Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

The nerve center of the operation was Gretchen’s free digs behind the parental swimming pool. She called her employees “agents” and put them to work in the lounges and bars of hotels with “Beverly” in their names. Clients paid for the room and the flesh, the girls divvied up for clothing and cosmetics and birth control, and Gretchen financed quarterly medical checkups. Other than doctor bills, phone and credit company charges, her overhead was nil. By the time she was twenty-five, Gretchen was pulling in seven figures a year and lopping off a zero when she filed with the IRS.

What tripped her up was never made clear. The rumor mill spat out the names of famous clients: movie stars, assorted film industry lampreys, politicians, developers. Supposedly Gretchen had run afoul of the LAPD. But no john list ever materialized, and Gretchen sat mute during her indictment.

Her trial was slated to be the Next Big Media Event. Then Gretchen’s lawyer pled her to a single evasion charge and a money-laundering misdemeanor, and bargained her sentence to thirty-two months in federal lockup, plus restitution and penalties. Gretchen served solid but truncated time: no interviews, no wheedling, seven months lopped off for good behavior.

Now she was selling used clothes in a high-rent closet that reeked of weed and hiring ex-employees to stroke the customers.

It suggested an inability to learn from experience, but maybe Gretchen had learned something other than crime doesn’t pay.

Blaming her parents was easy but, like most pat solutions, that was just an excuse not to puzzle. Gretchen’s older brother had achieved honors as a flight surgeon for the Navy, and a younger sister ran a music school in Harlem. Following Gretchen’s arrest someone had suggested middle-child syndrome. They might as well have indicted the lunar cycle. Mildrew and Andrea Stengel were high-powered lawyers but by all accounts attentive parents. The week after Gretchen’s conviction they resigned their partnerships and moved to Galisteo, New Mexico, purportedly to live “the simple life.”

Milo and I walked up to the table. Gretchen had to have seen us, but she ignored us and tweaked the tail of the crayfish. Edging the creature toward her mouth, she changed her mind, drew back her arm, flicked the crustacean’s tail as if daring it to resuscitate. Then back to her lips. Licking but not biting. Some weight-loss behavior-mod trick? Play with your calories but never ingest them?

Nearby diners had begun to stare. Gretchen didn’t react. Her companion lacked Gretchen’s composure and started fidgeting with her salad. Scallops on something saw-toothed and weedlike. She was young like Gretchen, with cropped hair, felonious cheekbones, and slanted eyes, wore a sleeveless yellow sundress, pink coral necklace and earrings, long, curving nails painted a lighter shade of coral. All that color achingly dramatic against flawless black skin.

Gretchen’s cuticles were a wreck. She had on a shapeless black sweatshirt and black leggings. Her hair looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a week. The black lenses did their trick, putting her somewhere else.

Milo moved so he could smile down at the black woman. “Nice dress. Does it have a past?”

Painful smile in response.

“Have a bug,” said Gretchen, waving the crayfish. “That’s what they are. Bugs.” Her voice was nasal and scratchy. The black woman grimaced.

Milo said, “Thanks for the biology lesson, Ms. Stengel.”

Gretchen said, “Actually, they’re more like spiders.” To the black woman: “Think spiders taste any good?” Her lips barely moved when she spoke. The black woman put her fork down and picked up her napkin.

“What about flies and caterpillars?” said Gretchen. “Or slugs.”

Milo said, “Lauren Teague.”

The black woman wiped her mouth. Gretchen Stengel didn’t budge.

Milo said, “Lauren-”

“It’s a name,” said Gretchen.

The black woman said, “If you’ll excuse me, please,” and started to rise.

“Please stay,” said Milo.

“I have to go to the little girls’ room.” She reached down for her purse. Milo had placed his foot over the strap.

“Please,” she said.

Conversation at neighboring tables had died. A waiter came over. A glance from Milo made him retreat, but seconds later one of the white-jacketed maître d’s arrived.

“Officer,” he said, sidling up to Milo and managing to spit out the word while smiling wider than his lips had been built for. “You are a police officer?”

“And here I thought I was being subtle.”

“Please, sir, this isn’t the place and time.”

Gretchen twirled the crayfish. The black woman hung her head.

“For what?” said Milo.

“Sir,” said White Jacket. “People are trying to enjoy their food. This is a distraction.”

Milo spied a free chair at a neighboring table, pulled it over, sat down. “How’s this for blending in?”

“Really, Officer.”

“Fuck it, Damien,” said Gretchen. “Leave him alone, I know him.”

Damien stared at her. “You’re sure, Gretch?”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waved the crayfish. “Tell Joel to make it spicier next time.”

“Oh.” Damien’s acrobatic lips fluttered. “It’s too bland?”

“If you’ve got taste buds.”

“Oh, no – I’ll bring you some extra sauce, Gretch-”

“No,” said Gretchen. “That won’t help, too late. It has to be cooked into the meat.”

“Really, Gretch-”

“No, Damien.”

Damien simpered. “I am so sorry. I’ll have a fresh batch prepared right now-”

“Don’t bother. Not hungry.”

“I feel terrible,” said Damien.

“Don’t,” said Gretchen, flicking the crayfish’s tail. “Just do better next time.”

“Sure. Of course. Certainly.” To the black woman: “Is yours okay?”

“Perfect.” Glum tone. “I’m going to the little girls’ room.” She stood. Six feet tall in flats, sleek as a panther. Looking down at her purse, she left it there, edged past me, disappeared.

Damien said, “Really, Gretch, I can get you another plate in no time.”

“I’m fine,” said Gretchen, blowing a kiss at him. “Go away.”

When he departed she looked at me. “Sit. Take Ingrid’s chair, she’ll be gone awhile. Bladder infection. I tell her to drink cranberry juice, but she hates it.”

“Old friend?” said Milo.

“New friend.”

“Let’s talk about Lauren Teague. Someone shot her and dumped her in an alley.”

Gretchen’s flat expression maintained. She put the crayfish down. “How terrible. I thought she was too smart for that.”

“Too smart for what?”

“Going into business without me.”

“You think that’s what killed her?”

Off came the sunglasses. The brown eyes were piercing and focused; childhood learning difficulties seemed remote, and I wondered how many of the rumors about her were true.

“So do you,” she said. “That’s why you’re here.”

“Were you and she in touch?”

Gretchen shook her head. “After I retired, I cut all ties to the staff.”

“How long has it been since you saw Lauren?”

Gretchen tried to pry something from between her teeth. Stubby nails weren’t up to the task. She removed the toothpick from a crayfish and began probing. “She resigned before I retired.”

“How long before?”

“Maybe a year.”

“Why?” said Milo.

“She never said.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“Why should I?” said Gretchen. “It wasn’t as if there was a personnel shortage.”

“Any idea why she quit?”

“It could’ve been anything.”

“You never discussed it.”