“But they do have a Rolls.”
“White, right?”
“How’d you know?”
“Your basic B.H. retiree drive.”
“There was a Volvo, too.”
“Probably the maid’s,” he said. “We could be talking venerable types who went for one of ol’ Geoff’s masterpieces. In terms of Okash, Sean was there when she Ubered home and I had a fascinating night watching her stay there. Reed got all the action: At eight she drove her own car to a breakfast place on Eighth Street near Vermont. Still there. Meanwhile, no word where Dugong’s crashing.”
I said, “He could’ve gone back to Florida.”
“If he flew, there’s no record of it.”
“Just thought of something: Roget’s kids live in Florida.”
“Don’t wanna brag but that also occurred to me so I called them. Neither has heard of Dugong and Ocala’s not close to Key West, nearly five hundred miles north. I also emailed Okash’s photo to Rick Gurnsey’s roommate, Briggs. He’s never seen her, doubts Ricky dated her, too much of a fat-face, quote unquote. Briggs ain’t the most observant fellow and we know Gurnsey didn’t bring every conquest home so no doors are closed. I sent the same photo to civic-minded Ms. Kierstead. She had nothing to add.”
I said, “I couldn’t find anything on Okash’s victim.”
“Me, neither, but I haven’t dug deep. You’re thinking people disappear for all sorts of reasons. Let me see if I can find a death certificate somewhere—hold on, incoming call—Marc Coolidge, I’ll call you right back.”
He didn’t.
—
But at three thirteen p.m. he rang my doorbell.
I said, “Coolidge found something?”
“What—no, he was just letting me know he got another D to work with him, the two of them want to check out every CC camera they can find between McGann and Vollmann’s crime scene and the two nearest freeway exits. We’re talking enough video-viewing to earn a degree in film history.”
I said, “Conscientious.”
“The fact that his case could be tied in to something bigger has gotten to him.” He stepped into the living room, sat. “The reason I took the liberty to grace your doorstep is guess who just called? Todd Leventhal the precocious party meister. Sounding scared out of his gourd.”
“Of what?”
“He wouldn’t say but asked to meet soon. More like demanded. Don’t enjoy indulging brats but at this point, anyone wants to talk to me, I’m a cheap date.”
—
Leventhal had asked to meet on Spalding Drive south of Olympic, a short drive from his high school. The black Challenger was in place when we arrived, parked in front of a red-brick condo complex that took up half the block.
Plenty of spaces across the street but the boy had chosen to sit squarely in a red zone, blocking a fire hydrant.
Milo said, “Entitled little prince.”
I said, “Or he thinks you can protect him from the parking nazis.”
“Delusions abound.” He U-turned at the next corner, glided to the curb across the street from the Challenger, and rolled down his window. “Todd.”
Leventhal, hands fixed rigidly on his steering wheel, turned jerkily and nodded. None of the bravado he’d shown the first time.
He said, “Um, where?”
“Here.” Milo hooked a thumb toward the Impala’s rear seat.
