I spent the next day interviewing the three women who’d filed suit againstDr. Patrick Hauser. Individually, they came across vulnerable. As a group theywere calmly credible.
Time for Hauser’s insurance company to settle and cut its losses.
The following morning, I got to work on my report, was still in the thinkingphase when Milo called.
“How’s it going, big guy?”
“It’s going nowhere at warp speed. Still haven’t gotten into Michaela’splace, landlord doesn’t like leaving La Jolla.If he doesn’t get here soon, I’m popping the lock. I talked to the Reno detective who nabbedReynold Peaty for peeping. The story was Peaty was in an alley behind anapartment building, drunk as a skunk, looking through the drapes of a rear unitbedroom. The objects of his affliction were three college girls. Some guywalking his dog saw Peaty wagging his weenie and yelled. Peaty ran, the guygave chase, knocked Peaty to the ground, called the cops.”
“Brave citizen.”
“Defensive tackle on the U. Nevada football team,” he said, “Studentneighborhood.”
“Ground-floor rear unit?” I said.
“Just like Michaela’s. The girls were a little younger than Michaela but youcould make a case for victim similarity. What got Peaty off light was thatthese three had a history of being less than careful about the drapes. Also,the prosecutors never got word of Peaty’s burglary conviction years before.That was a daylight break-in, cash and ladies’ undies.”
“Voyeur meets up with exhibitionists and everyone goes home happy?”
“Because the exhibitionists didn’t want to testify. The girls’ exuberanceextended to getting creative with videotape. Their main concern was theirparents finding out. Peaty’s a definite creep and I’ve promoted him to thepenthouse of the high-priority bin.”
“Time for a second interview.”
“I tried. No sign of him or anyone else at the PlayHouse this morning, dittofor his apartment. Mrs. Stadlbraun wanted to have tea again. I drank enough toconstipate a rhino and she talked about her grandkids and her godkids and thelamentable state of modern morality. She said she’d started watching Peaty moreclosely but he’s gone most of the day. I’m gonna have Binchy tail him.”
“Any decent phone tips?”
“Mostly the usual Martians and maniacs and morons, but there was one I’mfollowing up on. That’s why I called. Wire service picked up the Times story andsome guy in New Yorkphoned me yesterday. Couple of years ago his daughter went missing out here.What got me interested was she was going to acting school, too.”
“The PlayHouse?”
“Father has no idea. There seems to be lots he doesn’t know. An MP reportwas filed on this girl—Tori Giacomo—but it doesn’t look like anyone pursued it.No surprise, given her age and no sign of foul play. The guy insisted on flyingout so I figure I can spare him some time. We’re scheduled at three p.m., hopehe likes Indian food. If you’ve got time, I could use some supplementaryintuition.”
“About what?”
“Ruling his daughter out. Listen to him but don’t tell me what I want tohear.”
“Do I ever?”
“No,” he said. “That’s why you’re my pal.”
 
--- oOo ---
 
Pink madras curtains separate Café Moghul’s interior from the traffic andlight of Santa Monica Boulevard.The shadowy storefront is walking distance from the station and when Milo needs to bolt the confines of his office, he uses itas an alternative work site.
The owners are convinced the presence of a large, menacing-looking detectiveserves the same purpose as a well-trained rottweiler. Once in a while Milo obliges them by handling homeless schizophrenics whowander in and try to sample the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet.
The buffet’s a recent introduction. I’m not convinced it wasn’t put in placefor Milo.
When I got there at three p.m., he was seated behind three plates heapedwith vegetables, rice, curried lobster, and some kind of tandoori meat. Abasket of onion naan was half full. A pitcher of clove-flavored tea sat at hisright elbow. Napkin tied around his neck. Only a few sauce specks.
Off-hour for lunch and he was the only diner. The smiling, bespectacledwoman who runs the place said, “He’s here, sir,” and led me to his usual tableat the rear.
He chewed and swallowed. “Try the lamb.”
“A little early for me.”
“Chai tea?” said the bespectacled woman.
I pointed to the pitcher. “Just a glass.”
“Very good.”
Last time I’d seen her, she’d been trying out contact lenses.
She said, “I had allergies to the cleaning solution. My nephew’s anophthalmologist, he says LASIK’s safe.”
Milo tried to hide his wince but I caughtit. He lives with a surgeon but blanches at the thought of doctor visits.
“Good luck,” I said.
The woman said, “I’m still not sure,” and left to get my glass.
Milo wiped his mouth and pulled a bluefolder from his attaché. “Copy of Tori Giacomo’s missing person file. Feel freeto read but I can summarize in a minute.”
“Go ahead.”
“She was living in North Hollywood, alone in a single, working as a waitressat a seafood place in Burbank.She told her parents she was coming out to be a star but no one’s aware of anyparts she got and she had no agent. When she disappeared, the landlord storedher junk for thirty days then dumped it. By the time MP got around to checking,there was nothing left.”
“The parents weren’t notified when she skipped?”
“She was twenty-seven, didn’t leave their number on her rental application.”
“Who did she give as a reference?”
“File doesn’t say. We’re talking two years ago.” He consulted his Timex.“Her father phoned from the airport an hour ago. Unless there was some disasteron the freeway, he shoulda been here already.”
He squinted at numbers he’d scrawled on the cover of the folder, punched hiscell phone. “Mr. Giacomo? Lieutenant Sturgis. I’m ready for you…where? What’sthe cross street? No, sir, that’s Little Santa Monica, it’s a short street thatstarts in Beverly Hills,which is where you are…three miles east of here…yes, there are two of them.Little and Big…I agree, it doesn’t make…yeah, L.A. can be a little strange…justturn around and go north to Big Santa Monica…there’s some construction but youcan get through…see you, sir.”
He hung up. “Poor guy thinks he’s confused now.”
 
Twenty minutes later a compact, dark-haired man in his fifties pushed therestaurant door open, sniffed the air, and walked straight toward us as if hehad a score to settle.
Short legs but big strides. Racewalking to what?
He wore a brown tweed sportcoat that fit around the shoulders but was tooroomy everywhere else, a faded blue plaid shirt, navy chinos, bubble-toed workshoes. The dark hair was flat-black with reddish tints that betrayed the use ofdye. Dense at the sides but sparse on top—just a few strands over a shiny dome.His chin was oversized and cleft, his nose fleshy and flattened. Brooding eyeslooked us over as he approached. No taller than five nine but his hands werehuge, sausage-fingered, furred at the knuckles with more black hair.
In one hand was a cheap red suitcase. The other shot out. “Lou Giacomo.”
Choosing me first. I introduced myself, minus the doctorate, and he shiftedquickly to Milo.
“Lieutenant.” Going for rank. Military experience or plain old logic.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Giacomo. Hungry?”
Giacomo’s nose wrinkled. “They got beer?”
“All kinds.” Milo summoned the bespectacledwoman.
Lou Giacomo told her, “Bud. Regular, not Light.” Removing his jacket, hedraped it over the back of his seat, tweaked the arms and the shoulders and thelapel until it hung straight. The plaid shirt was short-sleeved. His forearmswere muscled, hirsute cudgels. Producing a billfold, he withdrew a pale bluebusiness card and handed it to Milo.
Milo passed it over.
 
LOUISA. GIACOMO,JR.
Appliance and Small Engine Repair
You Smash ’Em, We Patch ’Em
 
Red wrench logo in the center. Address and phone number in Bayside, Queens.
Giacomo’s beer arrived in a tall, chilled glass. He looked at it but didn’tdrink. When the bespectacled woman left, he wiped the rim of the glass with hisnapkin, squinted, swabbed some more.
“Appreciate you meeting with me, Lieutenant. Learn anything about Tori?”
“Not yet, sir. Why don’t you fill me in?”
Giacomo’s hands clenched. He bared teeth too even and white to be anythingbut porcelain. “First thing you gotta know: No one looked for Tori. I calledyour department a bunch of times, talked to all these different people, finallyI reached some detective—some guy named Mortensen. He told me nothing but Ikept calling. He got sick of hearing from me, made it real clear Tori wasn’thigh-priority, it was missing kids he was into. Then he stopped answering mycalls, so I flew out but by that time he’d retired and moved to Oregon or somewhere. Ilost my patience, said something to the detective they transferred me to, tothe effect of what’s wrong with you, you care more about traffic tickets thanpeople? He had nothing to say.”
Giacomo frowned into his beer. “Sometimes I lose my patience. Not that itwoulda made a difference. I coulda been the nicest guy in the world, no one wasgonna do anything to find Tori. So I have to go back and tell my wife I gotnothing and she goes and has a nervous breakdown on me.”
He pinged a thumbnail on the side of his glass.
Milo said, “Sorry.”
“She got over it,” said Giacomo. “Doctors gave her antidepressants,counseling, whatever. Plus, she had five other kids to deal with—the baby’sthirteen, still in the house. Keeping busy, that’s the best thing. Helps hernot think about Tori.”
Milo nodded and drank tea. Giacomo finallylifted his glass and drank.
“Tastes like Bud,” he said. “What is this place, Pakistani?”
“Indian.”
“We got those where I come from.”
“Indians?”
“Them and their restaurants. I never been.”
“Bayside,” said Milo.
“Grew up there, stayed there. Hasn’t changed that bad except now on top ofyour Italians and your Jews you get Chinese and other Orientals and Indians. Ifixed a coupla their washing machines. Ever been to Bayside?”
Milo shook his head.
Giacomo looked at me.
I said, “Been to Manhattan,that’s it.”
“That’s the city. The city’s for the filthy rich people and homeless poorpeople, you got no room for the normal people in between.” He took a generousswallow of beer. “Definitely Bud.” Rolling a fist on the table, he flexed hisforearms. Tendons jumped. The big, white teeth again. Eager to bite something.
“Tori wanted to be noticed. Since she was a little girl, my wife told hershe was special. Taking her to these baby beauty contests, sometime she won aribbon, it made the wife happy. Dancing and singing lessons, all these schoolplays. Problem was, Tori’s grades weren’t so great, one semester theythreatened her she’d have to drop out of theater arts unless she passed math.She passed with a D, but that’s what it took, threats.”
I said, “Acting was her main thing.”
“Her mother was always telling her she could be this big movie star.Encouraging her, for the whatchmacallit, the self-esteem. Sounds good but italso put ideas in Tori’s head.”
“Ambitions,” I said.
Giacomo pushed his glass away. “Tori shoulda never come out here, what didshe know about being on her own? It was the first time she was ever on a plane.This is a crazy place, right? You guys tell me if I’m wrong.”
Milo said, “It can be rough.”
“Crazy,” Giacomo repeated. “Tori never worked a day in her life before shecame out here. Until the baby came along she was the only girl, it’s not likeshe’s gonna work with me. Right?”
“Did she live at home before she came out here?”
“Always, with her mother doing everything for h............