She rotated a hand. “
La
-ter.
Buh-bye
.”
Milo kept his smile on simmer. “Where are Ashley and Marissa, Laura?”
“That’s for you to find out.”
“There’s no need for—”
“You
thi-ink
?” she said. “I don’t have to talk to you. Cops messed me
uh
-up.”
“Sorry to hear that, but if you could—”
“Cops li-ed, I had to do community service in Wah-atts.” Turning to the boy in the trash, she said, “Totally
bo
gus.”
He’d managed to grow even more glazed, didn’t answer.
“Hey!” She went over and snapped her fingers in his face.
He said, “Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?”
“Mega-boge.”
Milo said, “Sorry you got hassled but this is about Ashley and Marissa’s mom. You know what happened to her, right?”
Internal power-struggle as the girl tried to muster boredom. Most of her succeeded but her eyes failed.
Quick blinks, suddenly dilated pupils. Emotional interest in the topic. Finally: “Yeah, so?”
“So I know they’d want you to talk to us.”
“Cops lie. You coulda ruined my frikkin’ life.”
“Mrs. Corey
lost
her life, Laura. So if you could just—”
“How do I know you’re not shitting and this isn’t … whatever.”
“Hey,” said the boy, lifting the glass bong out of the bag.
“Get out of here,” she screamed. Facing Milo: “No frikkin’ way, you can’t come in without a
warrant
.”
“Laura, I couldn’t care less about—”
“No, no, I don’t have to take it, I don’t, it’s my rights.” Sucking in breath. “You need to
go
.”
“Actually, I don’t,” said Milo, scuffing his way closer. “This is Marissa and Ashley’s residence, you’re here with no explanation, for all we know you’re trespassing.” To the boy: “What’s your name and how’d you get here?”
“Uh.”
“Uh may be your philosophy but it ain’t your name.
Cooperate
.”
“Jared. I met her.”
“Jared what?”
“LoPrinzi.”
“Who’s her?”
“Her.” Glance at Laura.
“When did you meet her?”
“Uh last night.”
Milo turned to Laura. She said, “I’m not saying nothing.”
Back to Jared: “Find your clothes and get out of here.”
“Uh they’re in back.”
Milo prodded the boy toward the rear of the apartment, leaving me
alone with Laura. I tried a therapeutic smile. She crossed her arms over her chest and whispered something unpleasant. I turned to scanning the junk on the floor. Interesting stuff began to pop up; another bong, little plastic Baggies specked with white. Stare long enough and mastodon bones would probably emerge.
Jared LoPrinzi returned with Milo trailing, wearing a Foo Fighters T-shirt, jeans, and motorcycle boots. After he was gone, Laura looked even smaller.
Milo said, “Enough messing around. Ms. Smith, I could take you in right now for questioning.”
Fear passed over the girl’s face. She fought it with indignation. “Bullshit, they asked me not to say.”
“The girls?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are you here?”
“They asked me that, too.”
“Why?”
“To take care of the place.”
Milo eyed the filth. “Ah.”
“Okay?” she said. “Now you can go?”
“Where are Ashley and Marissa?”
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“Ask them.”
“I would if I could reach them.”
“Why don’t you just cuh-
all
them?” said Laura.
“They don’t answer their phones.”
She giggled. “So what’s that te-ell you?”
Milo pulled out his handcuffs.
Laura said, “No, no way!” Her lips crimped and she held her arms close to her torso, an infant who’d woken up starving. “Imago Smith’s my father, he’s had twenty-three number ones.”
“Bully for him. Turn around and fold your hands behind your head.”
She hesitated. Milo took one wrist and cuffed it. Laura Smith said, “Okay! They’re using
prepaids
, okay! Ditched their regular ones, even I don’t know the numbers,
okay?
”
“Why’d they do that?”
“Ask ’em.”
“Laura—”
“I don’t know—stop, you’re hurting me, I’m gonna sue you, I don’t have it, I don’t know nothing!”
“You’re house-sitting but they didn’t tell you where—”
“I had a number, okay? Then it didn’t work anymore. Okay? They probably used that one up and got another. Okay?”
“Sounds like they’re scared, Laura.”
The girl looked down at her shackled wrist. Small bones; Milo hadn’t ratcheted tight, she could’ve slipped out. She began crying. “Are you really going to arrest me? I can’t stand jail!”
“Not if you cooperate.”
“They told me not to
say
! Okay? I’m doing what they
asked
. Okay?
Okay!
”
Milo removed the cuff. “I’m not here to hassle you, Laura. How about we start over?”
“But I don’t know nothing—”
“What are they scared of, Laura?”
The girl’s head swiveled from side to side, finally settled on a kitchenette as gross as the floor. She said, “I can’t, they made me promise.”
“C’mon,” said Milo, gently.
The shift in tone made her look at him.
“Laura—”
“Sydney and Jasper.”
“Their horses.”
As if knowledge of that fact lent Milo new status; Laura Smith smiled at him. “Yeah.”
“What about Sydney and Jasper?”
“They were gone. Okay?”
“From the house—”
“Ashley and Riss show up to exercise them and they’re gone, totally gone, everything’s gone, all the furniture inside, Sydney and Jasper’s tack and food, everything. They thought it was a robbery, because someone broke in just before, put weird food in the kitchen. So they called him and he laughed and said, ‘Funny thing ’bout that.’ And they’re like freaked out, totally freaked out, they tell him again and he says the same thing. ‘Funny about that.’ Then he says something really terrible.”
“We’re talking their dad.”
Sniff. Tears. Nod.
“What did he say that was terrible, Laura?”
“He said, ‘People need glue’ and then he hung up. That means he’s turning Sydney and Jasper to glue! They’re totally totally freaked out but when they try to talk to him, he just hangs up. And when they try to call him again, he doesn’t answer.”
“Angry at them,” I said.
“He’s like turned into a monster, like who
is
this? They
love
Sydney and Jasper.
Glue?
”
“That is cold,” said Milo. “They had no idea he’d do something like that.”
“Nothing!” said Laura Smith. “It’s like they … like he’s a zombie dad, who ate their real dad, is like inhabiting his brain and his body.”
“They’re scared of him,” I said. “That’s why they left and are using prepaids.”
“He’s the one taught them about that.”
“Prepaids?”
“He always has ’em, like when he wants to call out but doesn’t want anyone bothering him.”
I said, “They’re scared of more than the horses.”
Silence.
“They need help, Laura. The only way they can get it is if we know the facts.”
She looked away.
I said, “You have reason not to like the cops but the cops didn’t turn Sydney and Jasper into glue and the cops aren’t going to hurt Ashley and Marissa. So—”
“They think he coulda
did
it!”
“Did what?”
“It,” said Laura. “Her. You know.”
“Their mom.”
Three nods. “They didn’t think that before but maybe now.”
“What changed their minds?”
“They like … wondered about it in the beginning because they used to hate each other—their mom and dad. But then they said no way, he’s our dad. But then he turned into a zombie and took Sydney and Jasper and everything in the house and talked mean to them.”
“So they split and let you stay here.”
She shrugged. “My dad’s mad at me. I cracked his car up again.”
“When did Ashley and Marissa leave town, Laura?”
“Like two days ago.”
“You have no idea where they went.”
“They said they’d tell me when they got there but they didn’t.”
“They haven’t tried to contact you.”
“Uh-uh. No.”
We waited.
She said, “No. Really.” Serious. No more snotty bifurcation of words.
Milo said, “If you do find out, is there any chance you’d tell me?”
Fear and skepticism fought for control of her pretty face.
“Laura, we’re here because we want to keep them safe.”
No answer. He gave her his card. She mouthed
Homicide
. “They talked about Vegas, but I don’t know. If they call me, I’ll tell them.”
I said, “Thanks. And one more thing: Have you considered that by staying here you could be putting yourself in danger?”
“Why?”
“If Mr. Corey is that weird—”
She turned pale. “Oh. I need to book. I’m outta here, Daddy will be cool, he always is.”
Milo said, “Get your stuff, we’ll see you out.”
“I got nothing here, just a few clothes.” Glancing at the copper bong.
“Where are you parked?”
“Down below.”
“We’ll walk you.”
A beat. “Okay.”
Her car was a new red baby Benz, scratched and dented, in need of washing.
Milo said, “You’re sure everything’s cool at home.”
“Yeah, Immy’s cool. Not like
him
.”
“Ashley and Marissa’s dad.”
“I always thought he was a freak.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s like no … feelings? You say something and it’s like android-freak-o in the room.”
“Was he ever mean to Ashley and Marissa before?”
“Uh-uh. He bought them whatever they wanted, only thing is he’d want them to watch TV with him. They said it was boring, they’d try to get out of it.”
“They don’t like TV.”
“You think?” she said. “You stream on your phone. He’s a freak, watching stupid murder shows, they’re like ge-ross. But he gave them money and stuff when they wanted.”
“No more,” I said.
“He’s a frickin’
freak
,” said Laura Smith. “Stealing their stuff?
Glue?
Telling them
no
?”
The red Mercedes drove off.
Milo said, “My prayers answered, bastard made a big mistake.”
“What?”
“Getting between girls and their horses.”
We returned to the sisters’ apartment, where he searched for a lead on their whereabouts. Plenty of evidence for a penny-ante drug bust and more than enough for health department shutdown but they’d covered their tracks.
I drove back to the city and he called Moe Reed, pulling the young detective off nighttime watch on Flora Sullivan and assigning him to keep an eye on the Corey girls’ building.
“They’re unlikely to show up, but maybe. The main thing is be on the lookout for their father, he’s who they’re running from.” He described the changes in Richard Corey’s behavior.
Reed said, “Killing their horses? That’s cold, what does Doc think of all this?”
Milo said, “Angry man buttoned up for a long time, the buttons are popping.”
“Poetic,” said Reed.
Milo grinned. “Doc can get that way.”
“So the theory is all that buttoning made him tense, he took it out on other women besides Ursula?”
“Good summary, Moses. Where’s Sean?”
“Same as me, L.T., watching the building. Why do you think Corey’s freaking out now?”
“He probably thinks he’s in the clear, can do whatever he wants.”
“Well,” said Reed, “we’ll see about that.”
Call number two was to Oxnard PD where after several false starts Milo connected with Homicide Detective Francisco Gonzales and asked for help with Richard Corey. Gonzales, jovial sounding and deep-voiced, was nearing the end of a thirty-hour haul, closing a multiple-victim, home-invasion gang shooting.
“Got my confessions, now I need to get toothpicks for my eyelids.”
Milo said, “Congrats. Listen, if it’s too much of a hassle, tell me who else I can talk to.”
“Nah,” said Gonzales. “My case was morons against morons, yours actually sounds interesting. Give me time to catch some Z’s, then you can buy me dinner.”
“When and where, Detective?”
“Frank. Give me your number, I’ll call you.”
Three and a half hours later, Milo and I were at a corner table in an Oxnard winery restaurant. High-end industrial park, the kind of businesses that required massive buildings and didn’t advertise.
This building was prettier than its neighbors, stuccoed ocher and rust and set up with a self-guided tour. The tasting room out front was filled with happy-looking sippers. I knew the place, had been there
years ago for a meet with the young widow of a bad man. But I hadn’t suggested the place, Gonzales had.
He arrived moments after Milo and I had been seated, a pigeon-chested, large-bellied six-footer with slicked black hair and a gray Zapata mustache. He wore a white polo shirt, black slacks, white-soled black deck shoes. Heavy man but firmly packed; he moved quickly and smoothly, a tree-trunk prop in a school play wheeled across the stage.
Handshakes all around. Gonzales had a strong grip and clear eyes, the only sign of fatigue some imprecise shaving where his jowls met his neck.
Dipping bread in olive oil, he chewed and swallowed, wiped the mustache.
A waitress showed up with menus and a special smile for Gonzales. The order was quick and easy: three 16-ounce rib eyes, medium rare, salad in lieu of potatoes the nod to virtue. The waitress said, “Of course,” as if everything had been preordained.
The salads arrived quickly, followed by gratis bowls of cured olives, fried squash blossoms, and salt-cod beignets. Frank Gonzales wasn’t surprised.
Milo said, “You’re a regular?”
“Regular as I can be. Mostly I have to eat crap on the go.”
“Know what you mean,” said Milo.
Gonzales’s curious, hazel eyes glided toward me. “Psychologist. My daughter wants to be one.”
Milo gave him the short version of my involvement with the department followed by a short-version summary of all the murders. Even abbreviated the account took a while. Gonzales possessed a detective’s most important trait: good listener.