Flesh And Blood

“Quiet,” snapped LeMoyne.

Milo smiled. Edged closer to the bed. “The story. So this is a story conference.” He laughed. “You guys are taking a meeting.”

“It’s not like that,” said Salander, wiping moist eyes.

“Stop blubbering,” ordered LeMoyne. “It’s unbecoming.”

“I’m sorry, Justin-”

“Stop apologizing!”

“Let me guess,” said Milo, stepping between the men. “Insider’s view of a blond beauty’s murder. Are you thinking big screen or made for TV?”

“No,” said Salander. “No, no, it’s just – Justin said if we registered the idea with the Writers Guild we could be protected – it would be like life insurance.”

“Ah,” said Milo. “You think if someone comes gu

Salander began crying.

“You asshole,” said LeMoyne. “You enjoy scaring him, don’t you?”

“He’s already scared,” said Milo. “Isn’t that right, Andy?”

“Don’t call him by his first name. It’s demeaning. Call him ‘mister.’ Treat him with respect.”

“I don’t care what he calls me, Justin.” Salander sniffed. “I just want to be safe.”

“That’s the problem,” said LeMoyne.

“What is?” Panic in Salander’s voice.

“You don’t care. You always fall short in the caring department. As well as in the thinking-things-through department.”

“Stop it, Justin-”

LeMoyne slammed the script shut. “This is bullshit. I’ve got appointments on hold, canceled meetings – Do what you want, Andy. It’s your life, take it where you want to-”

“The thing is,” said Milo, “I don’t care if you register the story. Make a million bucks from Lauren’s death, it’s the American way. But not before you tell me what you know. Because if you hold out, that puts into play yet another restriction of your freedom: withholding evidence.”

“Oh, bullshit,” said LeMoyne. “This is just total bullshit. I’m out of this, Andrew.”

“I need your help, Justin.”

LeMoyne gave a sick smile. “Oh, I don’t think so, Andy. I think you do just fine by yourself.”

“I don’t.” Salander wiped his nose with his arm. “I really need support, Justin-”

“That’s a brand-new shirt, use a tissue, for God’s sake.”

Salander looked around the room helplessly. Milo located the Kleenex box on the floor and handed it to him.

“What should I do, Justin?”

“Do what you want.”

Silence.

“I don’t know,” said Salander, throwing up his hands. He reached for the beer can.

“No more,” said LeMoyne. “You’ve had enough.”

Salander’s hand jerked back. He hugged himself. “Oh!” he said. “This is… so restrictive.”

LeMoyne shook his head. “I’m leaving.” But he didn’t move.

“What should I do?” Salander repeated.

Milo said, “How about telling the truth?”

Arms still wrapped around his torso, Salander began to rock. His smooth forehead creased. Thinking hard.

LeMoyne said, “For this I give up a lunch at Le Dome.”

CHAPTER 33

SALANDER’S DECISION CAME moments later, heralded by a long, breathy sigh.

“Yes, I am scared,” he said, shivering. “First Lo, then her mother.”

No mention of Michelle and Lance. He had more to fear than he knew.

Milo said, “Jane Abbot’s death confirmed your suspicion.”

Salander nodded.

Milo leaned over him. “I need to tell you, Andy. There may be others as well.”

“Oh my God-”

“Terror tactics,” muttered LeMoyne.

Milo stepped over to the desk and shadowed the older man. “A little fear wouldn’t be a bad idea for you either, sir.”

LeMoyne’s face lost color, but he smiled. “I’ve swum with the sharks, my friend.”

Milo smiled back. “You’ve swum with trout, my friend. We’re talking Great White.”

“Ah,” said LeMoyne. “I shudder.”

“What others?” said Salander.

“Associates of Lauren,” said Milo. “Now tell me what scares you, Andy.”

“I think I may know why Lo was murdered – I mean, I can’t be sure – but right from the begi

“Wondered about what, Andy?”

“The money. It’s always about money, right?”

“More often than not.”

Salander rocked some more.

Milo said, “Tell me about the money.”

“She – Lo – I always wondered how she supported herself. ’Cause she never worked much except for that part-time research job, and that couldn’t pay for Moschino and Prada and Jimmy Choo, right? Also, her attitude – she had that relaxed thing about money that you only get if you have it, know what I mean? In fact, when I first met her I thought she was a rich kid – inherited wealth. But she said she’d been on her own for years, so – I mean, I wasn’t nosy, but it made me wonder. She was a full-time student. Where was it all coming from? Then – after I moved in, maybe a month after – she happened to leave some mail out on the kitchen counter. On top was investment stuff, her portfolio, from some broker up in Seattle. I’m no snoop, but she left it right out there on the table, so how could I help but see the zeros?”

“Lots of zeros.”

“Lots,” Salander agreed. “I never asked her about it, we never talked about it. And she was supergenerous – when we went out for a meal together, she always insisted on paying. When we antiqued, she’d buy me things – cuff links, vintage shirts.”

“Must be your boyish charm,” muttered LeMoyne.

Salander’s hand balled. “Once upon a time you thought so! Stop picking at me!”

LeMoyne brought the script closer to his eyeglasses.

Salander said, “You’re a grump, but I still love you, Justin.”

LeMoyne whispered something.

“What?” said Andy.

“Love you, too.”

Salander smiled. “Thank you.”

Low grumble. “Welcome.”

Milo said, “So the source of Lauren’s money puzzled you. Did she ever talk about any other jobs she’d held? Before the research thing?”

“Modeling,” said Salander. “She said she’d modeled – I told you that, didn’t I?”

“Anything besides modeling?”

Salander stared down at the bedspread. “No. Like what?”

“The girl was a hooker,” said LeMoyne. “I keep telling you that.”

“You don’t know that, Justin!”

“Oh, Jesus, Andrew, I met her. She had hooker written all over her.”

Milo said, “How many times did you meet her, Mr. LeMoyne?”

“Two or three times – in passing. But that was enough to know what she was. She was high-priced – no doubt about that. But she had the moves – the look, the walk, the whole phony-class thing going on. For all I know, she was trained by Gretchen Stengel.”

“You know Gretchen Stengel?”

“I know of her,” said LeMoyne. “Everyone in the industry does. We’ve never lunched, but I’ve certainly seen her around. And run into many of her little vixens. Back when Gretchen was plying her trade, you couldn’t go anywhere that was anywhere without tripping over them.”

“Easy to spot,” said Milo.

LeMoyne rolled his eyes. “Even for you, Sherlock. Gretchen went for a type – cool but remotely friendly, the ready rap, the body, the clothes. The clothes were always the tip-off. A girl who shouldn’t have been able to afford five grand worth of couture but wore it well.”

LeMoyne smiled and closed the script. “Not that it helped. If you knew the difference between real class and bullshit. Every one of those girls had a certain… commo

He crossed his legs. “Beleeeve me, Detective, that takes more than aerobics and a crash course on what fork to use. Still, you can fool most of the people…” To Salander: “She was a hooker, Andy.”

Salander gazed up at Milo.

Milo said, “She did have that in her past, Andy.”

“Oh…” Another labored sigh. “I’m très naïve, aren’t I? I guess it was right there in front of me, but I just didn’t want to know – Not that it would’ve mattered. I don’t judge, why should I judge? And I swear the whole time we lived together she never did anything illegal or brought anyone home – I guess when she took those long weekends she was… She told me… I can’t be blamed for believing her. Okay, fine, I’m naïve and stupid.” Staring at LeMoyne.