The Middle Sister Read online

  “I’ll be in my office. Will you have my check?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Can you tell me what women really mean when they say ‘maybe?’”

  “Maybe.”

  7

  4

  At exactly ten the next morning, I was standing next to my desk, looking out my office window. Zara was climbing out of her dark-green Bentley. She dropped quarters in the meter and stood on the sidewalk long enough to give my storefront and business district a point-by-point inspection. There wasn’t much to see. Heating and plumbing supplies in the adjacent building on my west side, an empty office building on the east. Straight across the street, Tony’s Donuts was flanked by stores selling mattresses and used furniture.

  She pushed through the front door and tossed her python leather shoulder bag onto the guest sofa. She wore a long-sleeve white blouse, faded skinny jeans, and blue suede pumps. She put her hands on her hips, which were cocked at an agreeable angle. “I hope you get a good deal on the rent on this place.”

  “I own the building.”

  “Really? And what kind of place do you live in?”

  “I have a condo on Ocean Avenue. I get frequent compliments on the interior design.”

  “Sports memorabilia and pictures of naked women?”

  “My art deco lamp features a naked woman.”

  “Who’s the artist?”

  “Max Le Verrier.”

  “Vintage or reproduction?”

  “Vintage.”

  “Anything else worth mentioning?”

  “A signed and numbered print by Louis Icart; he’s a French illustrator, in case you don’t know.”

  “Icart was a major player in the art deco movement in the twenties. Is everything in your place art deco?”

  “That would be too cold and institutional. My place is mostly generic modern, with an occasional nouveau, deco, or Frank Lloyd Wright piece tossed in for flavor.”

  “What would be the most intriguing feature of your faintly eclectic interior design?”

  I gave her my Clark Gable leer. “There’s a fascinating pattern of cracks in the bedroom ceiling.”

  “It’s not likely I would be viewing that particular design element, since I no longer indulge in binge drinking.”

  “I read about your sudden conversion to good citizenship. A few years ago, you were seen frolicking with an A-list actor in a limo behind the Rainbow Bar and Grill. The next week you were banging a tambourine at The Salvation Army.”

  “You have a rare gift for vulgarity.” She made one lap of the room, not getting too close to anything, as though she were afraid she would contract a disease. She stepped into the small kitchen in back, then elbowed the bathroom door and looked inside. “I have to admit . . . these two rooms are shockingly clean.”

  She marched back across the tile floor and tapped a knuckle on the century-old executive desk that had passed down from my father and grandfather. “This desk is a rather substantial-looking piece. The table doesn’t quite go with it.”

  She moved to the section of wall displaying my college diplomas, California Private Investigator certificate, a canvas print Tree of Life by Gustav Klimt, and a trio of photographs. She pointed to one of the photos. “Who’s the man with the beard?”

  “Allan Pinkerton, the original private detective.”

  She pointed to the next one.

  “Ralph Meeker in the movie Kiss Me Deadly.”

  “I heard it was an interesting film. I should see it sometime.” She gaped at the final photo. “Seriously, how do you put a framed picture of The Three Stooges on the wall of a private investigator’s office?”

  “You use two hangers, rather than one. That way, it’s easier to get it to hang straight. Most important, it’s valuable. It’s signed by Moe Howard.”

  She flashed a blatantly insincere, wide-eyed smile. “Now I understand! The Three Stooges show your humility, and you’re just a regular guy. Your vintage lamp and your signed print show your refined aesthetic sensibilities.”

  “I’m the original Renaissance Man. Would you like coffee?”

  “Cream and sugar please.”

  “You’ll get it black. You want cream and sugar, you can go across the street to the donut shop, and by the way, where’s my check?”

  “I called the accountant and told him to cut the check. When I told him the amount, I thought he was going to break down and cry . . . and I’ll suffer through whatever coffee you can come up with.”

  I made the coffee while Zara looked out the window. When I handed over her cup, she took a swig and said, “It’s quite drinkable. Thank you.” She settled into a corner of the sofa, swung one leg up onto the cushions, and slung her free arm along the top.

  She said, “Okay, here’s what I did. In addition to making inquiries at the Fairmont, I phoned all the places you and I went Wednesday afternoon, but I talked to night-shift people. A bartender at the Chateau Marmont saw Lillie with Rod last Friday night—call it early Saturday morning. They had one drink and seemed to be in a very good mood. It looks like their brunch at the Fairmont Sunday morning would be our most recent sighting. I didn’t call Nikki or Viola, because I didn’t want to undermine anything you might have said to them.”

  “Good thinking on that. I talked to them, and they gave me no usable information.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Nothing. And you described everyone accurately. Viola Klein is a charming young lady, waltzing down the path of least resistance.”

  “Did she have anything to offer about Lillie?”

  “Nothing more than I got from Rod Damian, which was very little.”

  “How did you do with Nikki?”

  “She said she didn’t know anything about Lillie’s whereabouts, doesn’t mingle with Lillie’s other friends, hadn’t talked to her for two weeks. She’s an impressive girl, hell-bent on making a difference with all the children and animals.”

  “That’s Nikki, all right. It amazes me that she and Lillie are still friends. What kind of impression did you get from Rod Damian?”

  “All I got from Rod was his sense of self-importance. I felt a strong urge to smack him, but I may have to go back and talk to him later. He said he hadn’t seen Lillie since the weekend, has no idea where she is. According to Rod, Lillie will calm down eventually, she’ll call her mother, and everything will be fine.”

  “Do you think he knows where she is?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How can you squeeze it out of him?”

  “The easy way. I’m going to attach a GPS to his car. Then I’m going to follow him from a distance.”

  “Can you do that legally?“

  “It depends on whether I get caught. Are you going to rat me out?”

  “I might volunteer to watch your back when you plant the device. A trivial violation wouldn’t bother me in the least if we can find Lillie quickly.”

  “We might have another angle. When I talked to Nikki Wolf, and she said she didn’t know where Lillie was, I got the feeling she might have been covering up. It’s just a gut feeling.”

  Zara swung her leg off the sofa, sat up straight, and set her cup on my desk. “I called Nikki twice, including the time I was with you in Lillie’s condo. Both times Nikki said she didn’t know where Lillie was, and now that you refresh my memory, I’m not absolutely certain I believe her either. Nikki is really a nice girl—absolutely not capable of telling a dark lie. But if Lillie made her promise not to tell, Nikki wouldn’t . . . anyway, not to a total stranger like you.”

  “You could call her and turn on the charm. Give her the concerned-sister routine.”

  She thought it over for a moment and said, “Watch this.” She produced a phone from her purse and placed a call. “Hi, Nikki, this is Zara Manning . . . not very well. Lillie is missing for a week now, and Mother is on the edge of calling the police. If she does involve the police, they will have to know the names of Lillie’s friends, and the police will be ask
ing pointed questions of everyone Lillie knows. They will no doubt get around to you . . . yes, Mr. Salvo has been working hard trying to find her. I’m in his office now.”

  There was a long silence while Zara listened. Finally, she said, “No, the police would not be involved, as long as I can take care of it myself. I would meet with Lillie, and I would have to take Mr. Salvo with me, but I would prefer to involve him rather than the police. He understands the need for discretion.” She jumped up and grabbed a pen from my desktop.

  I pushed a paper pad toward her. She wrote on it and said, “Thanks a billion, Nikki. Yes, I’ve met Loretta, a long time ago. She’s up on the hillside, just past the coast highway and Sunset . . . I’m sure we can find her street address . . . okay, and I’ll make sure I smooth things over for you with Lillie. I really appreciate this, bye.”

  She put the phone away and said, “Lillie is staying at a friend’s house in Castellammare. Some girlfriend from high school.” She ripped a sheet off the pad and handed me a note on which LORETTA SOMMER was written. “Loretta spends half her time in New York and half in LA. She’s in New York now, and she’s letting Lillie crash here in her Castellammare house. Nikki didn’t know the exact address, but I’m sure you can find it.”

  I set one of my extra chairs next to my desk chair and let Zara help me work through my databases. As soon as we found Loretta Sommer’s address, I locked up the office, and we drove off in Zara’s car. She didn’t want to leave the Bentley unattended in my plebian neighborhood. She didn’t phrase it that way, but that’s what she meant. During the drive, Zara called Arden and told her we had probably located Lillie, but it would be best to not call Mother yet, until it was a done deal.

  8

  4

  Loretta Sommer’s home was a midcentury ranch style with a red tile roof. It clung to a hillside over the Pacific Coast Highway in the Castellammare district. The neighborhood is known for the concrete staircases that run up and down the hill from street to street. One such staircase was adjacent to Loretta Sommer’s house.

  Zara and I went straight to the front door and tried the bell. Nobody answered, the door was locked, and nothing was visible through the windows. I peeked through the crack at the side of the garage door and saw nothing. I aimed my penlight through the crack and saw nothing. A gate on the side opened to a brick walkway. Bright green shrubbery curled over the path and formed a tunnel. The light at the end was the bright blue sea. We emerged onto a wooden deck at the back of the house and found an unlocked door to the garage, which held a big Lexus sedan sitting at a sloppy diagonal.

  Zara said, “That’s Lillie’s car. One of the reasons she ran away was because Mother made her drive this Lexus. Lillie totaled her Bentley when she was racing Rod in his Porsche about six weeks ago. They were coming back from a party in the Valley, and she crashed going into the tunnel underneath Mulholland. She wasn’t injured, but Mother had to spend a fortune on attorneys to keep the charming young couple out of jail. When Lillie found out Mother was replacing her Bentley with a Lexus and cutting her allowance to a trickle, she threw one of her patented tantrums. Lillie doesn’t receive the first phase of her inheritance until she’s twenty-five, which is a little less than a year from now.”

  The driver’s door was locked. I put my palm flat on the hood and said, “Stone-cold.” I walked all around the car, pointing my penlight inside. “Nothing inside jumps out at me.”

  Returning to the deck, we headed straight for the sliding door to the living room. We pushed our noses up to the glass and peered inside. The roof overhang kept us in shadow, but we had to hold our hands alongside our faces to shield the ocean reflection. Straight across from us, a television was mounted on the wall, above a brick fireplace. A row of tennis trophies was on the hearth. Two sofas faced each other in front of the fireplace, with a marble cocktail table in between.

  The most conspicuous items in the room were the bottoms of two bare human feet. The young woman to whom the feet were attached lay prone on the carpet, between a sofa and the table. She wore white shorts and a white sleeveless top. Her right arm was stretched forward, her left arm angled at her side, as though she were trying to fly like Supergirl.

  Zara moaned softly. I took her hand and led her to the most distant deck chair. She didn’t resist. I went back to the sliding door, which turned out to be unlocked, and elbowed it open. I rattled it unnecessarily. Maybe the girl would stand up and say, “Who’s making all the goddam noise?” I stuck my head inside. The fragrance didn’t quite knock me down.

  Zara was sitting straight up, holding her purse hard against her chest with both hands, looking out at the sea. “Is that Lillie in there?”

  “You have to be ready for that possibility.”

  “I’ve been ready for that possibility my entire adult life. I knew something like this would happen.”

  “I’m going to walk through the house and open the front door. I’ll come back around the side. After the wind blows through for a minute or so, I’ll go back in.”

  She whispered, “Does it smell that bad?”

  “Medium bad. Do you promise to stay where you are?”

  “I certainly don’t want to see any of the details. Shit! I knew something like this would happen.”

  I said, “We don’t know anything for sure yet,” but I didn’t believe it.

  I walked through the house holding my breath, taking a quick look at the girl. Chinese characters were tattooed on her left forearm. I left the front door open and circled back around the house.

  When I returned to the patio, Zara was holding a cigarette in one hand and her cell phone in the other. She locked her eyes onto mine and waited for me to speak.

  I said, “We have to call the police, but first I want to take a good look inside and make sure we know exactly what’s happening. Are you okay?”

  “Somewhat.” She looked out at the ocean view. “I’m appreciating how the sunlit sides of those fluffy little white clouds reflect off the sea. It’s pretty. I’m going to just sit here and stare at the ocean and try to think how I’m going to break this to Mother.”

  I stepped through the sliding door again, stood in one spot, and let the sea breeze push gently against my back. On the fireplace hearth, the tennis trophies were polished to a golden radiance. The books on the shelves were carefully aligned with the shelf edges. The bric-a-brac was well arranged. The furniture was in place. There was no sign of disorder, except for the stiff on the floor.

  I circled around to the fireplace, took one knee, and got a closer look at the girl. Her face was angled to her left. Blood had foamed out of her nose and dried. Insects were happily at work. She was starting to turn green. On the bright side, her eyes were closed.

  On the cocktail table were a tortoiseshell hand mirror and two extra-small, clear plastic bags. On the mirror were a rolled-up fifty-dollar bill and a single-edge razor blade. Traces of white powder were on the money, mirror, and blade, and in the bags.

  An open, black velvet purse leaned against her waist. To get the view I needed, I circled back around, placed my left knee and forearm on the sofa, and the other forearm on the cocktail table. My other knee ended up against her cold thigh. I flashed back to a comment a grinning pathologist had once made to me: “The first time you stick your hand into the middle of a dead body, you can’t believe how cold it is in there!”

  The visible purse contents included an iPhone, a few hundred- and fifty-dollar bills edging out of a wallet, and another small plastic bag—this one containing more than a residue of white powder. I wanted to empty the purse, search everything, and check the calls on her phone, but I didn’t want to disrupt the evidence any more than I had.

  Heavy velvet drapery darkened the master bedroom. Working a dimmer switch with my knife, I saw that the bed had been slept in and left unmade. Nothing was under the pillows or in the bedding. A gray Andiamo suitcase was flopped open on the floor, containing nothing but female clothing. A cosmetic case was open in the en
suite bathroom; I poked around the contents and saw nothing interesting.

  I got on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. Nothing was under that bed or the bed in the next room. Using my knife and a washcloth, I opened and closed drawers and cabinets throughout the house. More nothing. A trash bag full of fast food remnants, ice cream cartons, and wine bottles stank up the kitchen.

  I walked back through the house and found Zara in the same chair, staring at her phone.

  I said, “Does Lillie have a Dolce and Gabbana purse—black velvet?’

  “Yes.”

  “Andiamo luggage?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chinese characters tattooed on her forearm?”

  She shook her head sadly. “I told her not to do that. I forgot what it says. She probably forgot two days after she paid to have her arm permanently disfigured. It sure as hell doesn’t matter now. Can you tell what happened?”

  “Looks like a cocaine overdose.”

  Zara’s face was a tortured blend of hope and dread. She spoke slowly. “Is Lillie definitely no longer with us?”

  “Most definitely. I’m sorry.”

  There was a long silence. Finally, she said, “I’d better call Mother. I’ve been sitting here thinking about all the possible euphemisms for the word dead.”

  She placed her call, and I went to the other end of the deck and called Rocky Platt, an LAPD detective working out of the West LA Division. I didn’t have much family to speak of, but Rocky functioned as my unofficial uncle.

  “Hi, Rocky.”

  “Hey, Socrates, what’s going on?”

  I kept my voice down. “I’m with a wealthy, beautiful young woman named Zara Manning right now. She drove me out to Castellammare in her Bentley. We were looking for her little sister. The girl ran away from home last week, and her mother hired me to find her. We found her, but the bad news is it looks like she overdosed in a permanent way.”