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The computer fiddling I’d begun while waiting for Porer was an attempt to learn about Zak the drummer, a former love interest of Cordi Gannett.
Zak Z. Mountain, born Zachary Lee Mitchell.
Born forty-eight years ago in Lansing, Michigan, death two years ago from liver disease. No Wikipedia bio, just an obit on a site called Metal Memories. Mountain’s five marriages had produced two children. The fickle nature of the music business plus drug and alcohol issues had led to retirement and a return to Lansing, where Mountain, now Mitchell, found a job painting cars in a body shop.
No mention of Gannett. Another transitory relationship. Had she ever experienced any other kind?
Wondering about that, I went for a brief run, came back, showered, put on a T-shirt and sweatpants, and checked in with my service.
Louise, one of the operators who’s been around for a long time, said, “Hi, Dr. Delaware, I was just about to call you. Some lawyer insisted on leaving a long message, said it was urgent that you get it ‘posthaste.’ Shall I read it to you, posthaste?”
“Proceed at your own pace,” I said.
She laughed.
“Let me guess, Louise. A guy named Porer.”
“That’s the one, Doctor. Puffed-up voice, like he’s got a mouthful of whatever. He dictated to me like he was performing onstage, then had me read it back to him.”
“Sorry for the hassle.”
“Oh, it’s okay, Dr. Delaware. Any bit of entertainment is welcome. Ready?”
“Shoot.”
“ ‘Doctor, this is Lewis Evan Porer. I wanted to circle back to make sure we didn’t get off on the wrong foot. Obviously, there were crossedwires. Obviously, you’re the master of your own professional destiny and I’m more than pleased to accede to your wishes.’ ”
“Thanks, Louise.”
“Never heard a lawyer eat crow like that, Dr. Delaware. All this time, you’ve never seemed the least bit frightening to me.”
CHAPTER
12
Milo had expected lab results later in the day but I didn’t hear from him until ten the following morning. So his opening sentence was no surprise.
“The bad news is no prelim, yet. The staff’s been inahemtraining sessions. Not science, workplace communications skills. Didn’t know you needed sensitivity to talk to petri dishes.”
“Hey,” I said, “microbes are people, too. What’s the good news?”
“I found Cordi’s mom in the marriage license files. She’s been hitched twice, a short-term deal twenty-seven years ago and one that’s lasted for seventeen years running. Her married name is Blanding and her current address is on North Camden Drive in Beverly Hills. I’m planning a drop-in, would appreciate your presence.”
“When?”
“I’ll work around you. If there’s any time psychological wisdom can help, it’s dealing with mothers of dead kids.”
“It’s an open day.”
“Excellent. Pick you up in forty.”
—
I put on a white shirt, jeans, and a blue blazer, used the waiting time to learn what I could about Renata Blanding.
Pairing her name withcamden drivegave me her exact address on the 700 block. A real estate site added specifics. Fifty-five-hundred-square-foot, single-occupancy dwelling on a quarter-acre lot. Built in 1927 and purchased fifteen years ago by the Gregory S. and Renata Blanding Family Trust.
Gregory S. Blanding turned out to be an ENT physician with an office in Century City. Specialties in throat conditions and septal realignment. No photos on any professional sites and no apparent work history for Renata, but the couple had been snapped at last year’s Black and White Ball, a fundraiser for the Beverly Hills Police Department.
