SIMON DE MAARTENS lived on Third Street, north of Rose. The beach was a short walk west. Crossing Rose brought you into gang territory.
The block was filled with tiny houses, some divided. Intermittent1 bright spots—fresh paint, brand-new skylights, flower beds, staked saplings—said gentrification had arrived. De Maartens's abode2 was a brown-stucco, side-by-side duplex with a gray lawn, curling tar-paper roof, and flaking3 woodwork. The blue VW van in its driveway was patched and primered. Its rear bumper4 sagged5, and so did the independent wealth hypothesis.
"Doesn't look as if he's been seduced6 by externals," said Milo. "Life of the mind and all that?"
"Could be." I realized the same could be said of Benjamin Dugger: Newport and Brentwood offices but a frayed7 lapel.
Not exactly the high rollers I'd conjured8 when imagining Lauren spirited away to some casbah.
He switched off the engine. "How about I do the talking, and work you in as needed?"
"Sounds good to me."
We were halfway9 to de Maartens's front door when loud barking came from the brown house and a big, yellow face parted the curtains of thefront window. Some kind of retriever. Steady barking but no enmity— announcing our presence without passing judgment10. The door began opening before we got there, and a young, red-haired woman smiled out at us.
She was tall and solidly built, wore a black T-shirt and green drawstring pants, held a paintbrush in one hand. Wet, blue bristles11. Her hair was the color of fresh rust12, cut in a pageboy that hung to midneck, the bangs perfectly13 straight above inquisitive14 hazel eyes. The pants were baggy15 but the shirt was tight, accentuating16 a soft, friendly bosom17 and generous shoulders. Nice coating of flesh everywhere except for her hands, which were slim and white, with tendril fingers. The smell of turpentine blew through the doorway18, along with classical music—something with woodwinds. No sign of the yellow dog. The woman had stopped smiling.
"Police, ma'am," said Milo, flashing the badge. "Are you Mrs. de Maartens?"
"Anika." Pronouncing her name as if it were required for border crossing. "I thought you were UPS." "Thought" came out "taut20." Her accent was thicker than her husband's, harder around the edges. Or maybe that was anxiety. Who likes the police on a sunny afternoon?
"Expecting a delivery?"
"I—I'm supposed to get art supplies. From back home. Was there a crime somewhere on the block?"
"No, everything's fine. Where's back home?"
"Holland . . . Why are you here?"
"Nothing to worry about, ma'am, we just wanted to talk to Professor de Maartens. Is he in?"
"You want to talk to Simon? About what?"
"A student of his."
"A student?"
"It's better if we talk to the professor directly^ Mrs. de Maartens. Is he in?"
"Yes, yes, I go get him, hold on."
She left the door open and headed toward the music. A big butter-colored form materialized. Heavy jowls, small bright eyes, short coat, droopy ears. Retriever mix, a splash of mastiff somewhere in the bloodline. The dog regarded us for a second, then followed Anika de Maartens. Returned moments later with a man in tow. Man and beast walking in synchrony, the master's hand resting lightly on the animal's neck.
"I'm Simon. What is it?"
De Maartens was six feet tall and heavyset, with a whiskey-colored crew cut and a ruddy, bulb-nosed, thick-lipped face, as close to spherical21 as I'd seen on a human. Despite his clothing—gray sweatshirt, blue cutoffs, rubber beach sandals—he looked like a Rembrandt burgher, and I half-expected him to whip out a clay pipe.
"Detective Sturgis," said Milo, extending a hand.
De Maartens looked past it, kept coming toward us. "Yes?" The sound of his voice made the dog's ears perk22.
Milo began repeating his name.
"I heard you," said de Maartens. "I'm not deaf." Smiling, as he and the dog stopped at the threshold. His head turned from side to side, and he stared blankly, settling on the space between Milo and me. That's when I saw his eyes: black crescents set in bluish sockets23 so deep they appeared to have been scooped24 out of his flesh. Immobile crescents, the merest sliver25 of black showing through dull black, no gleam of pupil.
A blind man.
The psychophysics of vision in primates26. The Braille Institute Award.
He said, "This is about the girl—Lauren."
"Yes, sir."
"Some of my students I do know," said de Maartens. "The ones who ask questions, visit during office hours. Voices that recur27." He touched his ear. The dog looked up at him adoringly. "Lauren Teague was not one of them. She got an A in the class—a very high A, so perhaps she did not need to ask questions. I can produce her exams when I return to my office next week. But right now, I am on vacation and I do not see why I need to be bothered. What can you hope to learn from two exams?"
"So there's nothing you can tell us about Ms. Teague?"
De Maartens's thick shoulders rose and fell. He canted his face toward me. Smiled. "Is that you, Dr. Delaware? Nice aftershave. After your second call when I grew cross, I called the department to see what records they have on her. Just her grade transcripts28. All A's. I should not have grown cross, but I was in the middle of something and I did not see the point. I still do not." He scratched behind the dog's ears, aimed his eye sockets back at Milo. "Three times during the quarter, the class was divided into discussion groups of approximately twenty students each, supervised by teaching assistants. The groups were optional, nothing discussed was graded. It was an attempt by the department to be more personal." Another smile. "I checked with my department chairman, and he said it would be permissible29 to give you the names of the students in Lauren Teague's group. Her T.A. was Malvina Zorn. You may call the psychology30 department and obtain Malvina's number. She has been instructed to give you the names of the students in the group. The chairman and I have signed authorizations. That should be all you need."
"Thank you, Professor."
"You are welcome." De Maartens rocked back and forth31, then stopped. "What exactly happened to Ms. Teague?"
"Someone shot her," said Milo. "You can read it in the paper—" He flushed scarlet32.
De Maartens laughed uproariously and ruffled33 the dog. "Perhaps Vincent here can read it to me. No, I am sure my wife will give me every detail. She devours34 everything she can about crime and misfortune because this city frightens her."
When we were back in the car I said, "So much for that."
Milo said, "I don't see Lauren's academic life as the thing here, anyway. It's the people she didn't talk about that I'm interested in. I'll phone the psych department, though, get those students' names."
He made the call, copied down a list of nine students that I inspected as we drove away. Three males, six females.
"Everyone out for the quarter," he mumbled35, as we drove away. "Fun."
"I'm your partner in futility36." I told him about following Benjamin Dugger. He was kind enough not to laugh.
"Old Volvo and delivering goodies to kids at the church, huh?"
"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Throw in the pro19 bono thing at the shelter in Chicago and he's Mother Teresa in tweed. You're right, guys like him aren't what got Lauren into trouble. She lived in a whole other world."
"Speaking of which," he said. "I thought I'd drop in on Gretchen Stengel."
"She's out of prison?"
"Paroled half a year ago. Found herself a new line of work."
"What's that?"
"Similar to her old gig, but legal. Dressing37 the insecure."
The boutique was on Robertson just south of Beverly, five doors north of a restaurant-of-the-moment where valets shuffled38 Ferraris and alfresco diners laughed too loudly as they sucked bottled water and smog.
Deja, View Couture with a Past
Eight-foot-wide storefront, the window draped in black jersey39 and occupied by a single, bald, faceless, chromium mannequin in a billowing scarlet gown. A bell push was required for entry, but Milo's bulk didn't stop whoever was in charge from buzzing us in.
Inside, the shop's mirrored walls and black granite40 floor vibrated to David Bowie's "Young Americans," the bass41 tuned42 to migraine level. Nailed into the mirror were raw iron bolts from which garments dangled43 on chrome hangers44. Velvet45, crepe, leather, silk; wide color range, nothing above a size 8. A pair of orange Deco revival46 chairs designed by a sadist filled a tight oblong of center space. Copies of Vogue47, Talk, and Buzz fanned across a trapezoid of glass posing as a table. No counter, no register. Seams in the rear wall were probably the dressing rooms. To the right was a door marked PRIVATE. The fermented-corn sweetness of good marijuana tinctured the air.
A dangerously thin girl in her twenties wearing a baby blue bodysuit and a rosewood-tinted Peter Pan do stood behind one of the orange chairs, hips48 thrust forward, eyes guarded. White stiletto-heeled sandals put her at eye level with Milo. Pink eyes and dilated49 pupils. No ashtray50 or roach, so maybe she'd swallowed. The bodysuit was sheer, and the undertones of her flesh beneath the fabric51 turned the blue pearly. She seemed to have too many ribs52, and I found myself counting.
"Yes?" Husky voice, almost mannish.
"I need something in a size four," said Milo.
"For . . . ?"
"My thumb." He stepped closer. The girl recoiled53 and crossed her arms over her chest. The music kept pounding, and I looked for the speakers, finally spotted54 them: small white discs tucked into the corners.
Out came Milo's badge. Rather than rattle55 the girl, it seemed to calm her. "And the punch line is . . . ?" she said.
"Is Gretchen Stengel here?"
The girl gave a languid wave. "Don't see her."
Milo reached out toward the iron rack and fondled a black pantsuit. "Couture with a past, huh?"
The girl didn't move or speak.
He examined the label. "Lagerfeld . . . What kind of past does this one have?"
"It went to the Oscars two years ago."
"Really. Did it win and make a speech thanking the little people?"
The girl snorted.
"So where's Gretchen?"
"If you leave your name I'll tell her you were here."
"Gee56, thanks. And you are ..."
"Stanwyck."
"Stanwyck what?"
"Just Stanwyck."
"Ah," said Milo. He dropped the sleeve, faced her, did one of those moves that makes him taller than you think possible. "Don't they require two names for booking?"
The girl's lips tightened57 into a little pink bud. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"Where's Gretchen?"
"At lunch."
"Late lunch."
"Guess so."
"Where?"
Stanwyck hesitated.
"C'mon, Stan," said Milo. "Or I'll tell Ollie."
Her eyes filmed with confusion. "I don't run her appointment schedule."
"But you do know where she is."
"I get paid to be here, that's all."
"Stan, Stan." Milo sniffed58 the air conspicuously59. "Why make this complicated?"
"Gretchen doesn't like attention."
"Well, I can sure understand that. But fame is like a dog with an unstable60 temperament61. You feed it, think you've got it under control, but sometimes it bites you anyway. Now, where the hell is she?"
"Up the block." She named the trendoid eatery.
He turned to leave.
Stanwyck said, "Don't tell her I told you."
"Promise," said Milo.
"Yeah, right," said the girl. "And you've got a Porsche and a house on the beach and won't come in my mouth."
We made our way past the valets, up brick stairs, and through a low picket62 gate to the front patio63, turning the heads of the see-and-be-seen crowd. Lots of free-floating anxiety and ponytails on heads that didn't deserve them, big white plates decorated with small green food. Some high fashion, though quite a few people were dressed worse than Milo. But at much higher cost, and everyone knew the difference. The maitre d's were two white-jacketed, black-T-shirted sticks, both too busy to stop us. But one of them did notice us enter the inner dining room at the rear.
The room was low and dark and cheap-chic, noisy as a power plant. As we made our way among the tables, I heard a man in a five-hundred-dollar Hawaiian shirt urging a waiter, "Speak to me of the crab64 cakes."
Gretchen Stengel sat at a corner table opposite a sleek65 young woman with blue-black skin. A blue liter of esoteric water stood between them. The black woman picked at a salad, and Gretchen twirled a crayfish on a toothpick.
No problem recognizing the Westside Madam; three years ago she'd been evening news fodder66 for months, and, but for a few age lines, she hadn't changed much.
Sunken cheeks, lemon-sucking mouth, stringy brown hair, skinny upper body but broad-beamed below the waist. An ungainly waddle67 as her lawyers hustled68 her to and from court. Brown eyes that claimed injury when they weren't shielded by dark lenses. Today the glasses were in place—oversized black ovals that blocked expression. It would have been easy to ascribe her pallor to the twenty-five months she'd spent behind bars for income tax evasion69, but she'd been pale before then. Floppy70 hats, kabuki-white makeup71, and the omnipresent black glasses fed rumors72 that she hated the sun. Interesting choice, if it was one, for a girl growing up at the beach. Then again, most daughters of Pacific Palisades corporate74 lawyers don't grow up to be pimps.
Gretchen Stengel had been raised on two acres overlooking the ocean, attended the Peabody School and summer camps designed to pamper75, vacationed at private villas76 in Venice and chateaus in southern France, flown the Concorde a dozen times before entering puberty.
Rocky puberty. Her arrest led to journalistic archaeology77 of the Stengel family and discovery of childhood learning problems, drug and DUI busts78, and half a dozen abortions79 beginning when Gretchen was fourteen. At twenty she dropped out of Arizona State, having never declared a major. Unsubstantiated stories had her starring in a series of bottom-feeder porn loops featuring a variety of partners, not all of them two-legged.
Prior to her arrest none of her teenage problems had leaked out of sealed records, nor had she been disciplined by the system. Mildrew and Andrea Stengel were senior partners at Munchley, Zabella and Cater80, a downtown firm with a wide reach. After leaving college Gretchen moved back home to a guesthouse at their estate, attending openings of bad art and premieres of films that lost money, hanging out with the sweating throng81 of Eurotrash that filled Sunset Plaza82 cafes. Telling anyone who cared to listen that she was working on a screenplay, had a deal pending83 at one of the big independent production companies.
At some point she discovered long-hidden organizational skills and began mustering84 a small army of hookers: girls with great bodies and fresh faces and the ability to operate a credit-card machine. None was older than twenty-five, some had been Peabody School acquaintances, others she spotted on Sunset or the Colony. Many had never sold sex before. All were terrific at faking innocence85.
The nerve center of the operation was Gretchen's free digs behind the parental86 swimming pool. She called her employees "agents" and put them to work in the lounges and bars of hotels with "Beverly" in their names. Clients paid for the room and the flesh, the girls divvied up for clothing and cosmetics87 and birth control, and Gretchen financedquarterly medical checkups. Other than doctor bills, phone and credit company charges, her overhead was nil88. By the time she was twenty-five, Gretchen was pulling in seven figures a year and lopping off a zero when she filed with the IRS.
What tripped her up was never made clear. The rumor73 mill spat89 out the names of famous clients: movie stars, assorted90 film industry lampreys, politicians, developers. Supposedly Gretchen had run afoul of the LAPD. But no John list ever materialized, and Gretchen sat mute during her indictment91.
Her trial was slated92 to be the Next Big Media Event. Then Gretchen's lawyer pled her to a single evasion charge and a money-laundering misdemeanor, and bargained her sentence to thirty-two months in federal lockup, plus restitution93 and penalties. Gretchen served solid but truncated94 time: no interviews, no wheedling95, seven months lopped off for good behavior.
Now she was selling used clothes in a high-rent closet that reeked96 of weed and hiring ex-employees to stroke the customers.
It suggested an inability to learn from experience, but maybe Gretchen had learned something other than crime doesn't pay.
Blaming her parents was easy but, like most pat solutions, that was just an excuse not to puzzle. Gretchen's older brother had achieved honors as a flight surgeon for the Navy, and a younger sister ran a music school in Harlem. Following Gretchen's arrest someone had suggested middle-child syndrome97. They might as well have indicted98 the lunar cycle. Mil-drew and Andrea Stengel were high-powered lawyers but by all accounts attentive99 parents. The week after Gretchen's conviction they resigned their partnerships100 and moved to Galisteo, New Mexico, purportedly101 to live "the simple life."
Milo and I walked up to the table. Gretchen had to have seen us, but she ignored us and tweaked the tail of the crayfish. Edging the creature toward her mouth, she changed her mind, drew back her arm, flicked102 the crustacean103's tail as if daring it to resuscitate104. Then back to her lips. Licking but not biting. Some weight-loss behavior-mod trick? Play with your calories but never ingest them?
Nearby diners had begun to stare. Gretchen didn't react. Her companion lacked Gretchen's composure and started fidgeting with her salad. Scallops on something saw-toothed and weedlike. She was young like Gretchen, with cropped hair, felonious cheekbones, and slanted105 eyes, wore a sleeveless yellow sundress, pink coral necklace and earrings106, long, curving nails painted a lighter107 shade of coral. All that color achingly dramatic against flawless black skin.
Gretchen's cuticles108 were a wreck109. She had on a shapeless black sweatshirt and black leggings. Her hair looked as if it hadn't been washed in a week. The black lenses did their trick, putting her somewhere else.
Milo moved so he could smile down at the black woman. "Nice dress. Does it have a past?"
Painful smile in response.
"Have a bug," said Gretchen, waving the crayfish. "That's what they are. Bugs110." Her voice was nasal and scratchy. The black woman grimaced111.
Milo said, "Thanks for the biology lesson, Ms. Stengel."
Gretchen said, "Actually, they're more like spiders." To the black woman: "Think spiders taste any good?" Her lips barely moved when she spoke112. The black woman put her fork down and picked up her napkin.
"What about flies and caterpillars113?" said Gretchen. "Or slugs."
Milo said, "Lauren Teague."
The black woman wiped her mouth. Gretchen Stengel didn't budge114.
Milo said, "Lauren—"
"It's a name," said Gretchen.
The black woman said, "If you'll excuse me, please," and started to rise.
"Please stay," said Milo.
"I have to go to the little girls' room." She reached down for her purse. Milo had placed his foot over the strap115.
"Please," she said.
Conversation at neighboring tables had died. A waiter came over. A glance from Milo made him retreat, but seconds later one of the white-jacketed maitre d's arrived.
"Officer," he said, sidling up to Milo and managing to spit out the word while smiling wider than his lips had been built for. "You are a police officer?"
"And here I thought I was being subtle."
"Please, sir, this isn't the place and time."
Gretchen twirled the crayfish. The black woman hung her head."For what?" said Milo.
"Sir," said White Jacket. "People are trying to enjoy their food. This is a distraction116."
Milo spied a free chair at a neighboring table, pulled it over, sat down. "How's this for blending in?"
"Really, Officer."
"Fuck it, Damien," said Gretchen. "Leave him alone, I know him."
Damien stared at her. "You're sure, Gretch?"
"Yeah, yeah." She waved the crayfish. "Tell Joel to make it spicier117 next time."
"Oh." Damien's acrobatic lips fluttered. "It's too bland118?"
"If you've got taste buds."
"Oh, no— I'll bring you some extra sauce, Gretch—"
"No," said Gretchen. "That won't help, too late. It has to be cooked into the meat."
"Really, Gretch—"
"No, Damien."
Damien simpered. "I am so sorry. I'll have a fresh batch119 prepared right now—"
"Don't bother. Not hungry."
"I feel terrible," said Damien.
"Don't," said Gretchen, flicking120 the crayfish's tail. "Just do better next time."
"Sure. Of course. Certainly." To the black woman: "Is yours okay?"
"Perfect." Glum121 tone. "I'm going to the little girls' room." She stood. Six feet tall in flats, sleek as a panther. Looking down at her purse, she left it there, edged past me, disappeared.
Damien said, "Really, Gretch, I can get you another plate in no time."
"I'm fine," said Gretchen, blowing a kiss at him. "Go away."
When he departed she looked at me. "Sit. Take Ingrid's chair, she'll be gone awhile. Bladder infection. I tell her to drink cranberry122 juice, but she hates it."
"Old friend?" said Milo.
"New friend."
"Let's talk about Lauren Teague. Someone shot her and dumped her in an alley123."Gretchen's flat expression maintained. She put the crayfish down. "How terrible. I thought she was too smart for that."
"Too smart for what?"
"Going into business without me."
"You think that's what killed her?"
Off came the sunglasses. The brown eyes were piercing and focused; childhood learning difficulties seemed remote, and I wondered how many of the rumors about her were true.
"So do you," she said. "That's why you're here."
"Were you and she in touch?"
Gretchen shook her head. "After I retired124, I cut all ties to the staff."
"How long has it been since you saw Lauren?"
Gretchen tried to pry125 something from between her teeth. Stubby nails weren't up to the task. She removed the toothpick from a crayfish and began probing. "She resigned before I retired."
"How long before?"
"Maybe a year."
"Why?" said Milo.
"She never said."
"You didn't ask?"
"Why should I?" said Gretchen. "It wasn't as if there was a personnel shortage."
"Any idea why she quit?"
"It could've been anything."
"You never discussed it."
"Nope. She e-mailed me, I e-mailed back."
"She was into computers," said Milo.
Gretchen laughed.
Milo said, "What's funny?"
"That's like asking if she was into refrigerators." She reskewered the crayfish.
"Any theories?" said Milo. "About why she quit?"
"Nope."
"What else do you remember about Lauren?"
"Great body, knew how to do makeup, no need for surgery. Some clients don't like bionics."
"Think she might've picked up a steady?" said Milo.
"Anything's possible."
"Did you know she'd gone back to school?"
"Really," said Gretchen. "How self-improving." She folded her hands in her lap.
"When she was working for you, did she complain of problematic clients?"
"Nope."
"No problems at all?"
"She was good with people. I was sorry to see her go."
"Did she have any particular specialties126?"
"Other than being gorgeous and smart and polite?"
"No kinks?"
Gretchen smiled. "Kinks?"
"Anything out of the ordinary."
Gretchen laughed. "How could I even begin to answer that."
"How about yes or no, and if it's yes, some details?"
Gretchen sat back and crossed her legs. Her back was against the wall, and she seemed to enjoy the support. "The truth is, people are depressingly ordinary."
"Guys were willing to pay big-time for ordinary?"
"Guys were willing to pay to have it on their terms."
"So Lauren had no specialties?"
"What about special clients? Guys who requested her specifically?"
Gretchen shook her head. Picked up a crayfish and stared at the crustacean. "Look at those eyes. It's as if he knows."
"Knows what?"
"That he's dead."
Milo said, "Who requested Lauren?"
"Nothing comes to mind."
Milo edged his chair closer to her. From the way he talked into her ear and her sudden, warm smile, they might've been lovers.
"Help me out here," he said. "We're talking murder."
"I can help if you want to buy a dress." She drew her head back and looked him up and down. "I don't think you'd like our styles."
Milo stayed close to her. "Someone tied Lauren up and shot her in the back of the head and left her like garbage in a dumpster. Give me a name. Anyone who had a thing for Lauren."
Gretchen touched his tie, lifted it, and kissed the tip. "Nice syntho. Chez Sears? Tar-zhay?"
"What about girls she worked with? Friends on the staff?"
"Far as I recall, she went it alone."
"What about Michelle?"
"Michelle," said Gretchen. "As in ... ?"
"A brunette Lauren stripped with—they both did the party scene. Back when you were in business. Was that one of your subsidiaries?"
"Uh-uh. I specialized128."
"In what?"
"Networking. The tools of commerce."
"Nuts into bolts," said Milo. "So Lauren and Michelle were freelancing on the side?"
Gretchen smiled again. "You're cute."
"Did you have a Michelle on staff?"
"It's a common name."
"How about a last name?"
Gretchen placed her lips next to Milo's ears. Flicked his lobe129 with her tongue. Gave a soft, dry laugh. "I have nothing to offer because I'm nothing. A speck130 of lint131 in the navel of the least important creature in the universe. And that makes me free."
"You're anything but nothing," said Milo. "I'd say you're a presence.'"
"You are so sweet," said Gretchen. "I'll bet you treat the girls gently."
Milo's turn to smile. "So how about tossing me a bone? Off the record. Michelle what?"
"Michelle, ma belle132. Sontles whatever." Gretchen began toying with the crayfish. "Those eyes. He's like, Let me sit on this plate dead and get all shriveled up but leave me intact, I just don't want to be chewed up."
"Lauren didn't end up intact."
Gretchen sighed. "They really should remove the eyes."
Milo said, "So that's it? Nothing?"
"Have a nice day," said Gretchen.
On the way out we met Ingrid returning.
Milo blocked her way. "Lauren Teague was murdered."Lavender lips parted. "Oh." Then: "Who's Lauren?"
"An old friend of Gretchen's."
"I'm a new friend."
"I don't think so, dear," said Milo. "I think you and old Gretch go way back— ten to one I can get hold of your sheet like that." Snapping fingers in front of her face. "Seen Michelle recently?"
"Michelle who?"
"My, my, the same old song—Michelle the tall brunette who used to dance with Lauren."
Ingrid shook her head. Milo's hand closed around her arm. "We can discuss this in my office or you can continue your meal."
Ingrid's eyes burned fiercely. She craned to get a look at Gretchen's table.
"Don't worry," said Milo. "I won't let her know you told me."
"Told you what?"
"Michelle's last name."
"I don't know any Michelle. I've heard mention of Michelle Salazar— Did Gretchen eat anything?"
"Not much."
"Damn! She needs to eat. Please don't bother her lunch again."
收听单词发音 |
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intermittent
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| adj.间歇的，断断续续的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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flaking
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| 刨成片，压成片； 盘网 | |
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bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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frayed
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| adj.磨损的v.（使布、绳等）磨损，磨破( fray的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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bristles
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| 短而硬的毛发，刷子毛( bristle的名词复数 ) | |
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rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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baggy
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| adj.膨胀如袋的，宽松下垂的 | |
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accentuating
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| v.重读( accentuate的现在分词 )；使突出；使恶化；加重音符号于 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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19
pro
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| n.赞成，赞成的意见，赞成者 | |
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taut
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| adj.拉紧的，绷紧的，紧张的 | |
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21
spherical
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| adj.球形的；球面的 | |
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22
perk
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| n.额外津贴；赏钱；小费； | |
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23
sockets
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| n.套接字，使应用程序能够读写与收发通讯协定(protocol)与资料的程序( Socket的名词复数 )；孔( socket的名词复数 )；（电器上的）插口；托座；凹穴 | |
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24
scooped
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| v.抢先报道( scoop的过去式和过去分词 )；（敏捷地）抱起；抢先获得；用铲[勺]等挖（洞等） | |
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25
sliver
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| n.裂片，细片，梳毛；v.纵切，切成长片，剖开 | |
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26
primates
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| primate的复数 | |
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27
recur
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| vi.复发，重现，再发生 | |
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28
transcripts
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| n.抄本（ transcript的名词复数 ）；转写本；文字本；副本 | |
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29
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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30
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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31
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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32
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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33
ruffled
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| adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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34
devours
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| 吞没( devour的第三人称单数 )； 耗尽； 津津有味地看； 狼吞虎咽地吃光 | |
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35
mumbled
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
futility
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| n.无用 | |
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37
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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38
shuffled
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| v.洗（纸牌）( shuffle的过去式和过去分词 )；拖着脚步走；粗心地做；摆脱尘世的烦恼 | |
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39
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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40
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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41
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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42
tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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43
dangled
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| 悬吊着( dangle的过去式和过去分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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44
hangers
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| n.衣架( hanger的名词复数 )；挂耳 | |
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45
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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46
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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47
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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48
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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49
dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
ashtray
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| n.烟灰缸 | |
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51
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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52
ribs
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| n.肋骨( rib的名词复数 )；（船或屋顶等的）肋拱；肋骨状的东西；（织物的）凸条花纹 | |
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53
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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54
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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55
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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56
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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57
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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58
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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59
conspicuously
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| ad.明显地，惹人注目地 | |
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60
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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61
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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62
picket
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| n.纠察队；警戒哨；v.设置纠察线；布置警卫 | |
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63
patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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64
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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65
sleek
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| adj.光滑的，井然有序的；v.使光滑，梳拢 | |
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66
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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67
waddle
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| vi.摇摆地走；n.摇摆的走路(样子) | |
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68
hustled
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| 催促（hustle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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69
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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70
floppy
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| adj.松软的，衰弱的 | |
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71
makeup
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| n.组织；性格；化装品 | |
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72
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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73
rumor
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| n.谣言，谣传，传说 | |
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74
corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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75
pamper
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| v.纵容，过分关怀 | |
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76
villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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77
archaeology
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| n.考古学 | |
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78
busts
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| 半身雕塑像( bust的名词复数 )； 妇女的胸部； 胸围； 突击搜捕 | |
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79
abortions
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| n.小产( abortion的名词复数 )；小产胎儿；（计划）等中止或夭折；败育 | |
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80
cater
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| vi.(for/to)满足，迎合；(for)提供饮食及服务 | |
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81
throng
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| n.人群，群众；v.拥挤，群集 | |
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82
plaza
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| n.广场，市场 | |
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83
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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84
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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85
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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86
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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87
cosmetics
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| n.化妆品 | |
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88
nil
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| n.无，全无，零 | |
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89
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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90
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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91
indictment
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| n.起诉；诉状 | |
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92
slated
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| 用石板瓦盖( slate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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93
restitution
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| n.赔偿；恢复原状 | |
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94
truncated
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| adj.切去顶端的，缩短了的，被删节的v.截面的( truncate的过去式和过去分词 )；截头的；缩短了的；截去顶端或末端 | |
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95
wheedling
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| v.骗取（某物），哄骗（某人干某事）( wheedle的现在分词 ) | |
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96
reeked
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的过去式和过去分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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97
syndrome
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| n.综合病症；并存特性 | |
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98
indicted
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| 控告，起诉( indict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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99
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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100
partnerships
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| n.伙伴关系( partnership的名词复数 )；合伙人身份；合作关系 | |
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101
purportedly
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| adv.据称 | |
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102
flicked
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的过去式和过去分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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103
crustacean
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| n.甲壳动物；adj.甲壳纲的 | |
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104
resuscitate
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| v.使复活，使苏醒 | |
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105
slanted
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| 有偏见的； 倾斜的 | |
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106
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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107
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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108
cuticles
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| n.（手指甲或脚趾甲根部的）外皮( cuticle的名词复数 ) | |
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109
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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110
bugs
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| adj.疯狂的，发疯的n.窃听器( bug的名词复数 )；病菌；虫子；[计算机]（制作软件程序所产生的意料不到的）错误 | |
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111
grimaced
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| v.扮鬼相，做鬼脸( grimace的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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113
caterpillars
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| n.毛虫( caterpillar的名词复数 )；履带 | |
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114
budge
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| v.移动一点儿；改变立场 | |
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115
strap
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| n.皮带，带子；v.用带扣住，束牢；用绷带包扎 | |
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116
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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117
spicier
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| adj.用香料调味的( spicy的比较级 )；有香料味的；有刺激性的；（故事、新闻等） 刺激的 | |
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118
bland
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| adj.淡而无味的，温和的，无刺激性的 | |
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119
batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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120
flicking
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| （尤指用手指或手快速地）轻击( flick的现在分词 )； （用…）轻挥； （快速地）按开关； 向…笑了一下（或瞥了一眼等） | |
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121
glum
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| adj.闷闷不乐的，阴郁的 | |
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122
cranberry
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| n.梅果 | |
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123
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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124
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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125
pry
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| vi.窥(刺)探，打听；vt.撬动(开，起) | |
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126
specialties
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| n.专门，特性，特别；专业( specialty的名词复数 )；特性；特制品；盖印的契约 | |
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127
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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128
specialized
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| adj.专门的，专业化的 | |
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129
lobe
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| n.耳垂，（肺，肝等的）叶 | |
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130
speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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131
lint
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| n.线头；绷带用麻布，皮棉 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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