Milo.
“That seems to be your tune.”
Milo smiled. “Kayla Bartell—”
“Haven’t seen her around for a while. She knew Gav from high school, and they fooled around for a while.”
“Fooled around?”
“Like kids do,” said Quick. “Her father’s some kind of composer. Eileen informs me he’s important.”
“You’ve never met him.”
“Why would I?”
“Gavin and Kayla—”
“That was Gav’s business . . . to be honest, guys, I don’t get these questions,” said Quick. “What happened can’t have anything to do with Gav. He went up to Mulholland with some girl and a pervert—some sex fiend—took advantage, right? It’s obvious, right? Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
Before Milo could answer, Quick’s eyes swung to the stairs. Eileen Paxton stomped down, ignored us, and hurried into the kitchen.
A kitchen faucet opened. Then, the hard clash of pans. Moments later, Sheila Quick made her way down the stairs, tentative, unsteady. She stopped on the bottom step, studied the floor, as if unwilling to commit. Her eyes were unfocused, and she gripped the banister for support. She wore a pink housecoat, had aged a decade overnight.
She saw us, said, “Hello” in a slurred voice. She noticed the cigarette in her husband’s hand, and her lips turned down.
Jerome Quick smoked defiantly. “Don’t stand on the bottom like that, come all the way down—be careful, you’re on Valium.” He made no effort to help her.
She remained in place. “Is there anything . . . new, Detective?”
Milo shook his head. “Sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Qui—”
“No, no, no, you’re helping me—us. You were very . . . gracious. Last night. It can’t have been easy for you. You were gracious. It wasn’t easy for you or for me.”
Jerry Quick said, “Sheila, go back to bed. You’re—”
“They were nice last night, Jerry. It’s only polite that I—”
“I’m sure they were great, but—”
“Jerry. I. Want. To. Be. Polite.” Sheila Quick came down the stairs and sat down on a side chair. “Hello,” she said, brightly.
“Ma’am,” said Milo, “we have learned that the girl with Gavin wasn’t Kayla Bartell.”
Sheila Quick said, “You said she was blond.”
Jerome Quick said, “There’s a rare commodity in L.A.”
“I do have a picture,” said Milo. “It’s not a pleasant picture, it’s postmortem, but if you could look at it—if we could identify her, it might speed things along.”
Sheila Quick stared at him. He showed her the death shot.
“She looks so . . . dead. Poor little thing.” Shaking her head. She snatched the photo from Milo and held it closer. Her fingers trembled, and the corners flapped. “Are you showing pictures like this of Gavin to other people?”
“Sheila,” said Quick.
“No, ma’am,” said Milo. “We know who Gavin is.”
She examined the photo. “Gavin never said he had a new girlfriend.”
“Gavin was twenty,” said Jerome Quick. “He didn’t need to check in about his social life.”
Sheila Quick continued to stare at the picture. Finally, she handed it back.
“Another one,” she said.
“Ma’am?”
“Someone else’s baby is gone.”
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“That seems to be your tune.”
Milo smiled. “Kayla Bartell—”
“Haven’t seen her around for a while. She knew Gav from high school, and they fooled around for a while.”
“Fooled around?”
“Like kids do,” said Quick. “Her father’s some kind of composer. Eileen informs me he’s important.”
“You’ve never met him.”
“Why would I?”
“Gavin and Kayla—”
“That was Gav’s business . . . to be honest, guys, I don’t get these questions,” said Quick. “What happened can’t have anything to do with Gav. He went up to Mulholland with some girl and a pervert—some sex fiend—took advantage, right? It’s obvious, right? Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
Before Milo could answer, Quick’s eyes swung to the stairs. Eileen Paxton stomped down, ignored us, and hurried into the kitchen.
A kitchen faucet opened. Then, the hard clash of pans. Moments later, Sheila Quick made her way down the stairs, tentative, unsteady. She stopped on the bottom step, studied the floor, as if unwilling to commit. Her eyes were unfocused, and she gripped the banister for support. She wore a pink housecoat, had aged a decade overnight.
She saw us, said, “Hello” in a slurred voice. She noticed the cigarette in her husband’s hand, and her lips turned down.
Jerome Quick smoked defiantly. “Don’t stand on the bottom like that, come all the way down—be careful, you’re on Valium.” He made no effort to help her.
She remained in place. “Is there anything . . . new, Detective?”
Milo shook his head. “Sorry to bother you again, Mrs. Qui—”
“No, no, no, you’re helping me—us. You were very . . . gracious. Last night. It can’t have been easy for you. You were gracious. It wasn’t easy for you or for me.”
Jerry Quick said, “Sheila, go back to bed. You’re—”
“They were nice last night, Jerry. It’s only polite that I—”
“I’m sure they were great, but—”
“Jerry. I. Want. To. Be. Polite.” Sheila Quick came down the stairs and sat down on a side chair. “Hello,” she said, brightly.
“Ma’am,” said Milo, “we have learned that the girl with Gavin wasn’t Kayla Bartell.”
Sheila Quick said, “You said she was blond.”
Jerome Quick said, “There’s a rare commodity in L.A.”
“I do have a picture,” said Milo. “It’s not a pleasant picture, it’s postmortem, but if you could look at it—if we could identify her, it might speed things along.”
Sheila Quick stared at him. He showed her the death shot.
“She looks so . . . dead. Poor little thing.” Shaking her head. She snatched the photo from Milo and held it closer. Her fingers trembled, and the corners flapped. “Are you showing pictures like this of Gavin to other people?”
“Sheila,” said Quick.
“No, ma’am,” said Milo. “We know who Gavin is.”
She examined the photo. “Gavin never said he had a new girlfriend.”
“Gavin was twenty,” said Jerome Quick. “He didn’t need to check in about his social life.”
Sheila Quick continued to stare at the picture. Finally, she handed it back.
“Another one,” she said.
“Ma’am?”
“Someone else’s baby is gone.”
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