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“You do that with the parents?”
“I was kidding. We actually didn’t talk much because he was detached from his daughter and bored with the evaluation process.”
“Wanting the gym, not custody,” he said. “Using his ownkidas a prop. Interesting, no?”
I nodded.
“Something else,” he said. “You always say people go for the familiar even if it’s destructive. So a guy with lousy daddy skills might’ve appealed to someone like Cordi, no? Then maybe she smartened up and rejected him and he didn’t like it.”
“Could be.”
He said, “Not a rousing vote of confidence. Am I off base?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Just digesting. Given my history with Hoffgarden, I can’t be there when you interview him but I’d sure like to observe once you’ve got him in a room.”
“When, not if.”
“There’s your vote of confidence.”
“Hmmph. Meanwhile, I’ve still got an unknown victim and you heard what Basia said about facial reconstruction. Any suggestions?”
“When we considered John Doe as a suspect we framed his sleeping on the couch as possible evidence of a spat. Now we know nothing sexual happened so maybe he was just a friend without benefits.”
“Platonic sleepover.” He laughed. “Sounds like the name of an indie band. The media blitz is bound to come. Best case, someone who knew them both will come forward.”
He drove a bit more, checked Waze at the next red light. All the freeways pointing westward were snarled heavier than when we’d arrived.
“City of Angels,” he said. “Okay, let’s try for the best room in hell.”
—
I commandeered Waze and we began a homeward trek through sad, gray miles of warehouses, fast-food joints, knock-up apartments, and geriatric frame houses in varying states of decay.
A tedious mile later, approaching another red on an access road lined with dumpsters, he sailed through and continued way above the speed limit.
I said, “Scofflaw.”
“Executive privilege. Any sign of the thought police?”
“What do they look like?”
“Tight-lipped, tight-eyed, tight-assed gnomes clutching reg books and rubber stamps. Not in view?”
“Not unless they’re hiding in the trash.”
“You never know,” he said. “Okay. Time for more theory. As a member of a sexual minority, I’m self-designating as being permitted to suggest that a platonic relationship between a male and a good-looking female might have significance.”
I said, “John Doe was gay?”
“It’s worth considering, no? And to make matters even more boorishly insensitive, I’m now going to wonder out loud about a stereotypic gay occupation.”
“Homicide detective?”
He fought laughter, lost, sputtered, took a moment to recover.
“The departmenthasmade progress and I haven’t gotten hate mail in my locker for a long time,” he said. “But I was thinking more on the lines of hairdresser, maybe one of those fashion stylists. Because Cordi’s goal was to become a mega-bucks online celeb. Plus she had modeling experience. So I can see her using someone to help her look her best.”
I said, “Good point and so far, other than dating Hoffgarden two years ago, we haven’t found any romantic connections. So maybe shewas avoiding intimacy in order to concentrate on her career. If so, a gay man would’ve been a great candidate for friendship.”
