The Middle Sister Read online

  The Middle Sister

  by

  Jesse Miles

  ISBN 978-0-9904-7404-3

  Copyright © 2019 by Jesse Miles

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in any form, or by any mechanical or electronic means including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in whole or in part in any form, and in any case not without the written permission of the author and publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published August 2019

  Robert Peoples

  1

  4

  A hot summer day at the beach is the usual LA song and dance. I’ll take a warm winter day in the canyons. On this particular January morning, I was driving up a steep ridge in a Bel Air neighborhood where the houses looked like hotels. The trees were swinging to the rhythm of a gentle Santa Ana wind.

  I turned onto a smooth, narrow road that ran alongside a tall stone wall. The road stopped at a driveway flanked by a pair of limestone columns. A uniformed, white-haired security guard stepped out of the guard shack. He wore mirrored sunglasses and a big black Colt .45 automatic.

  I showed him my business card. “I have a ten o’clock meeting with Greta Manning.”

  “Mrs. Manning is expecting you.” He spoke in a flat monotone.

  A dark-gray Mercedes station wagon came up behind me and eased around. The guard nodded to the woman behind the wheel. I followed the Mercedes up the driveway, between a tall hedge and another stone wall.

  The hedge ended, the wall flared away, and the driveway opened into a motor court. Dead center was a flower-encircled, tiered, white-marble fountain, a simple design without the usual troupe of angels and goddesses.

  The wrinkled white stucco on the two-story Spanish Colonial Revival house glowed softly in the harsh sunlight. It was around eight thousand square feet, pint-size for the neighborhood. My favorite features were the four arched, dark- wood garage doors built into the front.

  It was a handsome house bought with ugly money. Nine years earlier, the lord of the manor was sixty-six-year-old Bobby Manning. He had built a multibillion-dollar business through his shrewd understanding of human weakness: payday loans, high-risk credit cards, second and third mortgages, and other forms of fishy credit. On a foggy winter evening, behind an expensive Italian restaurant, an unremarkable middle-aged man walked up to Manning and put a tight 9mm group into his midsection. Witnesses said the shooter bent over the dying victim and said, “That’s for your peace of mind,” before setting the empty pistol on the asphalt and calmly walking away. Peace of Mind was the tagline in the Manning financial empire’s advertising campaign. The murder was never solved.

  Bobby’s fifty-four-year-old widow Greta Manning was now the head of the family. She had three daughters: Zara, a thirty-one-year-old reformed hellion; Lillie, a twenty-four-year-old hellion; and Arden, an apparently well-behaved nineteen-year-old. Greta was named after Greta Garbo. She named her daughters after Garbo film characters.

  My job was to find the middle sister. In a telephone conversation the day before, Greta explained that Lillie hadn’t been seen at her Sunset Strip condo, or anywhere else, after a heated argument between mother and daughter the previous week. Lillie had gone missing before, but never more than two or three days. Greta was concerned about her daughter but did not want to contact the police and deal with the inevitable publicity. I figured I wasn’t going to get a signed client-retainer contract until Greta had the opportunity to look me up and down and fire a few questions at me to see what she was paying for.

  The wagon stopped behind a white Mercedes Roadster. A tall, gray-haired woman got out and strode toward the house. She carried a Louis Vuitton purse and a Saks shopping bag. Her maid’s uniform fit her perfectly.

  I parked behind the wagon and walked across the parking court. I was decked out better than usual: brand-new tan linen sport coat, black shirt with white pinstripes, black slacks, and my best wristwatch.

  The maid stopped on the porch and watched me, waiting for me to justify my existence.

  I said, “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Greta Manning.”

  After asking me to wait, she ducked into the house. A few seconds later, the door opened, and a nice-looking girl popped out. Late teens, shoulder-length sandy brown hair, blue-gray eyes. She wore a simple blouse, high-rise jeans, and sensible flat shoes.

  “Mr. Salvo?” Her voice was soft and clear.

  “That’s me. I’m here for a ten-o’clock with Greta Manning.”

  “We didn’t intend to make you wait outside.” She offered her hand. “I’m Arden Manning. Mother is expecting you. Please come in.”

  The living room was furnished in a less-is-more fashion. Not too much furniture, not too much of anything. The colors were not highly saturated, but the designer was not afraid of color. I liked the place.

  The back wall, mostly glass, showcased a rectangular swimming pool trimmed with cobalt-blue tile and travertine pavers. Across the pool was a sculpture depicting three life-size nude mermaids. Hillside terraces and stone steps rose up to a gazebo sheltered by a solid line of eucalyptus trees.

  A new voice sounded behind me. “Hello Mr. Salvo.” Greta Manning wore a beige jumpsuit. She was smaller than she looked in photographs, bordering on petite.

  She spoke sweetly, with a faintly sadistic curl to her mouth. “I’m Greta Manning.” We shook hands. “Arden has to run off to her classes at USC pretty soon, and my other daughter Zara just called. She’ll be a few minutes late. I’m asking Zara to take the lead and provide any help you might need in finding Lillie. In the meantime, can we get you anything?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Arden said, “While we’re waiting for Zara, how can we entertain you?”

  “I’d like to see more of the back yard.”

  Greta walked slowly toward the central hallway. “Arden can give you the full tour. And if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make a quick phone call.”

  Arden led me out to the pool, which was nestled into the house’s L-shape. She pointed up to the property’s high point. “The gazebo is my favorite place. It’s enclosed in back, with canvas shades on the sides, and it has a heater and air conditioner. It’s a wonderful place to hang out, in all kinds of weather.”

  We circled the pool and stood next to the mermaids. I said, “I’ve seen a few poolside sculptures, but this one really stands out.”

  “It’s bronze, on a marble base.” She positioned herself next to one of the mermaids and held her head at the same angle. “Do you see any resemblance?”

  She took me by surprise on that one. “You and your sisters were the models?”

  “It was Mother’s idea. She commissioned the project three years ago. The sculptor mostly worked from photos Mother took.”

  The maid called from inside, “Miss Zara is arriving.”

  I was looking forward to meeting Zara Manning. By all reports, she had been a spitfire of the first order. As a Sunset Strip club-hopper, she was known for her intelligence, heavy drinking, and the month she spent in jail for kicking a female police officer who had cited her for jaywalking. When Zara was released from the women’s detention facility in Lynwood, she calmly walked through the horde of reporters, ignoring their questions and making just one comment: “I can do thirty days standing on my head.” Then she smiled graciously, climbed into the back seat of her mother’s chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce Phantom, and disappeared into the darkness.

  Not too long after that, she dropped out of her
fast-lane social scene and entered graduate school at USC. She amazed everyone by earning a PhD in English Literature and becoming prominent in local charities. Zara’s first novel, Pink Tea Party, was due for publication later in the year.

  We went back inside, where Greta stood waiting. Zara Manning glided into the room. Politely prominent cheekbones framed her cool blue eyes. She was about five-seven, curvy and thin, but not too thin. Except for the nicotine-stained fingers on her right hand, she had a fresh, natural look.

  Her sunglasses rested on top of her head, tucked into her thick, dishwater-blonde hair. She wore a pale-blue blouse, inexpensive blue jeans, and woven-leather flats, and carried a black alligator purse. No jewelry, except for a diamond-paved Patek Philippe on her wrist. The watch was worth more than my BMW.

  Greta Manning suddenly sounded tired. “Zara, can’t you wear anything but jeans? And your hair. Can’t you do something with it?”

  Zara replied, “I wasn’t aware we were going to be in a formal situation. I presume this is Mr. Salvo, the private dick you’re hiring to find Lillie.”

  “I would not characterize his profession in such ill-mannered terms. Mr. Salvo, I’d like you to meet my ill-mannered daughter Zara.”

  I said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Zara.”

  “I suppose you carry a gun.” The last word came out of her mouth on butterfly wings.

  “Not today. I usually carry a gold-plated .44 Magnum in a sequined shoulder holster.”

  “How many times have you used your phallic symbol in the line of duty?”

  “How many times have you been in jail?”

  She gave me a look that could have shrunk my sperm count. “Have you been investigating me?”

  “I didn’t need to. All I had to do was read The National Enquirer.”

  “Is that the extent of your education?”

  “I have a master’s in philosophy plus more graduate work.”

  “So you couldn’t find a faculty sponsor for your dissertation?”

  “The faculty couldn’t appreciate my genius, but I got it published, and I did it my way. Now I teach a night class at Coast College.”

  Her voice rose in mock admiration. “Coast College the pinnacle of higher education. What was the subject of your dissertation?”

  “It’s more like an introductory textbook.”

  She frowned her disapproval. “A textbook for a dissertation?”

  “The title is Philosophy for Morons. You might find it illuminating.”

  She sighed and turned toward her mother. “You don’t mean to say you found a faintly cerebral private investigator?” She turned back toward me. “I thought they were all boorish little men who were bullied in school and dreamed of being policemen when they grew up.” She slinked over to the sofa where Arden was planted and sat next to her.

  I liked the way she slinked.

  Arden glanced at her watch. “Well, that was an invigorating exchange.”

  Greta said, “You two sound like you’re married,” and handed me an eight-by-ten photo in a clear protective cover. “This is Lillie. You can keep it. You can find other photos on the Internet, but this one captures the real Lillie, and it’s quite recent.”

  It was a studio shot of Lillie modeling a little black dress. The middle sister was pretty, in a bluntly obvious way. She had her mother’s cruel smile and a body that could launch a thousand ships. In contrast to the Nordic look of her mother and sisters, Lillie had dark eyes and hair, and a somewhat darker skin tone.

  Greta handed me a single sheet of paper. “Yesterday you said you would need Lillie’s license plate, social security, phone numbers, and email.”

  I scanned it quickly. “This is exactly what I need. Thank you.”

  She sat next to Arden and said, “Please have a seat and tell us how we can help you.”

  I landed on a sofa across from the trio. “I need to know where Lillie hangs out and who she hangs out with. Before I start interviewing her friends, I’d like to see her condo.”

  “Zara will help you, and Arden can also, except she has her classes at USC.”

  Arden looked at her watch again and stood. “I wish I could stay, but I have a class in less than an hour. Mr. Salvo can call me if he has any questions.” She handed me a personal card with her contact information, and I handed out three of my business cards.

  Greta inquired about my background, and I gave a quick, sanitized version of my education and work history. She then asked a few reasonable questions about the scope of my services and my relationships with law enforcement agencies and other PI firms. I told her I had a good relationship with LAPD, and my best friend Gabriel Van Buren owned a large investigative and personal protection firm. I didn’t mention my “informal” contacts at telecom and utility companies and the DMV. During all this, Zara remained silent.

  I finished my sales pitch, and Greta said, “You came highly recommended to us through my attorney, and I think you are exactly the person who can find Lillie. I’m letting Zara handle the business end, including your compensation. She will deal directly with you. As I said during our telephone conversation, we would prefer to bring Lillie back without creating a spectacle. Given the fact that she hasn’t been seen for almost a week, I’m starting to get worried. I’m not terribly worried, because she seems to have a knack for landing on all fours, but if we can’t find her in two or three days, I’ll have no choice but to notify the police.”

  I said, “I’ll do my best, and I’ll keep Zara up to speed on the details of my investigation.”

  Greta excused herself and left the room. I followed Zara outside. The Mercedes Roadster was gone, and Zara’s Bentley Continental Convertible was parked behind my car. Her car was of a green so dark it would look black on a cloudy day. The soft top was gray. The interior was pale green and gray.

  I said, “Nice colors on the Bentley. Custom order?”

  “You are capable of mannerly conversation. I think I might faint.”

  I growled, “So where in the fuck are we going?”

  She lowered her voice and mimicked my delivery. “Holmby Towers, on the fuckin’ Strip. Follow me.”

  2

  4

  Zara drove like the road was named after her. She rolled the stop signs, ignored the lane markings, and almost hit a double-parked delivery truck. During the drive she smoked two cigarettes and tapped the ashes out the window. If she had tossed a butt, I might have run her off the road.

  When we pulled up in front of the sleek high-rise named Holmby Towers, the valet recognized Zara and collapsed into a submissive posture. He looked at me without acknowledging my existence. When Zara announced that I was with her, he showed me at least twenty-eight teeth and took my key.

  During the ride up to the seventeenth floor, Zara said, “Yesterday I called the Holmby Towers Security Manager. He hadn’t seen Lillie for a week. Then he talked to other employees and to some of Lillie’s neighbors. He called me back and reported that nobody had seen her for about a week. That’s unusual for Lillie. Normally, she’s coming and going all the time, with different people, always the center of attention.”

  In Lillie’s condo, the living room centerpiece was a lilac-colored sofa wrapped in a half-circle around a triangular glass coffee table. The walls were dark purple, bordering on eggplant. The wall-hangings were confused splashes of color. The carpet and ceiling were the same color as the butt-ugly sofa. An extra-large flat-screen TV took up one wall.

  I said, “If I were carrying a gun right now, I might open fire.”

  Zara pointed her finger at the sofa, with her thumb raised upward. “In this case I think I could overlook a little gun violence, and if you think this room is bad, wait till you see her bedroom.”

  Lillie’s bedroom was pink: carpet, drapes, paint, and bedding.

  Zara said, “She wanted her bedroom to be all pink, so it would be like the bedroom where Lana Turner’s daughter stabbed the gangster Johnny Stompanato. That’s pretty much Lillie’s full
appreciation of Los Angeles history.”

  The carpet in the other bedroom was chocolate brown. The walls were papered in a flowery earth-tone print. Bubbly white clouds were painted on the sky-blue ceiling.

  Zara gestured to the ceiling. “Lillie did some of the actual work on this room. She lay on her back on a scaffold and painted all the clouds on the ceiling.”

  “Did she compare herself to Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?”

  “She probably thinks Michelangelo is a fashion designer.”

  Against one wall was a white table and an Aeron chair like the one in my office, except Lillie’s chair was light gray, rather than dark. The table’s main item of interest was a landline phone, a possible information source. Lined up on the table were pastel markers in myriad colors. On a flopped-open art pad, someone had covered most of the top sheet with flower doodles. The flowers were drawn in a tight twisted precision, overlapping like shingles on a roof. Not a trace of white peeked through the kaleidoscopic colors.

  I pointed at the artwork. “This looks like it was drawn by William Morris with a bad toothache.”

  Zara said, “Lillie has done that same style of drawing since she was seven years old. I’ve often wondered how she can blend and contrast colors so vividly when she always has a black cloud over her head.”

  Four shoe racks were mounted on one wall. The racks were filled with women’s shoes and boots. I estimated eighty pairs.

  I said, “This looks like the shoe annex.”

  “Let’s not get personal. I have a similar arrangement at home. In fact, I have a dedicated room for my shoes and a few other articles of clothing. It’s small room with a nice comfortable museum bench in the middle and mirrors in the corner. Do you disapprove?”

  “You’re a credit to your gender.” I sat in the chair and pulled the phone toward me. “The first thing I want to do is look at the caller-ID history. You can check the bathrooms, clothing, personal things, luggage. I’d like to hear your estimate as to how recently she’s been here.”