When I stopped laughing, I said, “Sure.”
—
He was at the house twenty minutes later, marched to the fridge without comment, slapped together a cold steak sandwich and finished it by the time we got down to the Impala.
The drive to Brentwood took longer than it should’ve due to a lane closure on Sunset with no apparent purpose followed by a queue of glossy vehicles picking up students at an exclusive girls’ school.
Milo checked his Timex. “Still plenty of time, Winchell doesn’t finish for twenty-eight minutes.”
“How’d you find out his schedule?”
“I lied about being a patient and wanting a cleaning appointmentwith him. Apparently at Dr. Loring’s office closing time means closing time.”
Twenty-two minutes later, we’d pulled up to a profoundly charmless two-story building faced with liver-colored brick. Cater-corner to the Brentwood Country Mart where movie stars pretended to want privacy.
The lack of style and generous outdoor parking in back screamed construction during the blithe seventies. Being situated this close to the mart made the property prime L.A. dirt. Aesthetics wouldn’t matter but the parking lot would when the time came for the inevitable teardown.
A silver Audi that Milo had identified as Winchell’s was parked at the back. Milo slipped the Impala next toit.
“Four minutes to go, if he’s punctual.”
Eight minutes later a tall, broad-shouldered man in an aqua uniform exited the building and headed toward us carrying a cellphone.
Milo said, “Here we go.”
Frank Winchell had close-cropped hair, a neat goatee, and an easy walk.
Milo was ready for him, smiling and flashing the badge and saying, “Mr. Winchell, Lieutenant Sturgis and this is Alex Delaware. Don’t be alarmed but if we could talk to you for a second about Sophie Barlow that would be great.”
Winchell stopped, wide-eyed. His torso stiffened. “Sophie? What about?”
“You haven’t heard.”
“Heard what—Oh, Lord, cops. You’re going to tell me something horrendous.”
“Afraid so, sir. She was murdered.”
Winchell’s eyes rounded and his lips parted on perfect teeth. “You’re kidding—no, of course you’re not.” A hand rose to the side of his face. “Oh my God, when?”
“Several weeks ago.”
“Several weeks ago,” said Winchell. “Meaning it’s unsolved so you’re flailing around talking to everyone.”
“We’re trying to learn what we can about Sophie.”
“Sophie murd…I—well I don’t know what you thinkIcan tell you.” Winchell’s eyes swept the lot. “I’m not comfortable talking to cops out here. All I need is for someone to see it and the rumor mill kicks in.”
“Got it,” said Milo. “Where would you like to talk?”
“I don’t know—this is freaking me out. Last time I had anything to do with cops was in college. Walking to my dorm, bunch of you converge on me flashing guns and put me down on the sidewalk. Supposedly I resembled a mugging suspect. When I was in high school and had the nerve to drive while overly pigmented, I got stopped all the time for nothing.”
His head jerked back. Two women had left the building and were headed toward the lot. “Oh shit.” Sidling past us to his Audi, he remoted the driver’s door open and bent low, using us for cover. “I’m not trying anything, just let me sit inside till they’re gone.”
The women headed to separate Mercedeses and drove away.
Winchell rolled down his window and said, “Those were my bosses, Dr. Loring and Dr. Chan. Last thing I need isthemwondering.”
Talking rapidly, licking his lips. “Now you probably think I’m all nervous because I’ve got something to hide but I don’t. It’s just…”
