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He said, “Meaning I should follow up, anyway.”
“Up to you.”
“Meaning definitely. Fine, but not now, too bushed. Maybe tomorrow unless a miracle occurs and I get an actual lead.”
—
On Monday, I woke up at six forty-five, was at my desk an hour later, and found a text from Milo sent seven minutes ago.
Call me.
I said, “Per your instruction. Good morning.”
He said, “The Lulu thing stuck in my head. No doubt because you planted it there.”
“I said it was up to you.”
“But the way you said it. Anyway, I managed to reach Rikki Montel and she said, ‘Oh, yeah, Lulu, saw her with him a few times at the Four Seasons.’ ”
“Another aging pro?”
“Nope, some sort of executive, Rikki thought she mentioned working in Santa Monica.”
“How did the two of them meet?”
“Gio introduced them at the Waldorf and Rikki sat down to have a drink. Rikki liked her because Lulu was successful but didn’t snob her out. She never learned a last name but I did a bunch of homeworklast night and found a hotshot named Lulu whose real name is Evelyn Mastrecht. Chief managing officer of a business software company on Twenty-Sixth Street.”
I said, “Not far from the day spa.”
“Gio’s happy hunting grounds,” he said. “Anyway I called her, she’d just gotten back from a business trip to Singapore and hadn’t heard about Gio. She broke down and said, sure, no problem talking but it had to be early because she’s flying to Santa Clara for lunch. Got her to pencil me in at eight thirty. You available?”
“Where on Twenty-Sixth?”
“You don’t need the address, I’ll pick you up at ten after.”
CHAPTER
33
Evelyn “Lulu” Mastrecht did what CMOs do at a company called Visuant Solutions, headquartered in a five-story, pink marble building just north of Olympic. A massive parking area was announced by aValet Onlysign backed by half a dozen sky-spraying fountains. The lot was spoon-shaped, with the entrance the stem and the bowl the rounded curb in front of the structure. Chunks of lava rock bordered cobblestone that annoyed the unmarked’s suspension. The surrounding landscaping was textbook Hawaiian hotel.
Most of the bowl was a four-deep stack of vehicles overseen by two valets in pink shirts and tan chinos. If you weren’t on the periphery, getting free would mean waiting as a giant rebus was solved. Milo slid in at the tail end of the congestion, leaving space between the unmarked and an armada of Teslas and gas-eating Euro prestige.
One of the attendants hurried toward us, shaking his head and wagging a finger. Mid-fifties and showing every second of it, with a pemmican-face shaded by a shaggy, improbably yellow mop. Walking fast but stiff-legged.
Former surfer or still riding the waves despite knotty knees.
He regarded the Impala with the disdain you sometimes see inpeople who can’t afford luxury but have aligned themselves with the power elite.
“Nope, you gotta pull up in front and have us park it.”
Milo flashed the badge. “Nope, I gotta stay right here.”
The attendant considered a retort but swallowed it. A frown seamed the skin around his lips, like a change purse pulled tight. “Okay, but give me the keys in case I have to move it.”
“Sorry, pal, no can do.” Clipping the badge to his breast pocket.
“What do you mean—hey—oh yeah, got it. You got lethal stuff in there.”
