Nina Hassan’s house in the Bel Air hills was sleek, contemporary, gorgeous.
Just like her.
She eased open one of the twin brushed-copper double doors, regarded us as if we were salesmen. Late thirties with velvety skin a tad darker than the doors, she sported a mauve top that revealed an inch of hard belly, a pair of sprayed-on white jeans, silver sandals that revealed pampered, lavender-nailed feet. Her face was heart-shaped, topped by a cloud of black waves and curls. A full nose was graced by a cute little upward sweep at the tip. Probably surgical, but well done. Massive white hoops hung from seashell ears. A long, smooth neck swooped to a pair of high-end collarbones.
Milo flashed the badge.
“Yes? And?” Her eyes were a uniform black, defying analysis of her pupils.
“We’d like to talk to you about Jay Sloat.”
“Him? He’s not okay?” As if inquiring about the weather.
“Why wouldn’t he be okay?”
“My husband,” said Nina Hassan. “He’s not human, he’s an animal.”
“Jay’s fine. May we come in, Mrs. Hassan?”
She didn’t budge. “Call me Nina. I’m getting rid of that name as soon as the divorce is final. What’s with Jay?”
“We need to know the last time you saw him.”
“Why?”
“His ex-wife was murdered.”
“Ex-wife? Jay was married?”
“A while back, ma’am.”
“He said he was never married.”
Milo said, “It was a long time ago.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I don’t put up with lies.” Her hand slashed air. “What, you think he killed her?”
“No, ma’am. These are what we call routine questions.”
“Nina,” she said. “I don’t like ma’am. Too old. Too… ma’amish.”
A Maserati coupe purred past the house. The woman behind the wheel slowed to study us. Thin, blond, steely as the car. Nina Hassan waved gaily.
Milo said, “It’s better if we talk inside.”
Hassan’s turn to study us. “How do I know you’re really the police?”
“Would you like another look at my-”
“Anyone can make a badge.”
“Who else would we be?”
“Scumbags hired by George.”
“George is your ex?”
“My scumbag ex. He’s always sending them around, trying to find something he can use against me. I sleep with Jay? So what? George sleeps with young girls-maybe you should investigate him, he says they’re twenty, maybe they’re younger.”
She tapped a foot. “What am I supposed to do, sit around like his mother and have no fun and tell stories from the old country?”
Milo said, “Sounds like good riddance, Nina, but we’re investigating a murder, so if you can remember the last time you were with Jay, that would be helpful.”
“Ex-wife,” she said. “Liar-was she hot?”
“The way we found her, not in the least. Can you remember?”
“Of course I can remember, I’m not old. The last time was… two nights ago.” She smiled. “Every night until two nights ago. Then I told him I needed a rest.”
“Five nights ago, as well?”
“I just told you: every night.”
“What time?”
“Jay comes over after work, five thirty, five forty.”
“How long does he stay?”
“Long as I want him to.” Her head drew back. She laughed. “That’s a cheeky question.”
“Pardon?”
“You want to know do we do it all night. Why’s that your business?”
“Sorry for any misunderstanding,” said Milo. “What I’m after is can Jay’s whereabouts be accounted for five nights ago.”
“Five nights,” said Nina Hassan. “Wait out here.”
She returned moments later with a receipt. “Here it is, five nights ago: takeout from Chinois. I keep everything for documentation. So that bastard has to pay what he deserves.”
“Takeout from-”
“For two people,” she said. “Me and Jay. He tried to get me to eat chicken feet. Yuck.”
“He was here all night.”
“You bet,” said Nina Hassan, winking. “He was too tired to leave.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“I helped him out, huh? Too bad. I don’t like liars.” She tossed her hair. “But I tell it like it is, that’s how to handle all of you boys. Buh-bye.”
Stepping back into her house, she nudged the door shut with a manicured finger.
We drove back to Sunset, passing big houses, small dogs leading maids, gardeners blowing dirt with airguns.
Milo said, “Scratch the ex, why should life be logical? But it’s got to be someone else Vita really got to. Too bad she didn’t leave an enemy list.”
“That’s for presidents.”
He harrumphed. “Incriminating tapes would be nice, too. Okay, I’ll drop you back home, go enjoy your life while we poor civil servants toil. Not that I’m passive-aggressive.”
Just as we approached the Glen, his cell played Mahler and he switched to speaker.
Sean Binchy said, “Loot-”
“You found a pizza psycho.”
“Unfortunately no, but there is something you’re going to want to-”
“What?”
“There’s another one.”