she ate before the wedding because she had no intention of enjoying the catering. Add that to no booze or self-administered dope in her system and the all-work-no-play scenario firms up.”
My phone pinged a text.
Robin answering my question.
I sent her a Thanks, hon, and relayed the info to Milo: “At the low estimate, the gauge fits a wound guitar D-string, at the upper end, a light A-string.”
He said, “So look for a killer with a Gibson. Hey, that would be a pretty good slogan.”
* * *
—
I got home by four p.m. An hour later, Maxine Driver called me.
“Got Ms. Burdette’s schedule such as it is, and guess what, an address.”
She read off numbers on Strathmore Drive.
Walking distance from campus. “Thanks, Maxine. How’d you get it?”
“Don’t ask,” she said. “In terms of the schedule, there’s not much. She takes one real class, chem for non-science-majors. The rest is independent study with no set time, her DIY is Multiverse Cultural Aspects of Civilization. Part of a program the administration tried a couple of years ago but discontinued. Brainy little tots recommended by their high school counselors allowed the freedom to explore their inner whatevers.”
“Why’d they drop it?”
“Word has it one of the kids committed suicide but I can’t confirm and the official reason was attrition. As in too many of the geniacs dropped out. Not just from the program, from the U. I guess it makes sense, Alex. You’re a precocious squirt, grow up hearing you’re a god from helicopter parents who overstructure your life with one class after another. Then you leave home and all of a sudden you’re expected to create your own structure. Poo-eh widdle tings pwobly withered.”
“Not Amanda,” I said. “She comes across assertive. To be charitable.”
“Doesn’t she. Survival of the rudest. That would explain politics.”
* * *
—
I texted the address to Milo.
He phoned. “A student who lives near school. All that to get what DMV could’ve given me if she was normal—’scuse me, conventional. Thanks, so far it’s the only scrap of good news. The pathologist is at some sort of convention and apparently San Diego’s another planet. The big bad is Corinne’s phone stalk of Denny turned up six months of his bills misfiled in another drawer, so he wasn’t hiding anything. She recognized every number except twelve, took it upon herself to play amateur detective. Nine were legit prospective clients Denny was calling back. None of them ended up signing with the agency, which Corinne attributes to his ‘Neanderthal conversational skills.’ Another was a florist—‘probably one of the times he was shitty to me.’ The last was a condolence call to a cousin of his in Arizona who’d just lost a mother to cancer. ‘Even though he never had the decency to phone all the time she was sick.’ ”
“True love,” I said. “So she’s probably telling the truth. Unless she’s overacting because she’s covering for him.”
“I think she’s righteous, Alex. She was clearly bummed about not digging up any dirt and when I hung up she was wondering about a secret phone account and saying she’d try to figure out who Marissa was.”
“The game’s not over. Denny could be using burners.”
“If nothing else pans out, we’ll do a loose surveillance on him. Meanwhile I’m learning about fashion. One of the boutiques Alicia visited didn’t recognize Suzy/Kim but they were able to educate her about the dress: Three seasons ago an adorably pert actress wore it to the Golden Globes. Three years isn’t that long, it coulda been bought new or online. I’m having her devote another half day to high-end places then switching her to stripper-equippers.”
“Moe’s being punished?”
“No, he’s still got the gig but these places are all over town, with traffic it’ll take forever. I’m figuring maybe tomorrow to visit the bride and groom…how’d Maxine score the info on Amanda?”
“Confidential source.”
“She loves the intrigue.”
“That she does.” I told him about the disbanded program.
He said, “Suicide. Yeah, that would quash parental enthusiasm. But all Westside suicides go through us and I read every list. Kid at the U. doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Wouldn’t the campus police handle it?”
“They’d be the primary if it happened in a dorm or some other campus facility and didn’t end up complicated. But we’re supposed to hear, anyway. So maybe Maxine’s source isn’t that golden. Not that it matters. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here still waiting for an image dump from snail-imitator and part-time photographer Bradley Tomashev. He says six-hundred-plus images. I’m ready to get my squint on.”
I said,