Gone (10 page)

Shifting closer, she lifted my left hand, traced the outline of my thumbnail. “Still here.”

“What is?”

“That split in the crescent —
the little Pac-Man growing out of your nail. I always thought it was cute.”

My body part, I’d never noticed it.

She said, “It’s the same you.”

I
spent the next day interviewing the three women who’d filed suit against Dr. Patrick Hauser. Individually, they came across vulnerable. As a group they were calmly credible.

Time for Hauser’s insurance company to settle and cut its losses.

The following morning, I got to work on my report, was still in the thinking phase when Milo called.

“How’s it going, big guy?”

“It’s going nowhere at warp speed. Still haven’t gotten into Michaela’s place, landlord doesn’t like leaving La Jolla. If he doesn’t get here soon, I’m popping the lock. I talked to the Reno detective who nabbed Reynold Peaty for peeping. The story was Peaty was in an alley behind an apartment building, drunk as a skunk, looking through the drapes of a rear unit bedroom. The objects of his affliction were three college girls. Some guy walking his dog saw Peaty wagging his weenie and yelled. Peaty ran, the guy gave chase, knocked Peaty to the ground, called the cops.”

“Brave citizen.”

“Defensive tackle on the U. Nevada football team,” he said, “Student neighborhood.”

“Ground-floor rear unit?” I said.

“Just like Michaela’s. The girls were a little younger than Michaela but you could make a case for victim similarity. What got Peaty off light was that these three had a history of being less than careful about the drapes. Also, the prosecutors never got word of Peaty’s burglary conviction years before. That was a daylight break-in, cash and ladies’ undies.”

“Voyeur meets up with exhibitionists and everyone goes home happy?”

“Because the exhibitionists didn’t want to testify. The girls’ exuberance extended to getting creative with videotape. Their main concern was their parents finding out. Peaty’s a definite creep and I’ve promoted him to the penthouse of the high-priority bin.”

“Time for a second interview.”

“I tried. No sign of him or anyone else at the PlayHouse this morning, ditto for his apartment. Mrs. Stadlbraun wanted to have tea again. I drank enough to constipate a rhino and she talked about her grandkids and her godkids and the lamentable state of modern morality. She said she’d started watching Peaty more closely but he’s gone most of the day. I’m gonna have Binchy tail him.”

“Any decent phone tips?”

“Mostly the usual Martians and maniacs and morons, but there was one I’m following up on. That’s why I called. Wire service picked up the
Times
story and some guy in New York phoned me yesterday. Couple of years ago his daughter went missing out here. What got me interested was she was going to acting school, too.”

“The PlayHouse?”

“Father has no idea. There seems to be lots he doesn’t know. An MP report was filed on this girl —
Tori Giacomo —
but it doesn’t look like anyone pursued it. No surprise, given her age and no sign of foul play. The guy insisted on flying out so I figure I can spare him some time. We’re scheduled at three p.m., hope he likes Indian food. If you’ve got time, I could use some supplementary intuition.”

“About what?”

“Ruling his daughter out. Listen to him but don’t tell me what I want to hear.”

“Do I ever?”

“No,” he said. “That’s why you’re my pal.”

Pink madras curtains separate Café Moghul’s interior from the traffic and light of Santa Monica Boulevard. The shadowy storefront is walking distance from the station and when Milo needs to bolt the confines of his office, he uses it as an alternative work site.

The owners are convinced the presence of a large, menacing-looking detective serves the same purpose as a well-trained rottweiler. Once in a while Milo obliges them by handling homeless schizophrenics who wander in and try to sample the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet.

The buffet’s a recent introduction. I’m not convinced it wasn’t put in place for Milo.

When I got there at three p.m., he was seated behind three plates heaped with vegetables, rice, curried lobster, and some kind of tandoori meat. A basket of onion naan was half full. A pitcher of clove-flavored tea sat at his right elbow. Napkin tied around his neck. Only a few sauce specks.

Off-hour for lunch and he was the only diner. The smiling, bespectacled woman who runs the place said, “He’s here, sir,” and led me to his usual table at the rear.

He chewed and swallowed. “Try the lamb.”

“A little early for me.”

“Chai tea?” said the bespectacled woman.

I pointed to the pitcher. “Just a glass.”

“Very good.”

Last time I’d seen her, she’d been trying out contact lenses.

She said, “I had allergies to the cleaning solution. My nephew’s an ophthalmologist, he says LASIK’s safe.”

Milo tried to hide his wince but I caught it. He lives with a surgeon but blanches at the thought of doctor visits.

“Good luck,” I said.

The woman said, “I’m still not sure,” and left to get my glass.

Milo wiped his mouth and pulled a blue folder from his attaché. “Copy of Tori Giacomo’s missing person file. Feel free to read but I can summarize in a minute.”

“Go ahead.”

“She was living in North Hollywood, alone in a single, working as a waitress at a seafood place in Burbank. She told her parents she was coming out to be a star but no one’s aware of any parts she got and she had no agent. When she disappeared, the landlord stored her junk for thirty days then dumped it. By the time MP got around to checking, there was nothing left.”

“The parents weren’t notified when she skipped?”

“She was twenty-seven, didn’t leave their number on her rental application.”

“Who did she give as a reference?”

“File doesn’t say. We’re talking two years ago.” He consulted his Timex. “Her father phoned from the airport an hour ago. Unless there was some disaster on the freeway, he shoulda been here already.”

He squinted at numbers he’d scrawled on the cover of the folder, punched his cell phone. “Mr. Giacomo? Lieutenant Sturgis. I’m ready for you… where? What’s the cross street? No, sir, that’s
Little
Santa Monica, it’s a short street that starts in Beverly Hills, which is where you are… three miles east of here… yes, there are two of them. Little and Big… I agree, it doesn’t make… yeah, L.A. can be a little strange… just turn around and go north to Big Santa Monica… there’s some construction but you can get through… see you, sir.”

He hung up. “Poor guy thinks he’s confused now.”

Twenty minutes later a compact, dark-haired man in his fifties pushed the restaurant door open, sniffed the air, and walked straight toward us as if he had a score to settle.

Short legs but big strides. Racewalking to what?

He wore a brown tweed sportcoat that fit around the shoulders but was too roomy everywhere else, a faded blue plaid shirt, navy chinos, bubble-toed work shoes. The dark hair was flat-black with reddish tints that betrayed the use of dye. Dense at the sides but sparse on top —
just a few strands over a shiny dome. His chin was oversized and cleft, his nose fleshy and flattened. Brooding eyes looked us over as he approached. No taller than five nine but his hands were huge, sausage-fingered, furred at the knuckles with more black hair.

In one hand was a cheap red suitcase. The other shot out. “Lou Giacomo.”

Choosing me first. I introduced myself, minus the doctorate, and he shifted quickly to Milo.

“Lieutenant.” Going for rank. Military experience or plain old logic.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Giacomo. Hungry?”

Giacomo’s nose wrinkled. “They got beer?”

“All kinds.” Milo summoned the bespectacled woman.

Lou Giacomo told her, “Bud. Regular, not Light.” Removing his jacket, he draped it over the back of his seat, tweaked the arms and the shoulders and the lapel until it hung straight. The plaid shirt was short-sleeved. His forearms were muscled, hirsute cudgels. Producing a billfold, he withdrew a pale blue business card and handed it to Milo.

Milo passed it over.

L
OUIS
A. G
IACOMO
, J
R
.
Appliance and Small Engine Repair
You Smash ’Em, We Patch ’Em

Red wrench logo in the center. Address and phone number in Bayside, Queens.

Giacomo’s beer arrived in a tall, chilled glass. He looked at it but didn’t drink. When the bespectacled woman left, he wiped the rim of the glass with his napkin, squinted, swabbed some more.

“Appreciate you meeting with me, Lieutenant. Learn anything about Tori?”

“Not yet, sir. Why don’t you fill me in?”

Giacomo’s hands clenched. He bared teeth too even and white to be anything but porcelain. “First thing you gotta know: No one looked for Tori. I called your department a bunch of times, talked to all these different people, finally I reached some detective —
some guy named Mortensen. He told me nothing but I kept calling. He got sick of hearing from me, made it real clear Tori wasn’t high-priority, it was missing kids he was into. Then he stopped answering my calls, so I flew out but by that time he’d retired and moved to Oregon or somewhere. I lost my patience, said something to the detective they transferred me to, to the effect of what’s wrong with you, you care more about traffic tickets than people? He had nothing to say.”

Giacomo frowned into his beer. “Sometimes I lose my patience. Not that it woulda made a difference. I coulda been the nicest guy in the world, no one was gonna do anything to find Tori. So I have to go back and tell my wife I got nothing and she goes and has a nervous breakdown on me.”

He pinged a thumbnail on the side of his glass.

Milo said, “Sorry.”

“She got over it,” said Giacomo. “Doctors gave her antidepressants, counseling, whatever. Plus, she had five other kids to deal with —
the baby’s thirteen, still in the house. Keeping busy, that’s the best thing. Helps her not think about Tori.”

Milo nodded and drank tea. Giacomo finally lifted his glass and drank.

“Tastes like Bud,” he said. “What is this place, Pakistani?”

“Indian.”

“We got those where I come from.”

“Indians?”

“Them and their restaurants. I never been.”

“Bayside,” said Milo.

“Grew up there, stayed there. Hasn’t changed that bad except now on top of your Italians and your Jews you get Chinese and other Orientals and Indians. I fixed a coupla their washing machines. Ever been to Bayside?”

Milo shook his head.

Giacomo looked at me.

I said, “Been to Manhattan, that’s it.”

“That’s the city. The city’s for the filthy rich people and homeless poor people, you got no room for the normal people in between.” He took a generous swallow of beer. “Definitely Bud.” Rolling a fist on the table, he flexed his forearms. Tendons jumped. The big, white teeth again. Eager to bite something.

“Tori wanted to be noticed. Since she was a little girl, my wife told her she was special. Taking her to these baby beauty contests, sometime she won a ribbon, it made the wife happy. Dancing and singing lessons, all these school plays. Problem was, Tori’s grades weren’t so great, one semester they threatened her she’d have to drop out of theater arts unless she passed math. She passed with a D, but that’s what it took, threats.”

I said, “Acting was her main thing.”

“Her mother was always telling her she could be this big movie star. Encouraging her, for the whatchmacallit, the self-esteem. Sounds good but it also put ideas in Tori’s head.”

“Ambitions,” I said.

Giacomo pushed his glass away. “Tori shoulda never come out here, what did she know about being on her own? It was the first time she was ever on a plane. This is a crazy place, right? You guys tell me if I’m wrong.”

Milo said, “It can be rough.”

“Crazy,” Giacomo repeated. “Tori never worked a day in her life before she came out here. Until the baby came along she was the only girl, it’s not like she’s gonna work with
me.
Right?”

“Did she live at home before she came out here?”

“Always, with her mother doing everything for her. She never made her own bed. That’s why it was crazy, picking up out of the blue.”

“Was it a sudden decision?” I said.

Giacomo frowned. “Her mother was putting it in her head for years, but, yeah, when she announced it, it was sudden. Tori was nine years outta high school but she done nothing except for getting married and that didn’t last.”

“When’d she get married?” said Milo.

“When she was nineteen. A kid she dated in high school, not a bad guy but not too bright.” Giacomo tapped his head. “At first, Mikey worked for me, I was trying to help out. Kid couldn’t figure out how to use a frickin’ Allen wrench. So he went to work with his uncle instead.”

“Doing what?”

“Sanitation Department, like the rest of his family. Good pay and benefits, you get in the union, it’s all about who you know. Used to do it myself but you come home stinkin’ and I got tired of that. Tori said Mikey stunk when he came home, it wouldn’t wash off. Maybe that’s why she got it annulled, I dunno.”

“How long did the marriage last?” said Milo.

“Three years. Then she’s back at home sitting around, doing nothing for five years except going out on auditions for commercials, modeling, whatever.”

“She ever get anything?”

Giacomo shook his head. Bending, he unzipped a compartment of the red suitcase and drew out two head-shots.

Tori Giacomo’s face was millimeters longer than the perfect oval. Huge dark eyes were topped by feathery, fake lashes. Too-dark eye shadow from another era. Same cleft chin as her father. Pretty, maybe borderline beautiful. It had taken me a few seconds to come to that conclusion, and in a world of flash impressions that wouldn’t be enough.

In one photo, her hair was long, dark, and wavy. In the other, she’d switched to a shoulder-length, feathery platinum cut.