He sat down heavily on an overstuffed couch. “Guess I don’t need to tell you about kids- I’m just going on because frankly I’m pretty rattled by all this. Where the hell could she be? What about this detective- you reach him yet?”
“Not yet. Let me try again.”
He sprang up and brought back a cellular phone.
I dialed Milo’s home, got the recorded message, then heard it break.
“Hello?”
“Rick? This is Alex. Is Milo there?”
“Hi, Alex. Sure. We just got in- saw a bad movie. Hold on.”
Two seconds, then: “Yeah?”
“Ready to start early?”
“On what?”
“Private-eyeing?”
“It can’t wait till morning?”
“Something’s come up.” I looked over at Ramp. Staring at me, haggard. Choosing my words carefully, I recounted what had happened, including McCloskey’s questioning and release, and the news of Melvin Findlay’s death in prison. Expecting Milo to comment on either or both. Instead, he said, “She take any clothes with her?”
“Melissa says no.”
“How can Melissa be sure?”
“She says she knows the contents of her mother’s closet, could tell if anything was missing.”
Ramp looked at me sharply.
Milo said, “Even a skimpy little negligee?”
“I don’t think it was anything like that, Milo.”
“Why not?”
I shot a glance over at Ramp. Still staring, his drink untouched. “It doesn’t fit.”
“Ah. Hubby at close proximity?”
“Correct.”
“Okay, let’s switch to another lane. What have the local cops done, other than drive around?”
“That’s it as far as I know. No one’s too impressed with their level of competence.”
“They’re not known as stone geniuses out there, but what else should they be doing? Going door to door and antagonizing the trillionaires? Lady staying out late isn’t Judge Crater. It’s only been a few hours. And with the kind of car she’s driving, someone might actually see it. They put out bulletins- for what they’re worth?”
“The police chief said they did.”
“You hobnobbing with police chiefs now?”
“He was here.”
“The personal touch,” he said. “Ah, the rich.”
“What about the FBI?”
“Nah, those guys won’t touch it unless there’s definite evidence of a crime, preferably one that will make the headlines. Unless your affluent friends have heavy-duty political connections.”
“How heavy-duty?”
“Someone in a position to call Washington and lean on the director. Even then, she’s gonna have to be missing for a couple of days for the Feds- for anyone- to take it seriously. Without some kind of evidence of a bona fide crime, what they’ll do is eventually send over a couple of agents who look like actors, to take a report, march around the house in their junior G-man shades, French-kissing their walkie-talkies. What’s it been, six hours?”
I looked at my watch. “Closer to seven.”
“It doesn’t scream major felony, Alex. What else have you got to tell me?”
“Nothing much. I just got back from talking to her therapists. They had no major insights.”
“Well,” he said, “you know those types. Better at asking questions than answering them.”
“You have any you want to ask?”
“I could go through some motions.”
Ramp was sipping and eyeing me over the rim of his glass. I said, “That might be useful.”
“I guess I could make it over there in a half-hour or so, but basically it’s going to be a placebo routine. Because the kind of stuff you want to do in a real missing-persons case- financial searches, credit-card checks- have to take place during working hours. Anybody think of checking hospitals?”
“I assume the police have. If you’d like to-”
“No big sweat making a few calls. In fact, I can do plenty from right here rather than spend thirty minutes getting over there.”
“I think it would be a good idea to do it face-to-face.”
“You do, huh?”
“Yup.”
“Lots of shaky knees? Power of placebo?”
“Yup.”
“Hold on.” Hand over receiver. “Yeah, okay, Dr. Silverman’s not happy but he’s being saintly about it. Maybe I can even get him to pick out my tie.”
Ramp and I waited without talking much. He, drinking and sinking progressively lower into one of the overstuffed chairs. Me, thinking about how Melissa would be affected if her mother didn’t return soon.
I considered going up to her room to see how she was doing, remembered what Ramp had said about her being beat, and decided to let her rest. Depending on how things turned out, she might not be sleeping well for a while.
Half an hour passed, then another twenty minutes. When the chimes sounded I got to the door ahead of Ramp and opened it. Milo padded in, dressed as well as I’d ever seen him. Navy hopsack blazer, gray slacks, white shirt, maroon tie, brown loafers. Clean-shaven and he’d gotten a haircut- the usual lousy one, cropped too close at the back and sides, the sideburns trimmed to mid-ear. Three months off duty and he still looked like the arm of somebody’s law.
I did the introductions. Watched Ramp’s face change as he got a good look at Milo. Eyes narrowing, mustache twitching as if plagued by fleas.
Flinty suspicion. Marlboro Man staring down rustler varmints. Gabney’s cowboy suit would have looked better on him.
Milo must have seen it, too, but he didn’t react.
Ramp stared a while longer, then said, “I hope you can help.”
More suspicion. It had been a while since Milo’s picture had been on TV but maybe Ramp had a good memory. Actors- even stupid ones- often did. Or perhaps his memory had been prompted by good old-fashioned homophobia.
I said, “Detective Sturgis is on leave from the Los Angeles Police.” Pretty sure I’d mentioned that before.
Ramp stared.
Milo finally began to return the favor.
The two of them remained locked in a stare-fest. I thought of rodeo bulls in adjacent pens, snorting and pawing and butting the boards.
Milo broke first. “This is what I’ve been given so far.” He repeated, almost word for word, what I’d told him. “Accurate?”
“Yes,” said Ramp.
Milo grunted. Pulling a note pad and pen out of a jacket pocket, he turned pages, stopped, pointed with a thick finger. “I’ve confirmed that the San Labrador police put out countywide bulletins on her. Which is usually a waste of time, but with this car, maybe not. They’ve got the car listed as a 1954 Rolls-Royce sedan, license plate AD RR SD, Vehicle Identification Number SOG Twenty-two. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Color?”
“Black over shell-gray.”
“Better than a Toyota,” said Milo, “in terms of conspicuousness. Before I came out I called a few of the local emergency rooms. No one fitting her description’s been brought in.”
“Thank God,” said Ramp. Sweating.
Milo looked up at the ceiling, lowered his eyes and took in the front rooms with one sweeping glance. “Nice house. How many rooms?”
The question caught Ramp off guard. “I’m not really sure- never counted. About thirty, thirty-five, I guess.”
“How many does your wife actually use?”
“Use? Basically, she just uses her suite. It’s three rooms- four including the bathroom. Sitting area, bedroom, plus a side room with bookshelves, a desk, some exercise equipment, a refrigerator.”
“Sounds like a home within a home,” said Milo. “Do you have one, too?”
“Just one room,” said Ramp, coloring. “Right next to hers.”
Milo wrote something down. “Any reason you can think of why she decided to drive to the doctor alone?”
“I don’t know- that wasn’t the plan. I was supposed to go with her. We were going to leave at three. She called me at two-fifteen- I was at my restaurant- and told me not to bother coming home, she’d be driving herself. I questioned it, but she said she’d be fine. I didn’t want to weaken her confidence, so I didn’t press the matter.”