Henning watched impatiently as Lindemeyer leafed through the insurance photographs of the Jakes miniatures. The fence was a wizened hobbit of a man in his midfifties, his fingers black with tobacco stains. He left thumbprints on each of the images.
“What’s it worth to ya?”
With distaste, the young detective pulled two twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet.
Lindemeyer grunted. “Hundred.”
“Sixty, and I won’t report you for extortion.”
“Deal.”
Greedily, the older man stuffed the cash into his pocket and handed back the now smeared photographs.
“So?” Detective Henning repeated. “Have you seen those miniatures on the black market or haven’t you?”
“Nope.”
“That’s it? ‘Nope’? That’s all you got for me?”
Lindemeyer shrugged. “You asked me a question. I answered it.”
Henning made a lunge for his money. Lindemeyer cringed.
“Okay, okay. Look, Detective, if they was for sale, I woulda seen ’em. I’m the only guy on the West Coast who can move that niche, Victorian shit. You know it and so does everybody else. So either your boy’s skipped town or he ain’t selling. That’s real information, man. Maybe he wanted ’em for personal use.”
A psychopathic, homicidal rapist with a love for obscure nineteenth-century portraiture? Detective Henning didn’t think so. “Maybe he had a buyer lined up already,” he mused aloud. “Then he wouldn’t have needed your services.”
“Mebbe.”
“Do you know of any prominent collectors who might commission a job like this?”
“I might.” Lindemeyer eyed the sergeant’s wallet.
It was going to be a long and expensive afternoon.
“COULD YOU DO ME A FAVOR and check again?”
Detective Danny McGuire flashed the receptionist the same winning smile he’d used on the nurse at Cedars, but this time to no avail.
“I don’ need to check agin. I checked awready.”
Today’s gatekeeper at the government records office on Veteran was black, weighed around two hundred pounds, and was plainly in no mood to take shit from some dumb-ass Irish cop who figured he was God’s gift to women.
“We got no records for no Angela Ryman. Not Ryman RY, not Reiman REI, not any Angela Ryman. No births, no marriages, no deaths, no Social, no taxes. Not in California.”
Danny’s mind was flooded with doubts. One by one, he tried to rationalize them away.
Maybe she was born out of state.
Maybe she and Jakes got married in the Caribbean, or in Paris. Folks with that kind of money don’t just run down to city hall like the rest of us. The marriage certificate could be anywhere.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Even so, walking into the administration offices of Beverly Hills High School half an hour later, the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach remained.
“I need the records of a former student.” He tried to force some optimism into his voice. “She would have graduated eight or nine years ago.”
The male clerk smiled helpfully. “Certainly, Detective. What was the young lady’s name?”