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Authors: Jonathan Kellerman
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her.”
“Job’s
been dormant for two years, we’re talking a tradesman who moved on.”
“Maybe
not far enough.”
He
looked at his watch. “You go on home, I’m gonna do my own walk-through of the
grounds, stick around until Ramos-Martinez brings the lock and chain.”
“Keeping Doyle Bryczinski out.”
“Keeping everyone the hell out,” he said. “Besides, I’m a prince among men. Why
not pretend to have a castle?”
Robin
was waiting for me in the living room, all sixty-three inches of her curled on
the couch, listening to Stefano Grondona play Bach on old guitars. A white silk
dress played off against her olive skin. Auburn curls fanned on the cushion.
Blanche snuggled against Robin’s chest, knobby blond head resting near Robin’s
left hand.
Both
of them smiled. It can be jarring when a French bulldog’s flat face takes on an
unmistakably human expression, and some people startle when Blanche switches on
the charm. I’m used to it, but it still makes me wonder about the standard
evolutionary charts.
I
said, “Hey, girls,” and kissed them both. Lips for Robin, top of the head for
Blanche. Unlike our previous dog, a feisty brindle male Frenchie named Spike,
Blanche has no jealousy issues. I gave her bat-ears a scratch.
“You
look tired, baby.”
“I’m
fine.”
“Do
you mind going out?”
I was
still stuffed with Italian, said, “Not at all.”
We
drove to a place at the top of the Glen where good jazz was mixed with decent
food and a generous bar. The band was offset and the stand-in sound track was
low-volume sax, something Brazilian-tinged, maybe Stan Getz. We drank wine,
settled in.
Robin
said, “What’s the case?”
I
told her.
“Holmby.
That’s close.”
“No
danger, Rob. This was personal.”
I
summed up Backer’s proclivities, the interviews of Holman, Sanfelice, and
Passant.
She
said, “They all sound like soap opera characters.”
“Don
Juan and his fan club.”
“If he was a woman, he’d be labeled a slut.”
“Or a
courtesan,” I said. “Or ambassador to a major ally. It’s always a matter of pay
grade.”
“Borodi
Lane is serious pay grade, Alex. Maybe he took Jane there because she was a
rich girl.”
“Her
clothes didn’t say that. I was wondering about someone who worked in the
neighborhood. Anyone who spent time there knew the job was inactive and
security was lax.”
The
food came. The band approached the stage.
Robin
took hold of my hand. “Guess I should give you credit.”
“For
what?”
“Not
being a Don Juan.”
“That
deserves a prize? Fine, I’ll take what I can get.”
“Hey,”
she said, stroking my cheek. “Handsome dude with a fancy degree and no
mortgage? Not to mention other … ahem … attributes. You could be partying like
it’s 1999.”
“Bring
on the platform shoes.”
“That’s
the seventies, dear.”
“See,”
I said. “I’m out of touch, would never survive the meat market.”
“Oh,
you’d thrive, sweetie. It would be one thing if you were a twerp with no
libido, but I know otherwise.”
“That’s
me,” I said. “Sexual Superman with the morals of a saint.”
“You
laugh,” she said. “I smile.”
CHAPTER 10
We
drove home well fed and watered. As I held the door open, Robin said, “Nice
place you’ve got here, Don.” We disrobed in the dark, collapsed under the
covers. Afterward, she said, “That was great, but next time platform shoes.”
I
awoke at four eighteen, was at my desk five minutes later, pupils constricting
as the computer screen filled with light. Plugging in the Borodi address
produced a four-year-old squib in L.A. Design Quarterly .
“Masterson
and Associates, Century City, will be the architects for a mammoth project
planned in Holmby Hills this fall. The 28,000-square-foot residence sits on a
2.42-acre lot on Borodi Lane and will be the L.A. pied-à-terre for an unnamed foreign
investor.”
Marjorie
Holman’s dismissive comment about Helga Gemein flashed in my
“Job’s
been dormant for two years, we’re talking a tradesman who moved on.”
“Maybe
not far enough.”
He
looked at his watch. “You go on home, I’m gonna do my own walk-through of the
grounds, stick around until Ramos-Martinez brings the lock and chain.”
“Keeping Doyle Bryczinski out.”
“Keeping everyone the hell out,” he said. “Besides, I’m a prince among men. Why
not pretend to have a castle?”
Robin
was waiting for me in the living room, all sixty-three inches of her curled on
the couch, listening to Stefano Grondona play Bach on old guitars. A white silk
dress played off against her olive skin. Auburn curls fanned on the cushion.
Blanche snuggled against Robin’s chest, knobby blond head resting near Robin’s
left hand.
Both
of them smiled. It can be jarring when a French bulldog’s flat face takes on an
unmistakably human expression, and some people startle when Blanche switches on
the charm. I’m used to it, but it still makes me wonder about the standard
evolutionary charts.
I
said, “Hey, girls,” and kissed them both. Lips for Robin, top of the head for
Blanche. Unlike our previous dog, a feisty brindle male Frenchie named Spike,
Blanche has no jealousy issues. I gave her bat-ears a scratch.
“You
look tired, baby.”
“I’m
fine.”
“Do
you mind going out?”
I was
still stuffed with Italian, said, “Not at all.”
We
drove to a place at the top of the Glen where good jazz was mixed with decent
food and a generous bar. The band was offset and the stand-in sound track was
low-volume sax, something Brazilian-tinged, maybe Stan Getz. We drank wine,
settled in.
Robin
said, “What’s the case?”
I
told her.
“Holmby.
That’s close.”
“No
danger, Rob. This was personal.”
I
summed up Backer’s proclivities, the interviews of Holman, Sanfelice, and
Passant.
She
said, “They all sound like soap opera characters.”
“Don
Juan and his fan club.”
“If he was a woman, he’d be labeled a slut.”
“Or a
courtesan,” I said. “Or ambassador to a major ally. It’s always a matter of pay
grade.”
“Borodi
Lane is serious pay grade, Alex. Maybe he took Jane there because she was a
rich girl.”
“Her
clothes didn’t say that. I was wondering about someone who worked in the
neighborhood. Anyone who spent time there knew the job was inactive and
security was lax.”
The
food came. The band approached the stage.
Robin
took hold of my hand. “Guess I should give you credit.”
“For
what?”
“Not
being a Don Juan.”
“That
deserves a prize? Fine, I’ll take what I can get.”
“Hey,”
she said, stroking my cheek. “Handsome dude with a fancy degree and no
mortgage? Not to mention other … ahem … attributes. You could be partying like
it’s 1999.”
“Bring
on the platform shoes.”
“That’s
the seventies, dear.”
“See,”
I said. “I’m out of touch, would never survive the meat market.”
“Oh,
you’d thrive, sweetie. It would be one thing if you were a twerp with no
libido, but I know otherwise.”
“That’s
me,” I said. “Sexual Superman with the morals of a saint.”
“You
laugh,” she said. “I smile.”
CHAPTER 10
We
drove home well fed and watered. As I held the door open, Robin said, “Nice
place you’ve got here, Don.” We disrobed in the dark, collapsed under the
covers. Afterward, she said, “That was great, but next time platform shoes.”
I
awoke at four eighteen, was at my desk five minutes later, pupils constricting
as the computer screen filled with light. Plugging in the Borodi address
produced a four-year-old squib in L.A. Design Quarterly .
“Masterson
and Associates, Century City, will be the architects for a mammoth project
planned in Holmby Hills this fall. The 28,000-square-foot residence sits on a
2.42-acre lot on Borodi Lane and will be the L.A. pied-à-terre for an unnamed foreign
investor.”
Marjorie
Holman’s dismissive comment about Helga Gemein flashed in my
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