“Holy crap on a Twinkie! How did Jabba the Hutt score a honey like her?”
“Is this the scarecrow?”
“Nah, you kiddin’？ This girl has a body. The scarecrow was skinny. Her hair was darker and a lot longer. Hung straight down, ya know?”
“Sure.”
“Dressed nice, though, like the cow.”
“And the meatball? Taller than me? Shorter?”
“Shorter, but wide. Not fat like El Blimpo, but burly.”
“They were here at night?”
“Once or twice. Hey, if you find the oinker, you get a reward?”
I put away my phone, thinking the scarecrow might be Largo and the meatball her partner.
“Nope. Flat fee. His mother hired me.”
“Too bad. If they paid by the pound, you’d be set.”
Karsey scratched his neck.
“The cow brought an old lady a couple of times. I guess she’d be the butterball’s mother.”
“Yep. Her name is Adele.”
Karsey made a grunt.
“A walking wrinkle. Well, good luck to her.”
He offered back my card, but I waved it away.
“Keep it. If you see Josh, I’d appreciate a call.”
“I’d appreciate having my damned power turned on. Think you can hook me up?”
I turned on his power, and left. I felt pretty good. I had a lead. Her name was Skylar Lawless.
7
Two gardeners in a dusty red pickup truck watched me come down the steps. The driver wore a wide straw hat and wraparound shades. His partner sported a long black ponytail and three-day stubble. They watched from the safety of their truck with the windows up and the AC blasting cold air, but they scowled like men trapped in an oven. I nodded, one potential heatstroke victim acknowledging another, but the driver turned away. Heat made people sour.
I started my car, hit the AC, and phoned Skylar Lawless.
A pleasant female voice answered.
“Hey, this is Sky. Let’s talk later, okay?”
The same voice mail as Ryan.
“Ms. Lawless, hi, my name is Jeremy Floyd. I own a gallery in Tucson, and I’d love to discuss showing your work. Perhaps we can meet for drinks? If you’re interested, and I hope you are, I can be reached at the following number.”
I recited my cell, plugged her address into my map, and waved at the gardeners as I left. Neither waved back. Sour.
Skylar Lawless lived in a lovely French Normandy apartment building two blocks south of Ventura Boulevard in an enclave of older upscale homes and boutique prewar apartment houses. Apartment #3.
I slowed when I reached her address and idled past.
Set well back from the curb behind a sycamore tree, the building with its corner turrets and black slate roof looked more like a manor home than an apartment house. A matching mailbox sat beside an entry gate. A gray tile walk led through the gate past the sycamore and a small green lawn to a courtyard. Built in the twenties when the Valley was a weekend getaway, it looked like a place where studio bosses kept mistresses and dipso screenwriters earned two grand a week slugging it out with deadline demons.
I checked the street for Schumacher’s car as I passed, but his black-on-black MINI was not observed.
I parked and went to the mailbox. Five brass doors were set in its face, each showing a nameplate and an apartment number. One, two, four, and five showed names, but not three. The nameplate was blank. I checked to see if anyone was watching, then used a Kwick Pick to open three. Three was empty. Ryan’s contact info was five months old, so Skylar might have moved. Someone else might be living in number three, or maybe the unit was empty. Then again, maybe she didn’t want her name on the plate.
I shut the mailbox and walked up the flagstone path.
Two young women wearing large oval sunglasses were sprawled on the lawn, surrounded by bottles of water and sunscreen. The one with short auburn hair wore a pale green bikini. Her braided blonde friend sported a bright pink bikini top and tiny white shorts. They watched me from a beach towel island in a rectangle of sun.
The blonde pushed herself up on an elbow.
“Nice shirt.”
“Yours, too.”
“I’m not wearing a shirt.”
“Exactly.”
They laughed, and I laughed with them.
Ever the charming detective.
Each of the five apartments had a discreet entrance shielded from prying eyes by alcoves designed for privacy. I crossed the courtyard to unit three and stepped into the alcove. The apartment was quiet, but this didn’t mean it was empty. I took out my phone, called Skylar’s number again, and put my ear to the door. Skylar’s phone rang in my phone, but not inside the apartment. When her voice mail answered, I pushed her doorbell. A buzzer inside buzzed, but nobody answered. I pushed the button again and knocked. Nothing.