The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34) - Jonathan Kellerman Page 0,47
to move out for my personal safety?”
Milo said, “He’s not, Corinne, and I couldn’t advise you to do that unless he’s been violent to you or threatened to be.”
“Never lifted a finger, Lieutenant. Rarely raises his voice, he just…makes me feel alone. I’ve always thought of him as a coward. Except when he used to surf. He was brave about tackling big waves—God, this is depressing, I really don’t like talking about it.”
Click.
Milo shook his head. “Your local constabulary, spreading good cheer.”
* * *
—
While I drove back to the station, he got back on his phone and checked the Rapfogels’ social network to verify what Corinne had said. Only one trip memorialized. Instagram posting of the couple eating gigantic lobsters in what looked like a rain forest. She, bored, looking to the side, he hunched over his meal, a bib full of stains.
He said, “Denny’s as red as the crustaceans, she just might get her wish.”
In the time it took us to get back, he’d run similar searches on the Burdettes and the Mastros. “Nope, they keep it domestic. Nebraska and national parks.”
Up in his office, he said, “Last try: the happy couple…here we go…Tahoe…San Francisco…Two Bunch Palms out in the desert…apparently no one’s into pierogi.”
I said, “Speaking of the happy couple.”
“You think it’s time?”
“They were the primary victims and Red Dress is closer to their age than to their parents’.”
He scrolled and found the address Garrett had listed. “East of here, near La Cienega and Olympic. Be a few hours until he’s off work.”
“Why not talk to Baby alone?”
“Yeah, might be interesting. If she talks.”
“Why wouldn’t she?”
“I’m a bad memory—hell, why not try a solo. But I want to be there when Garrett arrives, kill two birds, and that’s still a way off. You know what? I’m gonna sit here and go through the whole damn list of names from the invite list and search for a magical Slavic connection. I don’t want to keep you, go home and be normal.”
“And have to drive back for Baby and Garrett?”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
* * *
—
We took the list to a deli near the station, ordered a pot of coffee, and reserved a corner booth courtesy Milo’s usual extravagant cop tip.
His phone, my phone, both of us squinting and delving into the travel habits of total strangers.
Two hours later, not a single reference to Poland though a few people had been to Prague and one couple had thought Budapest interesting.
He said, “Gotta talk to the Polish tourist bureau, they’re falling down on the job. Okay, my head hurts, let’s see if Baby’s in her crib.”
CHAPTER
17
The newlyweds lived on the ground floor of a twenties, white stucco Spanish fourplex on Holt Avenue just south of Olympic.
Garrett Burdette answered the bell-ring. Home early.
“Lieutenant,” he said.
He wore black horn-rimmed glasses, a blue oxford cloth button-down, gray wool slacks, black loafers. In L.A., CPA work clothes.
From behind him: “Who is it, honey?”
He kept his eyes on us. “She’s not feeling well.”
Milo said, “Sorry ’bout that, if it’s a bad time—”
“Who is it, Gar?”
He frowned and swung the door wide. Baby’s small body was curled on a pale-blue sofa, a bag of corn chips in her lap. She wore a black tank top and white yoga pants. No tissues, no blanket, no cup of hot tea. Maybe she was tougher than the Valkyrie.
She said, “Oh, hi, guys.” Brightly, no trace of nasal congestion. Or resentment. “Don’t let them stand there, honey.”
Garrett stepped aside. The apartment was barely furnished but for the couch and two folding chairs. Cardboard boxes were lined up against a wall along with stacks of wrapped gifts. The air smelled of ripe fruit and petrochemicals, the source of the aroma a pear-shaped room deodorizer plugged into a corner socket.
Freshly painted walls were bare except for a large, framed color photo of Brearely Rapfogel in a filmy white dress. Sitting in a field of lupine, looking like something from Renoir.
Kindred spirit of the Valkyrie?
She waved at us. Her hair was loose, her eyes clear. A lovely young woman. The absence of makeup made her prettier.
“Would you like something to drink. Or some of these? I’ve got another bag.” Holding out the chips.
“No, thanks, Ms.—is it Burdette or Rapfogel, now?”
“It’s Mrs. Burdette,” she said. “I decided I’m traditional.”
She smiled at her husband of six days and extended a languid hand. He took it and she tugged him down gently beside her. Holding on to his fingers, she leaned a head on