Flesh And Blood

“Sadness over her daughter.”

“It cut her to the bone.” The cane wobbled, but Perdue managed to draw himself up.

“Any idea where she is, Mr. Perdue?”

“They took her right down the block – to MidTown Hospital. Tariana and I went to see her there. They had her in the intensive care and we couldn’t get in. She didn’t have insurance, so a while later they moved her to County Hospital for evaluation. That’s a far trip for me, so I just called her. She wasn’t in much of a state for talking, said they still didn’t know what was wrong with her, but she’d probably be moving out, she’d send someone for her things, sorry about the rent – she owed a month. I said not to worry and don’t be concerned about her things either – There wasn’t much, she rented the place furnished. I had everything packed up – two suitcases – and Tariana brought them over to County Hospital. That’s the last I heard from her. I know she was discharged from County, but no one would tell me where.”

“Mr. Perdue,” said Milo, “did she have any ideas about what happened to Shawna?”

“Sure did. She figured Shawna had been killed, probably by some man who lusted after her.”

“She used that word, sir? ‘Lusted’?”

Perdue pushed up the brim of his hat. “Yes, sir. She was a pretty religious woman, one of those with a strong sense of sin – Like I said, no drinking or smoking, and once she got home from work, she sat and watched TV all night.”

“Lusted,” said Milo. “Did she tell you why she thought that?”

“It was just a feeling she had. Shawna meeting up with the wrong gent. She also said the police weren’t doing much – no offense. That the officer in charge didn’t communicate with her. One time I met her out back. We were both taking out the garbage and she was looking sad and I said what’s wrong, and she just started bawling. That’s when she told me. That Shawna had been a little difficult back home and that she’d tried her best but Shawna had a mind of her own.”

“Wild in what way?”

“I didn’t ask her, sir,” said Perdue, sounding offended. “Why would I pour salt in her wounds?”

“Of course,” said Milo. “But she didn’t give you any details?”

“She just said she regretted the fact that Shawna’s daddy died when Shawna was a baby. That Shawna never had any father, didn’t know how to relate to men properly. Then she started crying some more, talking about how she’d done the best she could, how when Shawna a

Perdue ran a finger over his upper lip. The nail was hardened, cross-grained like sandstone but carefully shaped. “I told her it wasn’t any of her fault, that things just happen. I lost a boy in Vietnam. Three years I spent fighting Hitler’s war, and I came back without a scratch. My boy flies over to Vietnam, two weeks later he steps on a mine. Things happen, right?”

“They do, sir,” said Milo.

“They do, indeed.”

We drove to Crescent Heights, crossed Sunset as the street shifted to Laurel Canyon, and headed for the Valley.

“Woman with a heart condition,” said Milo. “I’m go

“What do you think about what she told Perdue?”

“About Shawna being wild?”

“Wild because she had no father in her life,” I said. “Wild in a specific way. I think her mother knew of Shawna’s attraction to older men. Meaning maybe Shawna had older boyfriends back home.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But that could also mean that Shawna’s story about heading home for the weekend was true. She got dolled up for some Santo Leon Lothario, it went bad, he killed her, dumped her somewhere out in the boonies. That’s why she’s never been found. If so, there goes the Lauren co

“No,” I said. “Agnes might’ve been aware of Shawna’s tendencies, but I doubt she knew about a specific hometown boyfriend. If she had, wouldn’t she have given his name to the police? Even if the police weren’t listening.”

“Leo Riley,” he said. “SOB still hasn’t called back.”

“He probably couldn’t tell you much anyway. Milo, I think Agnes Yeager knew Shawna’s pattern and suspected history had repeated itself in L.A., but she didn’t know the specifics.”

“Could be… The thing that bothers me is that whoever made Shawna dead really didn’t want her to be found. But just the opposite’s true of Lauren, and Michelle and Lance. We’re talking bodies left out in the open, someone flaunting – maybe wanting to set an example, or scare someone off. Something professional. None of that fits with a sex crime.”

“So the motives were different,” I said. “Shawna was a lust killing, the others were eliminated to shut them up.”

We passed the Laurel Canyon market, and the road took on a steep grade. Milo’s foot bore down on the accelerator, and the unmarked shuddered. As the trees zipped by my heart began racing.

“Oh, man.”

“What?”

“What if Shawna’s death is the secret? Lauren found out somehow, tried to profit from it. Talk about something worth killing for.”

He was silent till Mulholland. “How would Lauren find out?”

I had no answer for that. He began pulling on his earlobe. Took out a panatella. Asked me to light it and blew foul smoke out the window.

“Well,” he finally said, “maybe Jane can elucidate for us. Glad you’re here.” Angry smile. “This might require psychological sensitivity.”

We drove up to the gates of the Abbot house just before four P.M. Both the blue Mustang convertible and the big white Cadillac were parked in front, but no one answered Milo’s bell push. He tried again. The digital code sounded, four rings. Broken co

“Last time it was hooked up to the answering machine,” he said. “Cars in the driveway but no one’s home?”

“Probably just as we thought,” I said. “They went away, took a taxi.”

He jabbed the bell a third time, said, “Let’s talk to some neighbors,” and turned to leave as the third ring sounded. We were nearly at the car when Mel Abbot’s voice broke in.

“Please… this is not… this is…”

Then a dial tone.

Milo studied the gate, hiked his trousers, and had taken hold of an iron slat. But I’d already gotten a toehold, and I made it over first.

CHAPTER 22

WE RAN TO the front door. I tried the knob. Bolted. Milo pounded, rang the bell. “Mr. Abbot! It’s the police!”

No answer. The space to the right of the house was blocked by a ficus hedge. To the left was an azalea-lined flagstone pathway that led to the kitchen door. Also locked, but a ground-floor window was half open.

“Alarm screen’s in place,” said Milo. “Doesn’t look like it’s been breached. Wait here.” Unholstering his gun, he ran around to the back, returned moments later. “No obvious forced entry, but something’s wrong.” Replacing the weapon and snapping the holster cover, he flipped the screen on the partially open window, shouted in: “Mr. Abbot? Anyone home?”

Silence.

“There’s the alarm register,” he said, glancing at a side wall. “System’s off. Okay, boost me.” I cupped my hands, felt the crush of his weight for a second, then he hoisted himself in and disappeared.

“You stay put, I’m going to check it out.”

I waited, listening to suburban quiet, taking in what I could see of the backyard: a blue corner of swimming pool, teak furniture, old-growth trees screening out the neighboring property, pretty olive green shadows patching a lawn ski