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—
The elevator groaned arthritically and took a while to reach the fourth floor. No one spoke.
Milo and I were keeping silent because bad news is best handled in a private place. Mona Kramm, tapping her foot and playing with her hair, maybe for the same reason. But also because she was in a confined space with two male strangers, however official.
During the ride, she bent her knee, placed her sole against her shin, and stood perfectly balanced. When the elevator belched, shuddered,and stopped, she unfolded slowly as the door made spitting noises and ground open.
Mona Kramm said, “Piece of junk. I usually take the stairs but didn’t know if you guys were into that.”
The three of us stepped into an off-white corridor faced with plywood doors painted black. At Unit 407, Milo and I stood back as Mona Kramm removed a key ring from her wrist and unlocked.
The apartment was what you see in L.A. when people settle for whatever they can get. Small, dark, close-feeling, all the charm of a hospital room.
Besides the expected doorway to bedrooms and lav, the rest of the layout was what’s peddled as open-plan but really meanslet’s save money by knocking up as few walls as possible.
Maybe two hundred square feet. Another arbitrary living area, eating limited to three stools at the counter of a kitchenette that made Shari Benedetto’s efficiency look like something out of a design magazine. The counters were some kind of turquoise plastic that made no pretense at being natural. But food prep went on here, nearly every inch crowded with pots, pans, utensils, a microwave, an industrial-strength juicer, assorted boxes and cans.
A single window on the far wall revealed the guano-specked stucco of a neighboring building. The furniture was tired, the sole nod to personal three posters of modern dance concerts. New York, Paris, London.
That plus the ballet shoes, the leotards, and the flexibility spelled out Mona Kramm’s passion. This place said so far, love had turned out unrequited.
She sat yoga-style, like Shari Benedetto. Unlike Benedetto, she remained tense as we faced her on a nubby gray couch redolent of ramen.
Milo said, “You’re a dancer?”
“In theory,” she said. “In reality, I teach little kids at a studio in Brentwood.” She smiled. “It’s not bad. They’re rich but not messed up, yet.”
A dancer and a stylist sharing this drab place. Two people who’d set their sights on creativity and beauty but lived without much of either.
Milo said, “There’s no good way to say this but—”
“He’s dead.”
“I’m afraid so.”
As if a sluice had been opened, Mona Kramm went from taut to traumatized.
“Oh God, no!” She made a retching sound and pitched forward.
Milo had one of his clean hankies ready. But she ignored it and wiped her eyes on a kimono sleeve. “How? Why Caspian?”
“Wish we knew,” said Milo. “What I can tell you is that Caspian was one of two people murdered a few nights ago.”
“Cordi Gannett,” she said. “Her, too?”
Stomach sounds rose from a flat belly. She groaned and slapped a hand over her gut.
“How did you know?”
“Because Caspian was sleeping over at her place a few nights ago. Cordi was also killed? This is…I don’t know what it is. What do you call it? A double?”
Milo said, “Two people dead.”
“Omigod. I can’t believe this.”
Milo said, “Did you know Cordi?”
“No, but I knewofher,” said Mona Kramm. “Caspian—his real name is Charlie, by the way—Caspian talked about her a lot. He thought she was brilliant. No, I never met her but from what he told me I worried she might get him into trouble.”
