He called me moments later.
I said, “Got my text.”
“Haven’t checked. I’m calling because we I.D.ed Sophie’s girlfriends through her phone. Nothing juicy in her call-dump but it’s something. Any chance you can work late?”
—
That evening at nine, I pulled up to a four-story apartment building in Mar Vista. One of those cloudy nights where stars blur and the sky takes on the sheen of velour.
Nine p.m. had given me the chance for dinner with Robin. She’d been fine returning to her studio to work on rebinding an old Gibson Advanced Jumbo guitar. Late hour for Blanche, who’d sighed ambivalently, so I’d carried her over to the studio, kissed them both, and left.
I got there before Milo, was studying the building when he pulled up in the white Porsche 928 he shares with Rick Silverman. Once derided by Porsche-heads because it’s front-engine, the model’s now desirable and pricey. That means full-time garaging and limited use as a leisure-time driver. For two guys with rare leisure time.
“Going luxe?”
“Quality of life, every little bit counts. Or so I’ve been told…nice place.”
Hacienda Linda was different from the other complexes on the block. Instead of space-hogging, hard-edged gray cement and glass cubes, this was cream-colored stucco with a Spanish tile roof, greenery in front, and wrought-iron balconies. Full security glass doors and a card-entry subterranean parking lot. The glass showcased a security guard behind a desk in the lobby.
As we headed to the entrance, I said, “You got the text.”
“Darren’s broccoli, thanks for checking. We’ll be talking to Ashley Herrera and Maria Diffenbach. Heck didn’t have it quite right. Ashley’s not a flight attendant, she helps run Southwest’s LAX office. I guess Maria Diffenbach could be classified as industry if you include bookkeeper for a promotion company.”
“Whose place is it?”
“Maria’s, Ashley lives in El Segundo. Neither of them has ever been in trouble and that’s all I know so far.”
He rang the bell. The security guard looked up but didn’t budge. After Milo’s second attempt, the guy waited another fifteen seconds before hoisting himself up and trudging over. By the time he got to the door, Milo’s badge was flashing at eye level.
That set the guard’s mouth twitching. He opened the door quickly and said, “Oh, hey, guys.”
Thirty or so, with a name tag that readL.Lemon,he was soft-bodied and puffy-faced with an unfortunate sprig of fuzz the color of wet sand sprouting from a discouraged chin.
Milo said, “L stand for Lou?”
“Lee. So, hey, what’s up?”
We walked past him to the elevator.
He said, “You know where you’re going?” in a voice strained by desperation.
Milo muttered, “Depends if we’re talking philosophy or geography.”
“Pardon?” said the guard.
“Better than parole,” said Milo as the elevator doors slid open soundlessly.
—
We rose up to 4. Maria Diffenbach’s apartment number put her toward the rear of a pale-pink hallway carpeted in deep-brown plush printed with whiskey-colored O-shapes that resembled smoke rings.
Milo had texted her during the rise up and by the time we got there, a woman stood framed in the open doorway, backed by another woman.
She said, “Lieutenant? Maria. This is Ashley.”
“Milo Sturgis, Alex Delaware.”
“Come in, guys.”
