the pool for nothing, girl.”
Milo said, “We’re here about Suzanne DaCosta.”
“Kimbee?”
“When’s the last time you saw her?”
Eye-consultation between the women. Serena said, “Like a week and a half?”
Claire said, “We don’t keep watch on her. What’s up?”
“Unfortunately, she’s deceased.”
Black saucers, blue saucers. Four hands leaped to finely molded lips.
Serena was the first to allow her arms to drop. She shook her head. “No freakin’ way.”
“I’m afraid so.”
Claire’s right hand dropped and began clawing under her waistband. Frantically as if something beneath the denim was attacking her. Her mouth expanded and became a maw. She bent double. “No no no no, not that, not again, no no no no no.”
Letting out a gagging noise, she ran into the house.
Milo said, “Again?”
Serena said, “Her mom died like four months ago. Something just blew up in her brain, she was beautiful and super fit, also a model, didn’t deserve that. To make it worse, her dad died when she was a little kid. She hates death.”
“So do we, Serena. That’s why—”
“Kimbee’s really…?” She began crying and shook her head some more. “I guess our noise thing is pretty bullshit to you.”
“It sounds like a super hassle,” said Milo. “I’ll make a call and see what I can do. Meanwhile, can we come in and talk about Kimbee?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, of course, sure. Let me go calm Cee down, you guys sit wherever.”
CHAPTER
24
“Wherever” was a limited choice: a sun-cracked black leather sofa or a floor carpeted in grubby green. No other furniture in the low, shallow living room. The house’s interior matched its dermis: unadorned, pallid, shabby.
We took the couch and waited while female conversation filtered from the left. A box of bottled water sat near a glass slider that opened to the rear of the property. Where the yard wasn’t swimming pool it was scarred pebbled decking and discouraged wooden fencing. Power lines ruled on a blue paper sky. The pool was small, a remnant of the time when aquatic design was dominated by the mystique of the kidney. Robes and towels were piled on a pair of mismatched lounge chairs. A brick incinerator sat in a far corner, souvenir of a time when creating smog was a civic duty.
The lack of furniture in the living room wasn’t due to minimalism. Most of the space was taken up by wheeled, tubular racks of women’s clothing.
Gowns, dresses, bathing suits, blouses, slacks. At least a third of the floor space was taken up by shoes. Scores of them, unpaired and bunched into piles like leather mulch.
Milo said, “Not much in the way of ambience. If they are pulling tricks, it’s outcall not in-call.”
I said, “Serena said Claire’s mother was ‘also a model.’ Maybe these are work duds.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or it’s the euphemism of the month. Like ‘dancing’ for Ms. Kimbee.”
Wincing as he mentioned the name. For over a week, he’d been living with his victim as a wisp. Now she had an identity and a home and the pain of her murder was seeping into his bones the way it always did.
Faint padding footsteps previewed the women’s reappearance. Both had removed their bras and put on gauzy midriff tops that proved more revealing. Black tights, green tights.
The two of them folded lithe bodies, graceful as origami, and settled on the carpet. Exemplary posture, legs folded yoga-like, hands on firm thighs.
They closed their eyes, breathed a couple of times, looked straight at us.
“Okay,” said Serena. “We’re ready.”
Claire sniffed and poked at a corner of her eye and looked doubtful.
Milo said, “Sorry to drop it on you like this. Unfortunately there’s no good way to deliver bad news.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” said Claire. “My insides are pretty much filled up with bad news.”
Serena said, “I told them about your mom.”
Milo said, “So sorry.”
Claire said, “Aneurysm, she’s doing her Pilates and it just…” She lowered her head, let it dangle.
Serena put her arm around her friend and drew her near. “Hey, girl.”
Claire looked up. “I’m fine.”
I said, “It’s great that you’re here for each other.”
Serena said, “We go back to elementary. I was in fifth, she moved from Boise, was in fourth—can I tell them the story, Cee?”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re sure?”
Nod.
“Okay,” said Serena. “She’s super hot now but back then she was kind of short and kind of a little chubby and she got ragged on.”
Claire said, “I was a fat nerd, mean bitches tortured me.” Slowly spreading smile. “You kicked some butt, girl.”
Serena grinned. “Four brothers, you learn to take care of yourself.” She held