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“Hello, Alex.” Soft fingers touched mine and retracted. She ushered us in.
A tiny front space was set up with minimalist furniture and abstract art prints biased toward gray and black. A single doorway to the right made me think of the place where Cordi Gannett had died.
The front area was an ode to multitasking: sitting, dining, and whatever cooking you could pull off in an open kitchenette the size of a broom closet. Clear counters and the absence of food smells said no recent attempts.
The almost-home of someone prone to frequent absences.
The sitting part was assigned to a six-foot, white leather couch with red metal legs, the obvious place for us, and a black leather sling-back chair where Shari Benedetto settled gracefully and faced us, legs crossed yoga-style. Her palms lowered to her knees and her eyelids fluttered. But she kept her eyes open and curious.
The couch was as soft as concrete. Milo did a fine job of looking comfortable. “Thanks for meeting with us, ma’am.”
She mouthed, “Ma’am.” Amused by the word, as are lots of youngwomen. “Of course. I’d offer you something but I’ve been traveling and there’s nothing in the house.”
“Out on a shoot?”
She nodded. “A pilot filmed in Vancouver. I got to see a trained grizzly bear do some pretty amazing stunts.”
As Milo took out his pad, a sleek black cat with onyx eyes glided in from the doorway. Crossing the room with confidence, it jumped up effortlessly and sank into Shari Benedetto’s lap.
Feline in silent repose, but studying us with an expression that evoked a genetic link to panthers and leopards.
Milo said, “Nice cat.”
“To me,” said Shari Benedetto. “Boris has been known to get aggressive with other people.”
I wondered if the presence of an attack cat explained her trust level. Hopefully not; I knew of pit bulls and rottweilers who’d faced off against guns or knives and ended up as vital as stuffed animals.
Milo said, “Guess we’ll have to be on our best behavior.”
Shari Benedetto smiled weakly and let out two puffs of exhalation.
“Mindfulness,” she said. “Cordi’s actually the one who told me about it.”
“May I ask if you were her—”
“Client? No. We just used to talk while I was prepping her for some of her videos.”
“Some but not all?”
“Just some,” she said. “I travel a lot. If I was in town, I’d help her. That’s actually where I met Caspian. He was doing her hair. And by the way, his real name is Charlie Baxter.”
Milo’s pen danced. “Really. How’d you find out?”
“By posting like you said. No one knew except one of my friends, also a makeup artist, who worked with him on an MTV shoot yearsago. He told her his real name was Charlie Baxter and that he hated it and decided to go exotic.”
Milo scrawled some more. “Thanks, that’s super-helpful. Would she be willing to talk to us?”
“Mariah’s in Singapore working on a film and was definite about that being all she knew. We both agreed that we liked Caspian but neither of us was close to him.”
“Is there anything you can tell us about him? Or Cordi.”
“From the little I saw, he was sweet, very soft-spoken.” She sniffed back tears. “So terrible, a sweet guy like him…no, there really isn’t anything beyond that, Lieutenant. Basically, the three of us would chitchat when he was doing her hair and I was waiting around to touch her up. I did work with him on a couple of other jobs but not by plan and only a couple. Both were private parties. A woman from Encino who wanted to be one of the Real Housewives had me tart her up.” She stuck out her tongue. “Another woman from Brentwood wanted to surprise her husband on their anniversary with a tattoo and a makeover.”
I said, “You travel a lot.”
“All the time. Mostly in Canada because it’s cheaper to shoot there, but also in New Mexico and Utah and South Dakota.”
I said, “You do a lot of westerns?”
