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Randi Levine got out of her Audi, phone in one hand, small spiral datebook in the other. She looked at the canvases in Milo’s arms, raised her eyebrows but said nothing.
He placed the stack in the trunk of the unmarked, returned to Levine, handed over the keys and the remote and thanked her.
“The artwork,” she said. “You took it off the walls?”
“Nope, pulled it out of the garbage.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Original works by the late Ms. March. Your boss wasn’t appreciative.”
“I—okay, fine, whatever you say.”
“Thanks for your time.”
“Oka-ay.”
Seconds after she began driving away, her phone was at her mouth.
I said, “Loyal assistant notifying the boss. He gets sufficiently stirred up, he might call you and give something away.”
“You read my mind,” he said. “Aka doing your job.”
CHAPTER
25
Tracing the maids’ whereabouts remained Milo’s focus when we were back in his office. That changed when he logged onto his email and found an attachment containing Meagin March’s phone activity.
Seven months’ worth. He printed two copies, gave me one, sat back in his squealing desk chair, and began eyeballing.
I said, “Lots of calls but again, not a single text. Fits someone with secrets.”
He said, “She’s that hush-hush, why not just use burners?” He frowned. “Yeah, yeah, maybe she did. Okay, let’s take a closer look at what she did expose to the world.”
—
Not much more than we already knew.
Meagin March had amassed two hundred and nine days of reach-outs to nail salons, clothing boutiques and luxury department stores, jewelers, the day spa, food deliveries from high-end and health-conscious restaurants.
Nearly all the personal calls were to three numbers, all familiar. Back-and-forths with Lana Demarest and Toni Bowman.
One clarification: calls to and from Gio Aggiunta had begun justover three months ago. Phone contact between the lovers had always been brief, most calls lasting a minute or less.
Setting up jog-over dates, no need for chitchat?
I searched for a day-pattern for the trysts, found none. That made sense; the deciding factor had been Doug March’s absence.
I ran through the log twice, searching for evidence of another love interest, and came up empty. A minute later, Milo announced the same conclusion and cursed.
Then he pointed.
I said, “Just about to mention it.”
We’d come up with the same question mark, an eight-minute call from Meagin to an 805 number, just over two months ago.
He said, “Long call but only once. Maybe this is the ex she dumped and pissed off. They have a heated discussion, he stews, finally decides to come down here two months later to express his disappointment.”
