into an evidence bag. Returned to the screen and
checked the toolbar for Backer’s recent searches.
“Nothing’s
been cleared for days,” he said, “the guy definitely wasn’t worried about
privacy.”
I
said, “Fits with the direct approach.”
He
ran his finger down the list of recently visited sites.
EBay,
news outlets, ecology chat rooms, online men’s clothing resellers. In a solid
block at the bottom, thirty-three porn sites.
“What
a shock.” He began scrolling.
Five
minutes later: “Same straight-on stuff. Okay, let’s see if I can ruin someone’s
day.”
The
Washington State number connected to a message machine. Identifying himself by
rank, he left his number.
“You
have reached the home of Scott and Ricki and Samantha and Lionel, we’re not in
now but please blah blah blah. My hooh-hah detective instincts tell me Lionel’s
the pooch.”
Returning
to the closet, yet again, he pawed through the pockets of Desmond Backer’s
clothing. Four crumpled Trader Joe’s receipts, a half-year-old sales slip from
Foot Locker for the running shoes, a cheap plastic pen, a few loose coins.
“So
what’s missing from this picture, Doc?”
“Anything
to do with Jane Doe.”
“So—and
perish the thought—you could be off about her being a significant other, she
was just another booty-cutie.”
“He
took Holman to Santa Monica, stayed in the Valley with Passant.”
“So
maybe she lives near Holmby? But her clothes say not as a resident—an au pair
or something? Time to revisit the hood. But first, this Shangri-la’s parking
amenities.”
The building’s sub-lot was one-third full, and
Backer’s BMW was easy to spot. Milo gloved up again, peered through the
windows, tried the doors, found them locked, ran his flashlight over the
interior.
“Nothing
looks off, but let’s see what the techies have to say.”
I
said, “Backer and Jane got to Borodi some other way.”
“She
drove? Why not, a smooth guy like Uncle Desi could probably get women to do all
sorts of things. And if I had any idea who the hell she is, I could look for
her goddamn car.”
“You
up for another visit to the scene?”
“Why?”
“Nothing
else comes to mind.”
CHAPTER 9
Milo
punched in Robin’s cell as I headed to Holmby Hills. Her voice filtered through
the dash-mounted speaker. “Hi, babe. Long day?”
Milo
said, “And not over yet, Sugarplum.”
“Big
Guy,” she said, laughing. “You’re his receptionist?”
I
said, “No, I’m his unpaid driver.”
“Or
I’m his patient,” said Milo. “How’s it going, kid?”
“It’s
going well. You guys sound far away.”
“It’s
the hands-off,” I said, “ergo the lack of privacy. I should be home within the
hour.”
Milo
said, “Privacy? There’s something to hide from Uncle M?”
Robin
said, “Never, m’dear. Not over yet as in making progress or just the opposite?”
“Nothing
plus nothing, Rob. I’ll get him back to you A-sap.”
“Come
on over for dinner, Milo. I’ll grill something.”
“I
drool in anticipation, but Dr. Silverman is expecting a cozy dinner.”
“Rick
can come over, too.”
“Thanks, kiddo, but he’s on call until late. The plan
is we grab something at Cedars.”
“Cafeteria
food is cozy?”
“Love
hurts, darling.”
A
single uniform remained at the construction site, leaning against his cruiser
and talking on his cell phone. Yellow tape ran along the fence. The chain was
still loose enough to allow a walk-through.
Milo
sat up and shot his jaw. “Oh, gimme a break!” Jabbing his finger at the
parking ticket pinned under one of the unmarked’s windshield wipers.
Before
I cut the engine, he was out, ripping the summons free.
The
patrolman lowered his phone. Milo strode over to him. “Were you here when they
papered me?”
Silence.
“You
just let it happen?”
The
uniform was young, smooth-faced, muscular. A. Ramos-Martinez . “You know
the traffic nazis, sir. They’re on commission, sir,
checked the toolbar for Backer’s recent searches.
“Nothing’s
been cleared for days,” he said, “the guy definitely wasn’t worried about
privacy.”
I
said, “Fits with the direct approach.”
He
ran his finger down the list of recently visited sites.
EBay,
news outlets, ecology chat rooms, online men’s clothing resellers. In a solid
block at the bottom, thirty-three porn sites.
“What
a shock.” He began scrolling.
Five
minutes later: “Same straight-on stuff. Okay, let’s see if I can ruin someone’s
day.”
The
Washington State number connected to a message machine. Identifying himself by
rank, he left his number.
“You
have reached the home of Scott and Ricki and Samantha and Lionel, we’re not in
now but please blah blah blah. My hooh-hah detective instincts tell me Lionel’s
the pooch.”
Returning
to the closet, yet again, he pawed through the pockets of Desmond Backer’s
clothing. Four crumpled Trader Joe’s receipts, a half-year-old sales slip from
Foot Locker for the running shoes, a cheap plastic pen, a few loose coins.
“So
what’s missing from this picture, Doc?”
“Anything
to do with Jane Doe.”
“So—and
perish the thought—you could be off about her being a significant other, she
was just another booty-cutie.”
“He
took Holman to Santa Monica, stayed in the Valley with Passant.”
“So
maybe she lives near Holmby? But her clothes say not as a resident—an au pair
or something? Time to revisit the hood. But first, this Shangri-la’s parking
amenities.”
The building’s sub-lot was one-third full, and
Backer’s BMW was easy to spot. Milo gloved up again, peered through the
windows, tried the doors, found them locked, ran his flashlight over the
interior.
“Nothing
looks off, but let’s see what the techies have to say.”
I
said, “Backer and Jane got to Borodi some other way.”
“She
drove? Why not, a smooth guy like Uncle Desi could probably get women to do all
sorts of things. And if I had any idea who the hell she is, I could look for
her goddamn car.”
“You
up for another visit to the scene?”
“Why?”
“Nothing
else comes to mind.”
CHAPTER 9
Milo
punched in Robin’s cell as I headed to Holmby Hills. Her voice filtered through
the dash-mounted speaker. “Hi, babe. Long day?”
Milo
said, “And not over yet, Sugarplum.”
“Big
Guy,” she said, laughing. “You’re his receptionist?”
I
said, “No, I’m his unpaid driver.”
“Or
I’m his patient,” said Milo. “How’s it going, kid?”
“It’s
going well. You guys sound far away.”
“It’s
the hands-off,” I said, “ergo the lack of privacy. I should be home within the
hour.”
Milo
said, “Privacy? There’s something to hide from Uncle M?”
Robin
said, “Never, m’dear. Not over yet as in making progress or just the opposite?”
“Nothing
plus nothing, Rob. I’ll get him back to you A-sap.”
“Come
on over for dinner, Milo. I’ll grill something.”
“I
drool in anticipation, but Dr. Silverman is expecting a cozy dinner.”
“Rick
can come over, too.”
“Thanks, kiddo, but he’s on call until late. The plan
is we grab something at Cedars.”
“Cafeteria
food is cozy?”
“Love
hurts, darling.”
A
single uniform remained at the construction site, leaning against his cruiser
and talking on his cell phone. Yellow tape ran along the fence. The chain was
still loose enough to allow a walk-through.
Milo
sat up and shot his jaw. “Oh, gimme a break!” Jabbing his finger at the
parking ticket pinned under one of the unmarked’s windshield wipers.
Before
I cut the engine, he was out, ripping the summons free.
The
patrolman lowered his phone. Milo strode over to him. “Were you here when they
papered me?”
Silence.
“You
just let it happen?”
The
uniform was young, smooth-faced, muscular. A. Ramos-Martinez . “You know
the traffic nazis, sir. They’re on commission, sir,
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