Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

I drove to the U, hurried into the research library, checked out spools of L.A. Times microfiche, and searched the social calendar for mention of any parties thrown by Tony Duke over the last year.

Nothing.

Given Duke’s reputation that seemed odd, and I retrieved the previous year’s worth of spools, covered another six months with still no mention of bashes or fund-raisers at the Malibu estate.

Maybe there were certain parties Tony Duke kept out of the papers. Or maybe, finding himself a father again, the King of the Easy Life had changed his ways.

I kept searching, finally found something nearly two years ago. A “star-studded” benefit for a free speech organization that had earned Duke two paragraphs in the social pages and was accompanied by photos of The Man, gaggles of Treats, and various screen-famous faces – a plastic surgeon’s bragging session. Anita Duke, too, standing behind her father wearing a conservative dark pantsuit and that same edgy smile as she looked down at her father.

His attention was elsewhere. He held two children in his lap – a plump-looking baby not more than a few months old and a two-year-old boy with a chubby face surrounded by cloud puffs of vanilla ringlets. No lounging duds for Dad – he wore a dark suit, white shirt, dark tie. The toupee was gone, and his bald head was exposed in full, iridescent glory. Older and smaller than in the official Duke shots – as captured by the paper, The Man resembled nothing but a model grandfather.

“Paternal pride” read the caption. “Magazine mogul Marc Anthony Duke relaxes with daughter Anita and her half-sibs, tykes Baxter and Sage. Only the absence of son Ben prevented the evening from being a complete family reunion.”

Son Ben.

I hurried out of the microfilm room, raced to the reference stacks, found Who’s Who , pulled out the most recent copy, and paged furiously to the D ’s.

Duke, Marc Anthony (Dugger, Marvin George) b. Apr. 15, 1929.

par. George T. and Margaret L. (Baxter).

m. Lenore Mancher, June 2, 1953 (dec. 1979) children:

Benjamin J., Anita C.

m. Sylvana Spring (Cheryl Soames) June 2, 1995 (div.) children: Baxter M., Sage A…

The rest didn’t concern me.

Son Ben.

Professor Monique Lindquist’s laughter rang in my ears.

The sex angle – if that’s what you want from Ben Dugger…

Dugger dressed and drove below his means, used his father’s real surname, eschewed the camera. Casting off notoriety? Rejecting what his father stood for? Both?

Now his research made sense.

The mathematics of intimacy.

Reducing sweat and libido to grids and statistics.

The anti-Duke. Sins of the fathers… bearing some kind of guilt – had his church visit been part of a chronic quest for absolution?

An older man. Filling the Daddy void.

When I’d learned about Gretchen’s visit to his father’s estate, I’d veered away from Dugger, but now I was right back where I’d started.

Maybe it hadn’t been Tony Gretchen had come to see.

Shawna Yeager posing for Duke magazine. Lauren, reminding herself to call “Dr. D.” to talk about intimacy. Getting a job with Dugger, spending time with him in Newport Beach coffee shops – meals Dugger claimed were no more than vocational guidance. Dugger blushing and sweating as he insisted intimacy hadn’t crept into his time with Lauren. But pseudointimacy was exactly what Lauren had sold, and a man could be forgiven for failing to see the truth.

Self-delusion… Lauren, shot to death. Michelle, shot to death, maybe because Lauren had confided in her. Shawna, posing for someone who claimed to be working for Duke .

There had to be a syllogism floating somewhere in that tangle.

I had bad news for Milo.

SHORTLY AFTER FIVE P.M. he called me back.

“Official confirmation on Michelle and the boyfriend.” No triumph in his voice. “His full name’s Bartley Lance Flowrig. Bachelor’s degree in shoplifting and burglary, mostly real dumb stuff, no violence. Maybe he and Michelle got desperate and tried to break into the wrong house. Neighborhood like theirs, that could be dangerous.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But guess what?”

He took the news of Ben Dugger’s lineage more calmly than I expected.

“So maybe Lauren told Michelle about something Dugger would like kept private – a nasty kink, something at odds with his nice-guy image. Something that could damage him as well as his dad. Or expose the link to his dad – he seems to be doing his best to hide his family background. Once Lauren was gone, Michelle and Lance decided to profit from the information. Gretchen knew you’d get to them eventually, tipped off someone at the Duke estate.”

He let out a long, low whoosh of resignation, then laughed. “Tony Duke and Dr. Ben. No way I’d have made that connection.”

“That’s exactly the point. I picked up some kind of sexual hang-up, and I’ll bet I was right. Dugger wears frayed shirts, distances himself from his father and everything his father stands for. But maybe it’s a case of protesting too much.”

“Running from his own quirks… So you’re back on Junior. What about Senior?”

“Who knows?” I said. “But at this point that visit to Newport doesn’t seem like a bad idea. Not that Dugger won’t be prepared – he just about invited you to drop by. But throw out Shawna’s name at a strategic moment and see how he reacts. And check out the staff – see if anyone looks antsy.”

“Shawna,” he said. “Who might’ve posed for Duke .”

“Or someone she believed was working for Duke . What if Dugger only used his connections once in a while – to attract young, gorgeous blondes. Not a bad ploy at all, especially when he had a genuine link to back it up, could throw in a visit to the estate. And maybe he scammed Lauren too. Despite her years on the street, she could’ve been seduced by big bucks. Maybe those calls to Malibu were hooking up with Junior, his not wanting her to call him at either his home or Daddy’s. Someone as nondescript as Dugger could’ve used that phone booth without being noticed.”

“A rich kid,” he said. “Pretending to be regular folks… Okay, let’s do Newport tomorrow. I love Orange County – how can you not dig a place that names its airport after John Wayne?”

“Sure you want me along?” I said. “To Dugger I’m the bad cop.”

“Exactly.”

At nine A.M. Milo rolled onto my property. I had my keys out and headed toward the Seville.

“No,” he said, slapping the driver’s door of the unmarked, “we’ll take the Ferrari. I want this to look official. Hence the tie – excellent choice, by the way. Nice power stripes – Italian?”

I checked the label. “So it says.” I regarded the blue polyester ribbon riding his paunch. “Where’s yours from?”

“The Planet Vulgaro.” He tugged at the knot, licked his pinkie, pretended to slick his hair. “Spiffed and ready for action. What a team.”

As he drove past the gateposts I said, “You tell Dugger we were coming?”

He nodded. “Mr. Cooperative. Sounds a little depressed, though. I seem to have that effect on people.”

When we reached Sunset I said, “Leo Riley.”

“What about him?”

“How would you rate him on the ace detective scale?”

“Average. Why?”

“Adam Green had the feeling Riley was phoning in the investigation on Shawna, just biding his time till retirement. Then again, he’s kind of a mouthy kid and had nothing to offer Riley but guesses about an affair with a professor.”

“Leo… I called him a few days ago – he’s living out in Coachella. Because I did look up the Yeager file, and there’s not much in it. Left a message – he hasn’t called me back.”