The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34) - Jonathan Kellerman Page 0,71

the same academic program as Amanda. The girls were close in age, physically similar.

The few leads we had pointed to Suzanne’s murder as a contract killing at the hands of Michael Lotz. But when it came to his own violent appetites, did Michael Lotz go for a whole other type of victim?

Had Amanda been pegged as a victim, only to be saved by Lotz’s inadvertent overdose? Turning it another way, had Suzanne been slaughtered because of a relationship with Amanda?

The Brain.

A mean-spirited, antisocial young woman colluding with the addict in the basement to get rid of an inconvenience?

I tossed that around for a while, decided I had nothing to offer Milo that couldn’t wait until morning.

But he couldn’t.

CHAPTER

28

At nine thirty p.m., I’d just picked up my old Martin and was settling down to play. Robin was showering. While shopping for groceries, she’d gotten an away-from-the-office reply from Sharon Isbin at Juilliard.

Blanche sat at my feet, waiting for her favorite fingerpick, “Windy and Warm.” When I placed the guitar back in its case and reached for the phone, she let out a deep sigh.

I consoled her with a neck rub and clicked on. “Working late?”

Milo said, “Time is an abstract concept.” Lightness in his voice. “The bad news is I can’t find any info on Suzanne DaCosta and her license is only half a year old, so I’m thinking it might be an alias. To balance that out, two big good things: First, I spotted Lotz in one of the wedding photos, I’ll show you when we get together. Second, just heard from Homeland. Garrett B. hadn’t been to Europe. Until today. Not Poland, Italy. He and La Bambina took an Alitalia flight that landed in Rome this morning. Sleepy tried getting their whereabouts from Italian immigration, don’t ask. I’m having Moe, Sean, and Alicia call every goddamn hotel in the city.”

I said, “Accelerated schedule on the honeymoon.”

“Right after we talk to him about Poland. Funny thing ’bout that, huh? And during that period Lotz dies. You talk to Basia, yet?”

“She’ll know more about the autopsy after a meeting tomorrow. Lotz’s bloods aren’t back but the signs of an O.D. are obvious, including lots of track marks. He’s also got what sound like prison tattoos. My big thing is Cassy Booker died of a heroin-fentanyl overdose. Not suicide, undetermined. Basia says without a no-alternative suicide, they do that for the family.”

“I know,” he said. “Either way, Alex, it’s not murder, just a college kid O.D.’ing on the poison du jour.”

I said, “True, but Amanda and Cassie being enrolled in the same program and living in the same complex bugs me.”

“Garrett and little sis are both involved in very bad stuff? Sure, why not? Get me word from Maxine that the girls actually hung out, Amanda goes on the radar. Meanwhile, it’s her suddenly rabbiting brother who interests me.”

“Anything come up on him?”

A beat. “I was afraid you’d ask that. If you must know, he appears annoyingly spotless. Eagle Scout, high school salutatorian, graduated with honors from UC Irvine, got hired by the numbers-crunchers he still works for. I’m gonna drop in at his folks’ place tomorrow, see if we can pry something out of them. Maybe also get a look at Pa Walton’s barn where the animal dope is stored.”

“Calabasas,” I said. “Back to the Valley.”

“That appears to be my current karma. I’m figuring let the traffic fade, we leave around nine. This time I’ll drive.”

We. Assuming I’d never turn down the opportunity.

Ace detective.

CHAPTER

29

In L.A., twenty miles from city center can take you to a world apart.

Calabasas, spilling into the Santa Monica Mountains on the western edge of the San Fernando Valley, used to be a low-key pocket of rustic, horsey serenity. That’s been altered by an influx of retired athletes and celebrities who’ve achieved fame for merely existing, along with the metastatic palaces they erect and businesses that cater to self-love and shallow notoriety.

A few of the old-timers gripe. But real estate prices have skyrocketed and the heirs of ranchers, fruit farmers, and horse breeders are often thrilled to trade acreage for passive wealth.

On a good day, Calabasas is a half-hour drive from my house, and this was a great day. Traffic on the 101 was sparse and rage-free, the air warm and dry and redolent of old wood and new grass, the blue of the sky so brilliant it verged on unlikely.

Surrounding the freeway, russet and olive rolling hills aimed skyward, gilded by splashes of egg-yolk sunlight.