The Wedding Guest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  CHAPTER

  22

  What’s in a name? Plenty.

  I sat in the passenger seat of the unmarked as Milo worked his department-issue laptop.

  Within seconds he had Suzanne DaCosta’s criminal record at hand, a puny archive consisting of two marijuana busts seven years ago in Denver and a public indecency arrest pled down to misdemeanor nuisance three years after that in Oceanside. No jail time.

  One registered vehicle, a six-year-old gray Honda Civic. He put out BOLOs on the car.

  Suzanne DaCosta’s social network was almost as thin as Amanda Burdette’s: no accounts on Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, or Twitter, no narcissistic display of pseudo-talent on YouTube. But a LinkedIn page advertised her availability as a “research assistant” and offered up an 818 landline.

  He said, “Guess it depends what you’re researching,” and punched in the number. Disconnected.

  The reverse directory offered up the same landline and Studio City residence. An image search pulled up no pictures of Suzanne DaCosta but it did flag the address as a one-story ranch house south of Ventura and west of Laurel Canyon.

  Milo plugged in his GPS and shifted into Drive. “Ready for the Valley?”

  “Got my car here, I’ll follow you.”

  “Better yet, I follow you to your place and then we go over the hill in one set of wheels. Fuel conservation, as in mine. Also, A.C. in this thing sucks.”

  * * *

  —

  We got to my house in ten minutes, took a moment to check in with Robin. She was making deft circular motions on the bowl back of an old Venetian mandola with a pad of cotton. French polishing. She held up a wait-a-sec finger.

  Taking over the social obligations, Blanche toddled up with a chew stick in her mouth and got petted by both of us. Her smile said everything was right in the world.

  Milo said, “Ah, yes, the sun is shining, Pooch.”

  Robin put down her polishing pad, came over and kissed me on the lips, Milo on the cheek. “You’re looking rather pleased, Big Guy.”

  “I see you, I’m full of glee.”

  She flashed a gorgeous smile. “Flattered, but something tells me it’s more than that.”

  Milo looked at me. “Smart girl, that where you get your insights? Yeah, I finally identified my victim. And Romeo found the crucial evidence.”

  He summed up.

  She said, “Dirt pile under the bed. In those nice jeans I bought you.”

  She brushed something off my left leg. Everyone laughed and we left.

  * * *

  —

  I drove north on the Glen while Milo looked up Michael Lotz’s criminal record.

  The screen filled. “Oh, you’ve been a bad boy, Mikey…bunch of assaults from age eighteen on, probably has a sealed juvie record, too…looks like he started out in Pittsburgh…then over to Harrisburg…Philly…Akron, malicious mayhem in Patterson, New Jersey, couple of batteries in Newark.”

  I slowed as a truck snail-crawled across two lanes and attempted a right turn. Milo showed me a page of mugshots. In most of them Lotz’s hair was long and unruly, his unremarkable face covered by a beard. Old eyes, slackening skin, deteriorating confidence.

  I said, “Transient addict, maybe homeless.”

  “Plenty of those…okay, here we go. He stabbed someone to death eighteen years ago, back in Akron…sounds like a bar brawl, voluntary manslaughter pled down to involuntary, he served five out of ten in Youngstown, Ohio…suspected prison gang involvement, probably has tattoos, need to see his corpse.”

  He phoned the crypt, talked to an attendant named Pedro, and asked which pathologist would be doing Lotz’s autopsy.

  “I don’t see any autopsy on the schedule, Lieutenant.”

  “Big backlog.”

  “Yeah,” said Pedro. “But that’s not it. He’s marked for X-ray and an exterior only. You know how it is with O.D. suicides.”

  “This one might not be suicide.”

  “Oh? How come?”

  “He’s related to a homicide I’m working. If there was an autopsy, who’d be doing it?”

  “Dr. Rosen filled out the forms. She’s out right now, teaching at the med school.”

  “Don’t know her. New?”

  “Yup,” said Pedro. “She’s part-time, we got a bunch of those.”

  “Do me a favor. Ask Dr. Lopatinski if she can do the autopsy. If she can’t, have Dr. Rosen call me. Whoever does it, make sure every bit of body ink is logged.”

  “He’s ganged up?”

  “Good chance of that. More important, I need a tox screen A-sap.”

  “Hold on,” said Pedro. “I’m writing it all down.”

  “You’re a gentleman and a scholar.”

  “Don’t know about scholar,” said Pedro, “but my mama raised me right.”

  Milo returned to Michael Lotz’s criminal résumé. “So he’s capable of killing…okay, what’s next?” He frowned. “Nothing’s next, just a bunch of possessions for personal use…starting in Philly after his release. Straight release, no parole…now he’s heading west…west: Omaha, Tulsa…a second one in Tulsa five years ago…and a third. Then it stops. All of a sudden he switches from bruising to using?”

  I said, “If you don’t need to mug someone to get heroin, it’s a great pacifier. Maybe he found himself that reliable supplier. Or began trading dope for favors.”

  “Hit man for hire,” he said. “Stalking Suzanne to that bathroom, shooting her up, and garroting her doesn’t sound like a rookie move. So why’s he dead? I’m not thinking suicide due to guilt.”

  “Unlikely,” I said. “He O.D.’d accidentally or someone made sure he O.D.’d.”

  “Another fentanyl cocktail.”

  “Or just purer heroin. If whoever hired him was also his supplier, it would be easy. Not hard to see a motive: He outlived his usefulness and his addiction made him unreliable. With the gang thing—three busts in Tulsa—maybe someone at their PD will know him.”

  He pulled out his pad and scrawled. Laughed. “All these parents paying for their kids to have a safe space, this asshole’s lurking in the basement.”

  “Pena said he came through Academo’s HR. The company’s headquartered in Columbus. Lotz has no record there but he did spend time in Ohio—Akron and then the prison time in Youngstown.”

  “Long-term relationship with someone in the company?”

  “Someone who also knew Suzanne. Lotz didn’t get a repro of her license by himself. Whoever hired him was close enough to her to get hold of the real one and photocopy. That fits with the personal nature of the crime.”

  “Hostile boyfriend, maybe living right where we’re headed,” he said, tightening his jaw and patting his jacket where his gun bulged. “Or a girlfriend, God forbid I of all people should assume.”

  Half a mile later, he frowned: “Lotz having the notes on the wedding and the photo says he’s involved but what if he was just a go-between who hired some other scrote to actually do the deed?”

  I said, “Another reason to get rid of him.”

  “But a complication. I need to trace his movements that day, see if he left the building at the right time.” He sent a text to Robert Pena about the CCTV feed. Waited for a reply, got none, and cursed.

  I said, “Let’s take another look at Tomashev’s photos, see if Lotz shows up.”

  “Good idea, soon as we check out Suzanne’s digs. I snag a shot of Lotz with Amanda, I don’t need any mood-elevating substance.”

  “You see her as hiring a hit man.”

  He swiveled away from the screen and toward me. “Why the hell not? She lives where Lotz works, easy for them to have contact.”

  “In addition to her age and lack of criminal experience, she’s socially inept. Big leap from passing someone in the hall
to contracting murder. You ask the wrong person, you put yourself at risk. How would she be able to sense Lotz was a good candidate?”

  “Maybe she’s not as nerdy as you think.”

  “Maybe but what’s her motive?”

  “How ’bout one of the usuals: Romance gone wrong, Suzanne threatened to show up and embarrass her. You figured Suzanne for a student. They met on campus, had a thing, Amanda ended it.”

  I said nothing.

  He said, “Impossible?”

  “Nothing is.”

  “Hmph.”

  * * *

  —

  Several silent miles zipped by. Lovely day in the Santa Monica Mountains, trees and shrubs and grass and sky offering thanks for being placed in California. We hit the peak at Mulholland and began the descent to the Valley. Half a mile from Ventura Boulevard, Milo rubbed his face and scratched the side of his nose and drummed the laptop.

  “Maybe Amanda didn’t hire Lotz, Garrett did. He’s no Rico Suave but he comes across as more normal than his sister, right? And for a newly married guy, a jilted stripper girlfriend threatening to blow up his wedding would be plenty of motive. Plus he was the one got hinky about Poland. What if he spent time there, heard about Skiwski, got ideas about guitar strings. How’d he meet Lotz? Simple. He’s visiting Amanda, sees Lotz doing his janitor thing, they talk, something clicks. And in terms of access to dope, same deal as with Amanda: Daddy’s stash in the barn.”

  He held out a palm. “No need to say it, I’m a long way from evidence. But at least I know who my victim is. Let’s see where and how she lived. I find any sign Garrett’s been there, he’s toast.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  The computer had offered a spot-on image of the house on Amadeo Drive. What it hadn’t provided was tone and nuance.

  Suzanne DaCosta’s last known residence was a sixties box marred by signs of neglect: cracking and flaking at the corners, ragged window sashes, missing roof shingles. All-concrete frontage killed any notion of landscaping.

  Milo pointed.

  DaCosta’s gray Honda Civic nosed a dented metal garage door. Behind it sat a pair of eighties Corvettes, one white with a red interior, the other white and beige.

  All three vehicles were dusty.

  Milo said, “White Vettes. That remind you of anything?”

  I said, “Your basic call-girl ride back when hotels pretended not to notice.”

  “Oh, yeah. Nowadays it’s SUVS and hatchbacks. The girls carry massage tables to get past the desk.”

  “Maybe Suzanne sidelined.”

  He visored his eyes with a hand and peered into the Honda. “Laundry on the passenger seat…bottled water…jogging shoes. Poor kid, she was living her usual life.”

  Back to the Vettes. “Two cars for one girl I can see, not three. Maybe Lover Boy’s into velocity.”

  “His and hers,” I said. “Romantic. Until it wasn’t.”

  He looked the house up and down, gave his gun another pat, and approached the front door.

  The bell sounded a three-note chime.

  A chirpy female voice called out, “Who is it?”

  Before Milo could answer, a second female voice echoed the question. The result was an out-of-sync duet, like a poorly dubbed film.

  Milo said, “Police.”

  The first voice said, “Really?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The second voice said, “Hold your I.D. up.”

  Milo showed the peephole his badge.

  “Hold on, I’m turning off the alarm.”

  A bolt slid, then another, and the door opened on two twenty-something blond stunners in bikini bras and Daisy Dukes.

  Black top for the taller girl, emerald green for her shorter, bustier friend. Moisture beaded on toned bronze bodies but dry hair. Soaking, not swimming.

  “Welcome, Police,” said Black, flashing perfect teeth. Soft honey curls ended at her shoulders. Emerald’s hair was dyed nearly white and hung to her waist.

  Milo introduced us.

  “Milo and Alex. Sounds like a cutie cartoon.” She giggled. “Sorry. I’m Serena, she’s Claire. It sure took long.”

  “What did?”

  “The noise up there,” said Claire, curling a silver-nailed thumb backward.

  “Up where?” said Milo.

  “Where? You’re kidding.”

  Milo smiled.

  “Oh, wow.” Claire flipped her hair, adjusted a bra cup, and rolled her eyes. Huge black irises were a counterpoint to Serena’s icy blues. Dramatic contrast, as if both women had been sent by a casting agent. “Where? Really? The hills up there. We complained to you guys like”—to her friend—“four times?”

  “At least,” said Serena. “Loma Bruna Circle, crazy big party house. You can’t see it ’cause of the trees but you sure hear it. Every week it’s a techno shit-storm.”

  Claire said, “We work, we need our sleep.”

  Serena said, “You guys don’t know about it? Oh, man. Everyone else does. The neighborhood complains, you guys don’t do squat.”

  Claire said, “What we heard, the A-H who owns it is related to the mayor.”

  Serena said, “Money lucks, everyone else sucks.”

  Twin glares from lovely eyes, followed by pouts.

  Milo said, “I’m sorry for the hassle, ladies. Unfortunately, we’re not here for that.”

  “Then what, garbage cans or something else stupid?” said Serena. She ran a slender finger under the sodden waistband of her short-shorts, shoulder-nudged her friend. “We got out of the pool for nothing, girl.”

  Milo said, “We’re here about Suzanne DaCosta.”

  “Kimbee?”

  “When’s the last time you saw her?”

  Eye-consultation between the women. Serena said, “Like a week and a half?”

  Claire said, “We don’t keep watch on her. What’s up?”

  “Unfortunately, she’s deceased.”

  Black saucers, blue saucers. Four hands leaped to finely molded lips.

  Serena was the first to allow her arms to drop. She shook her head. “No freakin’ way.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Claire’s right hand dropped and began clawing under her waistband. Frantically as if something beneath the denim was attacking her. Her mouth expanded and became a maw. She bent double. “No no no no, not that, not again, no no no no no.”

  Letting out a gagging noise, she ran into the house.

  Milo said, “Again?”

  Serena said, “Her mom died like four months ago. Something just blew up in her brain, she was beautiful and super fit, also a model, didn’t deserve that. To make it worse, her dad died when she was a little kid. She hates death.”

  “So do we, Serena. That’s why—”

  “Kimbee’s really…?” She began crying and shook her head some more. “I guess our noise thing is pretty bullshit to you.”

  “It sounds like a super hassle,” said Milo. “I’ll make a call and see what I can do. Meanwhile, can we come in and talk about Kimbee?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure, of course, sure. Let me go calm Cee down, you guys sit wherever.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  “Wherever” was a limited choice: a sun-cracked black leather sofa or a floor carpeted in grubby green. No other furniture in the low, shallow living room. The house’s interior matched its dermis: unadorned, pallid, shabby.

  We took the couch and waited while female conversation filtered from the left. A box of bottled water sat near a glass slider that opened to the rear of the property. Where the yard wasn’t swimming pool it was scarred pebbled decking and discouraged wooden fencing. Power lines ruled on a blue paper sky. The pool was small, a remnant of the time when aquatic design was dominated by the mystique
of the kidney. Robes and towels were piled on a pair of mismatched lounge chairs. A brick incinerator sat in a far corner, souvenir of a time when creating smog was a civic duty.

  The lack of furniture in the living room wasn’t due to minimalism. Most of the space was taken up by wheeled, tubular racks of women’s clothing.

  Gowns, dresses, bathing suits, blouses, slacks. At least a third of the floor space was taken up by shoes. Scores of them, unpaired and bunched into piles like leather mulch.

  Milo said, “Not much in the way of ambience. If they are pulling tricks, it’s outcall not in-call.”

  I said, “Serena said Claire’s mother was ‘also a model.’ Maybe these are work duds.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or it’s the euphemism of the month. Like ‘dancing’ for Ms. Kimbee.”

  Wincing as he mentioned the name. For over a week, he’d been living with his victim as a wisp. Now she had an identity and a home and the pain of her murder was seeping into his bones the way it always did.

  Faint padding footsteps previewed the women’s reappearance. Both had removed their bras and put on gauzy midriff tops that proved more revealing. Black tights, green tights.

  The two of them folded lithe bodies, graceful as origami, and settled on the carpet. Exemplary posture, legs folded yoga-like, hands on firm thighs.

  They closed their eyes, breathed a couple of times, looked straight at us.

  “Okay,” said Serena. “We’re ready.”

  Claire sniffed and poked at a corner of her eye and looked doubtful.

  Milo said, “Sorry to drop it on you like this. Unfortunately there’s no good way to deliver bad news.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” said Claire. “My insides are pretty much filled up with bad news.”

  Serena said, “I told them about your mom.”

  Milo said, “So sorry.”

  Claire said, “Aneurysm, she’s doing her Pilates and it just…” She lowered her head, let it dangle.

  Serena put her arm around her friend and drew her near. “Hey, girl.”

  Claire looked up. “I’m fine.”