Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

“Whoa,” I said.

“Whoa, Nelly,” she said. “Now you tell me something, and be honest, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll bet when I told you I’d been married to Tony you figured I’d posed for him and that’s how he discovered me, right? You figured I was a Treat of the Month?”

“Not really-”

“Oh, yes you did,” she insisted, slapping my wrist. “ Everyone assumes that. And that’s okay. But Tony always told me I was his special treat. Did you know I’m the first woman he had babies with since Ben and Anita’s mom died? And I gave him beautiful babies.”

“Adorable.”

Her fingers spider-walked to my wrist. “You’re very nice – So what kind of investments do you do?”

“I own some properties.”

“Sounds profitable.”

“I get by.”

“Nice,” she said. “Good for you. Having time to hang out. But you’re intellectual, I can tell that. I have a sense for people. So what else besides boating do you do for fun?”

“Play a little guitar.”

“I love music – Tony’s tone-deaf, but he pretends to like music. For parties, you know? He brings in the best live bands. Catch 159, Wizard, the last one we almost got the Stone Crew.”

“Sound like incredible parties.”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Other times it was a thousand strangers invading and stuffing their faces, and all these tramps from the magazine shoving their tits in Tony’s face. Sometimes it was for causes – like charity, you know – and Tony would let other people come in. Like retarded people, burn victims. Thank God I won’t have to deal with that anymore.”

“Because of the divorce,” I said.

“That and Tony doesn’t throw parties anymore.”

“How come?”

“Things change.” She freed my hand, ate more bagel. “I am definitely going to bloat up.”

“I doubt that. So did Ben turn out to be gay?”

She stared at me. “Who cares?”

“Not me, just making conversation.”

“Well, he’s not,” she said. “He’s just one of those, you know – not into it. Like a priest.”

“Asexual.”

“There are people like that, you know.”

“Life would be pretty boring without variety,” I said.

She smiled. “You like variety?”

“I thrive on it.”

“Me, too… Seeing as we both thrive on it, would you like to get together or something?”

“When?” I said, touching the side of her face.

She drew away. Smiled. “How about right now – no, just kidding, got to get back to feed the kids before someone accuses me of neglecting them. But maybe someday you could glide by in your little canoe and I could just happen to be on the beach. Maybe wearing this.” Tapping the bag with the bikini.

“That sounds very good,” I said.

She reached into a bag, brought out a small appointment book, wrote down a number, tore out the page.

“This is my private cell phone.”

“I feel privileged,” I said, taking the slip.

She reached out, took my face in both her hands, kissed me too hard on the mouth, pressing her teeth against my lips and ending with the merest swipe of tongue. “This has been very cool, Alex. Lately, no one seems to be appreciating me. Bye, now.”

HYPOTHESES CONFIRMED:

Ben Dugger used his experiment to pick up women – young blondes. Relinquished his catch when Dad asserted a preference.

Snaring women but acting the “perfect gentleman.” Asexual – at least in the beginning. Something off sexually – Monique Lindquist’s laughing aside about his not wanting to talk about sex rang in my ears.

So did Cheryl Duke’s remark about not wanting to be judged neglectful: definitely worried about losing her kids. The accidental gas leak. Living at the estate as the Duke family called the shots.

Black Suit also bunking down there. Playing tennis. More than just hired help.

Threads of suspicion – a net. But nothing that told me why Lauren and the others had died. Nothing to tell Milo.

As I drove back home I wondered how I’d recount the day to Robin.

Hey, hon, I played frogman and spent most of the afternoon flirting with a much younger woman. Cheryl’s private number was wedged in my wallet. There was no reason for her aroma to linger in my nose, but I kept catching whiffs of suntan lotion and good perfume.

I arrived just before five. Spike greeted me at the door with a dismissive snort, but no sign of Robin. He led me into the kitchen and groused until I fed him some leftover brisket, and that’s where I found the note: “Taking a nap, alarm set for six-thirty.”

I checked the answering machine. Four messages, none from Milo. Booting up the computer, I plugged in “Anita Duke,” came across the personal website of another woman with the same name – a computer programmer in Nashville – offering the universe a peek into her private life. Why do people do that?

The Anita I was looking for merited a dozen hits, almost all of them citations I’d already pulled up – the transfer of executive power from father to daughter. But down at the bottom of the list, a two-year-old citation from Entertainment News caught my eye:

Duke Magazine Exec Weds: Magazine heavy Anita Duke ties the knot with boyfriend in Malibu ceremony…

I downloaded and printed.

In a star-studded, ocean-view ceremony this past weekend, the only daughter of magazine tycoon Marc Anthony Duke was married to her companion of several years. Anita Catherine Duke, 33, a graduate of Wellesley College and Columbia University Business School and newly appointed CEO of Duke Enterprises, was given away this past Saturday by her father and stepmother, Sylvana, as she tied the knot with Kent Irving, 31, former president of M’Lady’s Couture, an L.A. garment manufacturer, and now Projects Manager for Duke Enterprises. The nuptials took place under a veil of secrecy at the posh Shadowridge Lodge in the hills of Malibu, but sources cite the attendance of several showbiz heavies including…

The rest was all famous names and catering details. No mention of a honeymoon. Or of Brother Ben’s presence at the happy event.

M’Lady’s Couture.

The rag trade. Lauren’s turf before Kent Irving had married himself into the Duke family.

Now I did need to talk to my friend the detective.

I got hold of him at the robbery-homicide room.

“Oh, happy days,” he said. “Despite my express instructions, Andy Salander has split. I was trying to reach him to see if he knew more than he originally told us about Lauren’s schmatte connections – I’ve spent the bulk of the past two days downtown, dead-ending on that. No one at the Fashion Mart remembers her doing runway work, and none of the modeling agencies ever signed her up. Which probably means another lie – her real gig was hooking, and who’s going to admit being involved with that? I did find a couple shirts at discount, but that’s about it for productivity.”

“Funny thing you should mention the rag trade. Ben Dugger’s brother-in-law used to be involved in that. Outfit called M’Lady’s Couture.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, how about you just borrow my badge and give me a few days off in Palm Springs?”

“You hate the desert.”

“I hate this case more… M’Lady’s Couture… I’ve got the Mart directory right here, hold on… Nope, no listing, let’s try the phone book… Uh-uh – zilch.”

“No surprise,” I said “The story said ‘former president.’ Irving’s moved on to brighter prospects.”

“How’d you find this out?”

I thought about telling him of my day at the beach. Said, “Hurtling through cyberspace. The M’Lady connection was cited in Anita Duke’s wedding story. It makes me wonder. Irving married Anita two years ago, but they probably dated for a while before that – let’s say six months to a year. That’s part of the time period Lauren claimed to be working the Mart. I agree, modeling was a cover, she was hooking. But the garment-biz part of it might have been true. If Irving was one of her clients – a big-time regular, throwing around big money – his marrying megamillions would make that an embarrassing bit of biography. What if Lauren tried to profit from that – told Michelle, et cetera, et cetera, and Michelle did the same. Or someone thought she was going to. As in Gretchen Stengel. Who also knew Irving from the good old days and told him. And he had the problem taken care of.”