Mystery (23 page)

Cocking her head and batting her lashes. Wanting us to know she’d remained sexually active with her husband.

I said, “You saw the results of the tests?”

“A couple of times. Not the most pleasant of tasks but one needs to safeguard one’s health.”

“Do you remember where she got tested?”

“Some doctor on San Vicente. And no, I didn’t save the reports, I’m not one for tawdry souvenirs.”

“You saw the reports,” said Milo, “but you don’t know Tara’s last name.”

“The reports came with a number code.”

“You took it on faith that the code was her.”

“Of course I did, I trusted Mark. Without trust there’s no relationship.”

She unfolded herself, pranced to the mantel, pushed a button. The Slavic maid appeared. “Ma’am?”

“I’d like some Diet Snapple, Magda. Peach—how about you fellas?”

“No, thanks.”

Magda curtsied and left.

“She’s from Kosovo, lost a lot of her family,” said Leona Suss. “My ancestors were immigrants from Bulgaria, settled in Lawrence, Kansas. Father worked building church organs for the Reuter Company until he was eighty. I find immigrants the best workers.”

Magda returned bearing a cut-crystal tumbler on a silver tray. Lemon, lime, and orange wedges rode the rim of the glass.

“Thank you so much, Magda.”

“Ma’am.”

Leona sipped. “Mmm, yummy. How does the kitchen look, dear?”

“I need to do the oven.”

“Excellent idea.”

The maid danced off.

Milo said, “Is anyone else in your family aware of Mr. Suss’s relationship with Tara?”

“Absolutely not, why would they be?”

“Seeing as you were open—”

“That was a specific openness, between Mark and me. Why in the world would I draw my boys into something so silly?”

She put her drink down. Glass thudded on silver. “Why are you bringing up my family?”

“Just trying to be thorough, Mrs. Suss.”

“It doesn’t sound thorough to me, it sounds intrusive.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am—”

Leona Suss stared at him. Turned her head toward a garden-view window and offered her profile. The light did wonders for her skin. George Hurrell would’ve approved. “Forgive me. It’s not every day the police spy on my house.”

“Sorry to bother you.”

“You haven’t, as a matter of fact you’ve been somewhat … I suppose the word would be therapeutic. Talking about it, I mean. Up till now, I’ve never really had the chance. So who do you think killed her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out, ma’am.”

“Well,” she said, “if I was the detective, I’d look into her past life because someone like that would have to have all sorts of unsavory characters in her past.”

“Someone like—”

“Who’d sell herself.”

Milo showed her Steven Muhrmann’s photo.

Blank look. “Rather thuggish. Is he someone from her past?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly,” she said. “Meaning mind my own business, you need to keep everything close to the vest. Fine, then. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, ma’am, thanks for your time.”

“My pleasure. I’ll see you fellas out.”

Crossing the marble rotunda took us past a demilune table bearing a single photo.

Larger than the others but the same subject, again in crisp, predigital black-and-white. Leona Suss had abandoned cowgirl duds for a white dress and matching kerchief that encircled her head and showcased beautiful bone structure.

Unsmiling pose. Not sad, something else in the eyes. Tentative—waiting?

She and Milo were nearly at the door when I said, “This is a particularly good one, Mrs. Suss.”

She turned. “That dreary thing? I should get rid of it but it was Mark’s favorite and anytime I contemplate tossing it I feel so disloyal.” Sniffing. “His clothes are still in his closet. Sometimes I go in there and feast on his smell.”

She flung the door open. “I’m sure you fellas can take it from here.”

ilo paused to study the Suss mansion before slipping into the Seville. “The style to which she’s become accustomed. Would you ever get used to living like that?”

I said, “The option’s never come up.”

“Six grand at Chanel—you buy Leona’s whole blasé bit?”

“She didn’t seem to be holding back. Still, it is a stretch. Either way, her knowing about the affair doesn’t alter the botched-extortion motive. You saw how she got when you mentioned the rest of the family.”

“Mama Lion,” he said. “It’s one thing for Mark to play around with some bimbo he found cybersurfing, a whole other ball game if Leona learned her daughter-in-law set it up.”

The closed-circuit camera rotated toward us and held fast.

Milo harrumphed. “Tara’s a house, not a name—we’re outclassed, c’mon.”

I drove away.

He said, “To Leona, six a month is chump change but to Tara it would’ve been serious dough. Her getting killed nine months after Suss bit it could mean she was living off savings, finally ran out, tried to replenish by leaning on Connie, and paid big-time. Be nice if I had a real name for her.”

“Try Tiara. Sometimes slips of the tongue are meaningful.”

He ran
Tiara Sly
through the banks. Still nothing. Stretching, he fooled with his notepad.

A mile later, I said, “Are you open to an alternative scenario?”

“Alternative to what?”

“Connie and Muhrmann as the killers.”

“Huff and puff and blow the whole damn house down and return to square one? Why wouldn’t I welcome that?”

I didn’t speak.

“Spit it
out.
”

“Leona just told us she met Mark when she was twenty-four. That’s the exact age Tara claimed to be on her profile. On top of that, the photo in the entry showed Leona wearing an outfit nearly identical to Tara’s the night she died. Consciously or not, Mark may have been looking for Leona the way she used to be. Everything Tara did was calculated to exploit that.”

“And to learn that, Tara had to be in contact with someone who knew the details of Mark and Leona’s life. Like a daughter-in-law. So why the need for an alternative?”

I said, “I buy Connie setting up the relationship but that doesn’t necessarily make her a murderer. In order for Leona to endure forty years of Mark’s escapades, she built up a carapace—an elaborate system of rationalization. Mark’s flings with thruway sluts were simply the price of doing business, she was his true love. That kind of thing and a walletful of credit cards get you through the night but they take their toll. Suppose Leona had pinned her hopes on Mark’s retirement. Finally, the horny old fool would keep it in his pants and take her on a cruise. Instead, he stocked up on little blue pills and started frittering his golden years with a vixen whose virtues highlighted Leona’s deficiencies. Leona pretended to exert control by suggesting the vixen’s allowance. Then Mark died and his finances were examined and she learned he’d been giving away a lot more than six a month. Or worse, he’d made plans to leave Leona and run away with said vixen. If Tara had the gall to approach Leona with financial demands, I can see the dam bursting.”

“What leverage would Tara have over Leona?”

“The threat to humiliate Leona publicly with a lawsuit that would drag in her sons.”

“That would only be worth something if the family didn’t know about Mark’s shenanigans. You really think he could cat around shamelessly for four decades without the sons figuring it out? Especially if they spent time at the business. In fact, if we’re saying Connie was the one who pimped Tara in the first place, it’s proof she knew plenty.”

“Lots of families engage in conspiracies of silence but fall apart when the wrong rock’s lifted. Leona could cope as long as she could pretend to be Mark’s ‘little star.’ Being confronted by Tara would’ve made her feel like a bit player.”

“Pushing the widow until she’s anything but merry,” he said.

“I don’t see Leona fooling with a shotgun or a .45, but she’s got the resources to hire a pair of killers.”

“Mama Lion pounces.” He rubbed his face. “So how does Muhrmann being around that night figure in?”

“Like you said before, co-conspirator or victim.”

“If Leona’s angry enough to put out a hit and somehow found out Connie was part of the lure, Connie could be in serious jeopardy. Or not. But there’s no obvious way to find out.” He cursed. “Princess to Mystery to Tara to maybe Tiara. Next I’ll be finding out she was born Theodore and used to shave twice a day.”

“Whatever Leona’s involvement,” I said, “she gave you two good leads: an address on Lloyd Place and a doctor on San Vicente who does STD testing.”

He pulled his phone out aggressively as if dislodging a burr, punched in speed dial for
Rick
.

Dr. Richard Silverman answered, “Big Guy.”

“You home or at work?”

“Work. You miss me?”

“Always. Free for a sec?”

“Perfect timing, I just finished operating. Semi-necrosed gallbladder, brink of explosion, a life was saved, cue in the triumphant beating of medical breasts.”

“Congrats.”

“Now that I’ve painted that appetizing picture, how about coffee? Where are you?”

“On the road. Sorry, jammed up.”

“Oka-ay … planning to make it home for dinner?”

“Hard to tell. Alex is here.”

“Ah.” Two beats. “Hi, Alex. See if you can send him home for dinner.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Like he’s a movable object.”

Milo said, “Who in a building on San Vicente tests for STDs?”

“Any physician can test.”

“How about someone who specializes in it?”

“And here I was thinking this was a pleasant domestic chat.”

“Forget I brought it up.”

“Toothpaste back in the tube?” Rick chuckled. “I have no idea who’s on San Vicente and I don’t imagine anyone who tests would breach confidentiality.”

“You’re right, it was stupid.”

A beat. “I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank me by being home for dinner.”

The next call was to a friendly judge whom Milo beseeched for a warrant on the Lloyd Place residence.

Friendliness only goes so far.

“Are you
on
something, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir, I just thought you might be interested.”

“Why would I be interested?”

“Particularly nasty case, sir. Your tough line on crime.”

“How do you define nasty?”

Milo filled in details.

The judge said, “It does sound ugly. Anyone else living at this address?”

“Not to my knowledge, Your Honor.”

“No one to squawk to the ACLU. All right, these are the parameters: You must establish or prove you’ve made a serious attempt to establish your victim’s identity prior to verifying that she actually lived at the address. Upon your satisfying that contingency, consent to enter the premises will need to be granted by any current permanent occupant, including tenants, and the objects of your search will be limited to personal belongings and body fluids left behind by said victim.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

“Yeah, yeah, knock yourself out. With all the suit-crazy cretins running around, I probably still gave you too much.”

Dipping toward Sunset, we passed the raspberry-sherbet bulk of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Heading east, I turned onto Doheny, rolled downhill, and searched for Lloyd Place.

Milo’s GPS put it closer to Santa Monica than it was and I nearly overshot. One of those easy-to-miss turnoffs dead-ending just short of West Hollywood’s border with Beverly Hills.

Narrow and shady, Lloyd was packed with small pride-of-ownership houses, many of them blocked by ivy-covered walls and hyperactive landscaping.

I said, “Marilyn Monroe lived around here during her early days.”

“How do you know stuff like that?”

“Some lonely kids read a lot.”

I cruised up half a block before finding the address. One-story front–back duplex, nearly concealed by palm fronds. Green building; not philosophically, literally: mint-hued stucco below the midline, lime wood above.

Quiet, seldom-traveled street. Perfect for a love-nest.

The nest Mark Suss had feathered was Unit B, at the rear. No name on the mailbox. Unit A was marked Haldeman. An old black Mercedes convertible sat in the driveway. Milo ran the plates. Erno Keith Haldeman, Malibu address.