The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(30)

“It’s what we do. Does Dr. Delaware have anything to say about this? I mean, let’s face it, it smells psycho.”

“He thinks it smells theatrical.”

“Hmm,” she said. “Maybe they’re not that different. Okay, let me get you those labels.”



* * *



—

Milo’s next call was to Basia’s office at the crypt. He got her assistant, requested the bio-data be sent to Sharp. Was putting his phone down when a text pinged. He read and shook his head.

“Labels on all the clothing were removed—tech could see the stitch-marks.”

I said, “Her clothing could’ve been altered or she got it from a donation bin with the labels removed.”

His computer dinged a text. “Gurnsey’s phone records. Here we go.”

Six months of calls. “This is gonna take time.”

His arm dipped into the pastry box. Random selection produced a chocolate cinnamon roll.

He said, “Go home, enjoy the benefits of hearth and home. I’ll content myself with calories.”





CHAPTER


    13


Custody evaluations pay most of my bills but I prefer trauma and injury suits because kids who’ve been injured deserve compensation and no one gets hateful.

Thursday morning, I was finishing the final report on a case I’d worked a couple of weeks ago. A three-year-old had swallowed bug bait left out by the manager of the apartment where he lived with his mother. Full recovery after a stomach pump, now the litigation. My job was evaluating the child for emotional repercussions.

I’d told the attorney the boy seemed fine, that I wouldn’t be offering any radical predictions.

He said, “No prob, I just need the basics with your stamp of approval.”

I rechecked what I’d written, auto-signed and emailed, went into the kitchen for coffee. When I got back my cell was bouncing on the desktop.

Milo said, “Got through Gurnsey’s calls, separated business from personal. I’m having the troops backward-directory each number to see who actually answers. The media coverage brought in eighty-eight tips so far and one might even be interesting. A woman phoned an hour ago, said she’d been at a party at the same house. Which is interesting because the address hasn’t been released. I asked when, she said January, a benefit, she preferred to talk about it in person. Which is different, no? Most people’ll do anything to avoid a face-to-face. She lives in Little Holmby, you could walk there. Can you make it in an hour?”

“Sure.”

“Her name’s Candace Kierstead. Here’s the address.”

I was in running clothes but hadn’t run. Showering, shaving, and shifting to work duds, I left the house, fast-walked down the Glen, sharp-eyed, facing traffic, crossed Sunset at the light, and continued south and west to Conrock Avenue.

Little Holmby is a tranquil pocket of traditional architecture sandwiched between the imperial estates of Holmby Hills and the town-sized campus of the U. Conrock was a predictably pretty street lined with immaculate houses just large enough to forestall teardown fever.

Milo’s Impala was parked on the east side of the street, midway up the block. When he saw me, he got out.

“You actually walked?”

“I thought it was an executive order.”

“More like I enabled your addiction to fitness—say nothing. Body-shaming folk such as myself is malignant.” He slapped my back. “Thanks for coming on short notice. We’re going to that one.”

He pointed to a vanilla-covered Mediterranean fronted by a precise emerald lawn. No car in the driveway. Maybe stashed behind a black-iron gate.

His knock was moderate—a friend dropping in. The woman who opened the door was thirty-five to forty, medium height and slender, with true-blue eyes and long brown hair that crowned a pleasant, unremarkable face. Oversized tortoiseshell eyeglasses rested atop a small, thin nose. No makeup or jewelry. White top, white jeggings and flats.

“Ms. Kierstead? Lieutenant Sturgis. This is Alex Delaware.”

A tentative, whispery voice said, “Candace. Please come in.”

She led us through a black-granite foyer into a living room furnished with art deco pieces that looked real. Pointing to a pair of silver velvet club chairs, she kicked off her shoes and folded onto a facing gray sofa. Bare walls. Behind the couch, a long narrow table held a framed photo of Candace Kierstead and a silver-haired man significantly her senior. Somewhere with a cathedral in the background.

Between the couch and the chairs a round bronze and mirror-top table was set up with a white porcelain coffee set and a plate of graham crackers.

Milo said, “Thanks for seeing us, Ms. Kierstead.”

“I felt I had to call. Do you want to ask questions or should I just tell you what I know?”

“Whatever makes you more comfortable.”

“This is the first time I’ve ever called the police, I’m not sure anything makes me comfortable. Except for once, a few years ago, when my husband thought he heard a prowler. Turned out to be an opossum on the roof with little babies. Can you believe that? We love animals, of course we let them be.”

I said, “This close to the mountains we do get critters.”

“I’ve seen coyotes,” she said. “In the morning when I run. The look in their eyes…rather menacing.”