show, snorting and bucking as it waited behind a silver BMW halted by a crossing guard.

Young male at the wheel, young female next to him. We followed as the car made its way north to Wilshire, turned left on Beverly Drive, and continued into the core of the Beverly Hills business district. Keeping two car lengths behind and being treated to a symphony of tailgating, jerky unsignaled lane changes, and braking so sudden it juddered the Challenger’s frame.

Milo said, “Stupid kid lives on the 600 block of Alpine but he’s driving for fun. Hopefully he won’t be pulled over by BHPD before he gets there.”

His hopes were fulfilled as the Challenger was allowed to continue its clueless journey past Santa Monica Boulevard and east on Carmelita Avenue.

I said, “Warren Zevon got the name for his song from this street.”

“Huh.” He liked Zevon’s music but wasn’t in the mood to fake interest.

The black car hooked a quick left at Alpine Drive and continued half a block before careening over the curb and landing in a driveway of a homely, square house faced with gray shingles. In Beverly Hills, seven million bucks.

The driver, smallish, ferret-faced, and sporting a blond fade hairdo, got out swinging a black backpack. Slamming his door he stood next to the car and thumbed his phone. The girl unfolded herself from the passenger side. Pretty and slim, taller than her companion, clutching an identical backpack. Both of them had on charcoal-colored T-shirts and jeans and matching polychrome sneakers. A sheet of black hair tickled an area two inches below the girl’s waist.

Out came her phone. Down went her eyes. Two sets of adolescent fingers worked manically.

Milo said, “Modern romance,” and bounded out of the Impala.

Neither kid noticed our approach. That level of space-out, as vulnerable as Benny Alvarez.

Did the future portend a planet teeming with easy victims?

Finally, when we were a foot away, the girl looked up. Huge brown eyes sparked with alarm.

Milo’s smiling “Hi, guys” made matters worse. Her mouth dropped open and she grabbed the boy’s arm. He kept scrolling. “Whuh?”

“Todd—look.”

Milo said, “Todd Leventhal? Shirin Amadpour? Glad we caught you. Lieutenant Sturgis, Homicide.”

The girl gasped and squeezed Leventhal’s skinny biceps.

He kept texting.

“Taw-odd!”

Harder squeeze. Leventhal’s gray eyes rose slowly, favoring us with a neutral stare. The cropped part of his hair was etched with rising thunderbolts. The top of the do was three inches of off-white straw. “Yeah, you called. What happened afterward at the party. No idea.”

“I’ll give you an idea,” said Milo. “Someone was killed at the house you rented.”

“Don’t know about it.”

“Yes, we don’t,” said Shirin Amadpour. “That sounds terrible but we just throw parties.”

Milo said, “It’s a regular thing for you guys?”

Leventhal shrugged.

Amadpour said, “Basically.”

“How often?”

“Three, four times a year.”

“Kind of a hobby?”

The question perplexed Amadpour. “I guess.”

Leventhal’s eyes slitted. “No way. We’re in it for the money.”

Milo said, “Capitalism at work.”

Amadpour said, “No, socialism—Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter.”

“What I’m telling you is we make money,” said Leventhal. “It’s business, okay? Forty bucks guys, twenty girls.” A glance at Amadpour. The smile a carnivore gets picking out a steak.

I said, “Girls pay less.”

“Ye-ah.” The unspoken word: stuuupid. “?’Cause girls are worth more. They’re like a…guys come because a girls.”

Amadpour took that as praise and beamed.

Milo said, “The feminine mystique.”

“Huh?”

“So how many people showed up last Friday?”

Another shrug from Leventhal.

Amadpour said, “We didn’t count.”

“How about an estimate?”

Leventhal said, “Three hundred. Give or leave.”

Amadpour said, “Yeah.”

Milo said, “How much do you guys pay to rent the house?”

Leventhal said, “Why? You want to do competition?” Giggling at the thought.

“Just trying to get an overall picture, Todd.”

“We don’t know jack about what happened after.”

“I know but just for the report.”

“The report,” said Leventhal. He smirked. “They wanted seven I got ’em down to five.”