The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(34)

I reached him in his chambers.

“Alex.”

“Thanks for getting back to me.”

“I was intrigued. Ansar’s not your case but you’re asking about it.”

“Police work.”

“That aspect of your life, huh? Can’t let go of the excitement?”

“Keeps life interesting. I called because some murder victims were found at the Ansar property.”

“Victims, plural?” he said.

“Benedict Canyon.”

“Oh. Didn’t put it together because the news said Beverly Hills and I’ve been working Ansar long enough to know it’s L.A.”

“Minor inaccuracy.”

“Okay for the media but no such thing in my field. People hate each other they pounce on every misplaced letter. Murder, huh? Maybe it’s not a surprise. These two despise each other.” A beat. “You’re not telling me one of them was a victim?”

“No,” I said.

“Who, then?”

“It’s a strange one, Marty.”

“That aspect of your life, aren’t they all? Strange, how?”

“This needs to stay between us. Four victims with no apparent relationship to each other.”

“A gang thing?”

“Are the Ansars gang-connected?”

“Not to my knowledge,” he said. “What their cousins do over in Afghanistan, who knows? What do you want to know about them?”

“The basics of the divorce.”

“It’s public record, you can get a transcript, Alex. But you generally don’t bullshit me so I won’t sentence you to reading thousands of pages of yakkety-yak. The gist is Matin and Ramineh Ansar have been here fifteen years, both are U.S. citizens. He’s rich from banking and real estate, she says also from graft. She’s rich from inheritance, he says also from graft. Bottom line, there’s enough money on both sides to feed the sharks so the damn thing drags on. The custody aspect’s what you’d expect. Two kids, boy, girl, they gave them American names…Dylan and Courtney. Cute little kids, four and six, mutual accusations that amount to crap because of the crap expert witnesses the sharks have hired. World War Three, obviously, is the money.”

I said, “She claims she financed the bulk of his ventures, he says she’s a lazy princess who did nothing but spend.”

“Ah, great oracle of Beverly Glen. What makes it especially stupid, Alex, is they’re wasting time, money, and stomach acid on a relatively small amount. Twelve million, basically the house and some art—yeah, yeah, I know, for the average person it’s a big deal. But trust me, either of them probably has overseas dough, they could afford to split the U.S. estate down the middle. You’d think they’d respond to my sage advice to do just that. You’d be wrong.”

“Who are the sharks?”

“Trapp and Trapp versus Charteroff.”

“See what you mean.”

“Even they’re getting worn out, but the principals won’t budge. Surprisingly, the kids were doing okay, per the therapist—Alfree London. You were busy so I’m using her. One suggestion they did take was separating her from the expert witness shrinks.”

He tossed out two names. “You feel otherwise?”

I said, “No, they’re whores and Alfree’s a good therapist.”

“Unfortunately, she hasn’t been able to therapize because Mrs. Ansar took the kids out of the country. Not much I could do other than write an order to return because she blindsided Mister, neither had asked for travel restrictions. He was certain she went over to Europe, hired private eyes who traced her to Paris then Monte Carlo then Belgium before the trail got cold. Can’t see her heading back to Kabul but you know how it is when people don’t think straight.”

“Why’s she so angry?”

“What do you think, Alex? Matin watches too much porn and fools with other women. He claims she’s been sexually unresponsive for years and hints she’s gay. What the truth is, who knows? Or cares. Hopefully the kids aren’t in some Taliban kindergarten. Anything else?”

“Not that I can think of. Thanks, Marty.”

“As long as we’re talking, a new one landed on my desk yesterday. Likely to be equally vitriolic but the parties are only semi-big rich, so at some point it’ll end. You up for it?”

“Happy to take a look.”

“Good man,” he said. “After mass murder, you’re going to glide through it.”



* * *



—

I was on my third cup of coffee when Milo rang my private line. I summarized what I’d just learned from Bevilacqua.

He said, “Can’t see how it relates. Talked to most of the ten women on Gurnsey’s call list, got a coupla question marks. I can come to you to go over it.”



* * *



—

He drove up six minutes later, meaning he’d phoned from the road, assuming a drop-by would fit my schedule. Despite all the Old Sod gloom, a closet optimist.

He strode in, one hand clutching his olive-green vinyl attaché case. Blanche trotted up and nuzzled his cuffs.

“Hey, pooch.” He stooped to pet her and slipped her a Greenie treat from a jacket pocket. He smiled as she gobbled, then his lips turned down. “Speaking of dogs, just got DNA on the”—looking down at Blanche—“the you-know-what.”