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The doorway opened to a skimpy, dark hall. Tiny, meticulous bedroom to the left—maybe nine by nine, dominated by a queen bed covered with a filmy salmon-colored throw, the walls crowded with more dancing prints.
On the opposite side of the corridor was a spotless fiberglass bathroom. Translucent window, flesh-colored towels, brightly colored lotions on the shelf of a shower nook.
Milo said, “Okay if I look in the medicine cabinet?”
“Nothing to hide, go for it,” said Mona Kramm. “Since you’re a detective you can probably figure out who uses the tampons and who uses the electric shaver.”
He laughed, did a quick search, exited a moment later. “No prescription meds.”
“We’re both healthy,” she said. Her face fell. “Were.”
Sharing the right side with the lav was an even smaller bedroom, not much larger than Milo’s office, with a high, narrow window admitting a struggling spray of murky light.
No bed, just a futon on the floor. Three wire-mesh boxes were filled with precisely folded clothing. One was topped by a slab of plywoodthat served as a nightstand. Four pairs of shoes were lined up at the bottom of a particleboard closet. Inside, hanging garments and a couple of shelves.
“See what I mean?” said Mona Kramm. “But that’s the way they built it.”
As I thought about cells for captive women, Milo got busy, checking garment pockets, finding nothing. A reach to the rear of the closet’s top shelf produced a bag of marijuana and a bottle of pills prescribed to Amalia Beniste.
Mona Kramm’s eyeblink said she knew about the weed. A puzzled look said she’d never seen the pills.
Milo turned to me. “Frovatriptan?”
I said, “Migraine medication.”
“Oh,” said Mona Kramm. “That makes sense, sometimes he complained of headaches, could really eat ibuprofen—you saw the big bottle. His, not mine.”
“Any idea who Amalia Beniste is?”
“Never heard of her. Probably someone being nice and sharing.”
She pulled a phone out of a kimono pocket, did some thumb-work. “Here she is, works in wardrobe at Warner Bros.”
She showed us the Instagram page of a chipmunk-cheeked, purple-haired, steel-pierced woman in her twenties trying to pull off a gang sign but coming across goofy.
Milo copied in his pad. “Thanks.”
“You guys still use paper?”
“And buggy whips.”
Mona Kramm smiled. “Maybe Caspian met her on a job, got a bad headache and she felt sorry for him.”
“Makes sense.”
“You’re going to talk to her, too?”
“Any reason we shouldn’t?”
“Not really,” said Mona Kramm. “I just figured it’s not about Caspian, it’s abouther.”
The rest of the room search turned up nothing; Caspian Delage had led a life curiously devoid of details. And of pajamas. Or sweats. Anything resembling sleepwear.
I said so.
Mona Kramm said, “Oh, that. Caspian said he had sensitive skin, always slept in the nude. I had no problem with it. I mean…”
