Page 97 of Killer Body

From the moment we close the door behind us, I feel like an intruder. This sequestered place is not used to visitors. Its white carpet bordered in blush-toned tile is so pristine that it’s disturbing to imagine someone living with it.

I move along the tile, not wanting to sully the carpet with my shoes. The small kitchen, also tiled, with its brushed stainless-steel refrigerator and stove, looks as though it has never been used.

“Julie didn’t do much entertaining, I take it.” I realize I am almost whispering.

“She’s pretty reclusive.” Lucas carries the briefcase he’s taken from the car. “The gym is at the end of the hall.”

I follow him down more tile and into a room that looks larger than it is because three of its four walls are floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Exercise equipment gleams in the center. I turn awayfrom my reflection, but there is no place to hide. On the single unmirrored wall, the Killer Body poster hangs, framed.You’ve Got to Want the Body.What must it be like to work out here every day with only one’s own reflection and that poster?

“The personal trainer worked with her here?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s not unusual, especially not for high-profile people. Julie’s a perfectionist about her body.”

I survey the minimalist decor. “And apparently everything else.” He’s still holding the briefcase. “You brought her bank statements?” I ask, hoping he hasn’t changed his mind.

“I brought everything.”

He walks past the mirror into the room across from the gym. It, too, is immaculate, with an L-shaped glass desk, a computer on the short end of it and three white laminate bookshelves. I go straight to them—motivational books with titles likeGo for the Gold,tapes with similar titles. I pick up a magazine, her photograph on the cover, then put it back down on the shelf. She must have photographs, letters, mementos. No one can live with just books and exercise equipment.

An aluminum-toned file cabinet squats on casters beside the desk.

“Have you checked that out?” I ask Lucas.

“Of course not.” His disapproving look reminds me how much he’s already compromised himself to let me in here, and I don’t want to push it. “The police went through the place, of course, because they wanted to determine if there were any signs of foul play.”

“There weren’t?”

“No. And the Mercedes is gone, as well. There’s no reason for them to think she didn’t leave of her own accord.”

I have to restrain myself from touching the file cabinet. Instead, I ask, “Did you open any of her mail besides the bank statements?”

“Just the bills,” he says. “Bobby W doesn’t want to intrude into her life more than necessary. He just wants to make it as easy as possible for her to return.”

“He’s convinced she’s alive?”

He nods and opens the briefcase. “Since the phone call, more than ever.”

We spread the contents out on the surface of the glass desk. Each bank statement has miniature photocopies of her checks, all neatly printed with her flourish of a signature, a name that is drawn rather than written.Julie Larimore.No middle initial.

Most of the checks are recurring. PG & E, mortgage company. A second mortgage company. Utilities, routine obligations not so different from my own. Among them, a credit card payment, several to Whole Foods Market, a couple to a doctor’s office and several made out to Raymond Scott. I begin to shuffle the statements, checking the dates and amounts. One hundred, two hundred, two fifty.

“This must be the trainer,” I say. “How much does he charge?”

“Probably a hundred an hour, anyway.” Lucas leans over me, and I can feel his breath on my neck. “Yes, that’s Blond Elvis, the personal trainer, although I didn’t know she worked with him that often.”

I look up at him. He still hasn’t moved. “I guess,” I say, “we’d better start making phone calls.”

“It won’t be difficult to find him.”

He straightens up, and I can tell he’s having second thoughts.

“I’d also like to borrow those bills,” I say.

“I don’t know how Bobby W would feel about that.”

“He doesn’t have to know. I’m sure you’re not going to tell him that you let me in here.”

He zips the briefcase as if to protect it from me. “Showing you the condo and the bank statements are one thing. To turn over Julie’s personal mail is another.”