The Wedding Guest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  He glanced at the piano, unlaced and fluttered his fingers. “Was I an S.O.B.? Certainly. Widowhood and a disastrous second marriage took it out of me. I wound down my practice, played more golf, tried to get back to music and found I’d lost my flair. I’d visit Barton and his wife in Boston twice a year. Every eighteen months or so I’d endure a sixteen-hour trek and see Josh and his girlfriend in Tel Aviv. I was just back from Israel when Peter showed up here. Unannounced, just like the first time. He was thirty but already had gray hair. He said he needed temporary lodgings so I took him in, we went to dinner, he talked, I listened. Apparently after Costa Rica he’d gone back to Panama City where he’d worked at a hotel. First in the dining room, then the front desk. He said he’d discovered hotel management was his passion and he’d come back to ‘develop himself.’ He also had a girlfriend he’d met there. A dancer at a club, she’d be arriving soon and they’d be living together, could I advance him on the rent? I gave him enough for six months.”

  “Generous,” said Milo.

  “You think so?” said Kramer. “More like go-away money.” His lips folded inward. “I was an S.O.B. in general and a rotten dad, specifically. And then he died. And now you’re digging it all up.”

  I said, “You do know about his last job.”

  “Assistant manager at some apartment building. It depressed him, he’d hoped for hotel work but his résumé didn’t cut it. Was his death somehow connected to that?”

  Milo said, “We’re curious about the building.”

  “In what way?”

  “There may be things going on there.”

  “It’s a dope den? Westwood Village?” said Kramer. “I guess that’s not so far-fetched. Students, the weirdos who hang around students.”

  “Did Peter talk about that?”

  “Not to me, Lieutenant, but I used to attend at the health center, I know what I saw.”

  I said, “How much contact did you have with Peter when he worked there?”

  Kramer ran a hand along the top of neat, white hair. No strands out of place but that didn’t stop him from patting. “I wish I could say we grew closer but we didn’t. I’m assuming Peter didn’t need money because he stopped contacting me. The only reason I found out about his death was he’d listed me in his phone contacts and the coroner’s investigator found me.”

  Milo said, “Do you have that phone, Doctor?”

  “No. I told them to dispose of all of Peter’s effects. It was hard enough cleaning out Lenore’s closet. I didn’t need to go through that again.”

  I said, “Did you ever meet the girlfriend from Panama?”

  “Once. I took them to dinner at Spago and she seemed very pleasant. Far better behaved than Peter, who drank too much wine and got loopy and started talking about his mother. I didn’t appreciate hearing Lenore described in a drunk’s slurry voice. The girl could tell, she managed to calm Peter down. Nice young lady. Good looking, too. Peter always had a way with the girls.”

  I pulled out the photo of Suzanne DaCosta.

  Paul Kramer said, “Yes, that’s her. Are you telling me she was involved in Peter’s death?”

  Milo said, “Part of what we’re dealing with is her murder.”

  Kramer’s eyes popped. “Murder? She was also a junkie? She’s the one who gave Peter heroin?”

  “There’s absolutely no evidence of that, Dr. Kramer. Ms. DaCosta is our primary case and she led us to Peter.”

  The fingers of Kramer’s right hand flew to his cheek and drummed the skin lightly. Large fingers for a small man. Expressive, a surgeon’s source of grace and authority. “DaCosta? That’s not the name I was given.”

  “Suzanne Kimberlee DaCosta. Sometimes she called herself Kimbee.”

  “Not to me, she didn’t,” said Paul Kramer, returning the photo. “I have a good memory for names—most of my age peers don’t—and I remember distinctly that Peter introduced her as Susan Koster. And she said, ‘Call me Susie.’ ”

  CHAPTER

  34

  We left Kramer’s house and rode a block before Milo pulled to the curb and began working his mobile computer.

  Detective work is like building a suspension bridge: No matter how precise the engineering or elegant the architecture, nothing matters until the last gap is closed.

  Armed with Susan Koster’s true identity, Milo began piling up facts like a spoiled kid hoarding Christmas gifts.

  Within seconds he’d called up Susan Katherine Koster’s DMV records: first license at eighteen, two renewals followed by a two-year gap consistent with working in Panama. After that, nothing until she materialized as Suzanne Kimberlee DaCosta.

  No paper trail in Nevada. If her story about working in Vegas was true, she hadn’t put down roots in the Silver State.

  That was consistent with the type of short-term gig that brought some attractive young women in and out of Vegas. Working in the brothels of Nye and other counties with legalized prostitution would’ve resulted in some sort of registration. But illegality raises the price of goods and services and if she’d gone for the big bucks in Sin City and had never been arrested, no record.

  One consistency on every Susan Koster license, an address on Mentor Place in North Hollywood.

  The online map kicked out the image of a boxy green bungalow east of Laurel Canyon and two miles north of Ventura Boulevard.

  A hop from the Studio City garage she’d sublet from Serena and Claire.

  As Milo continued to type away, I logged onto a pay site I’d used before. PayPalling a few bucks hooked me into thousands of high school yearbooks. Knowing the age and address of my subject sped up the process and within seconds I had a North Hollywood High senior photo, taken twelve years ago.

  The same pretty face, a bit fuller and less defined, obscured by bangs that hung to her eyebrows and curtained by long dark hair ironed straight. Her eyes were wary, heavily shadowed, her mouth sour and downturned.

  Photo shoot on a bad day or high school hadn’t been her thing.

  Maybe the second because she’d listed no achievements, academic or athletic, nor any extracurricular interests.

  A dancer who’d failed to make the pep squad? Or an outsider who hadn’t regarded applying as worthwhile?

  That set my mind racing but I kept my thoughts to myself and showed the thumbnail to Milo. He gave the V-sign and returned to his keyboard, pulling up the reverse directory and identifying the occupant of the house on Mentor Place.

  Dorothy Maria Koster.

  County tax files listed her as the owner and sole occupant and the house as nine hundred thirty-eight square feet sharing a four-thousand-foot lot with two equally petite residences. DMV made her forty-eight years old and served up a thin face topped by a curly blond bob. Blue eyes, five-four, one hundred eighteen pounds, corrective lenses required.

  One registered vehicle: a ten-year-old blue Buick LaCrosse.

  Impeccable driving record, not a trace of any sort of questionable activity.

  Milo said, “Law-abiding citizen. Time to meet Mom and ruin today and every day that follows.”

  He called the landline listed on the directory, held on for six rings, got a robotic male away-message and left his name, rank, and cell number. Then he sat back, closed his eyes, rubbed the lids, and rested his head against the seat. “I’ll try her again in an hour. What do you suggest, in the meantime?”

  I said, “Not a bad time to theorize.”

  “About?”

  “Susan’s death.”

  “Don’t make me beg. What?”

  “She was with Peter Kramer for a while but he clearly wasn’t The Brain.”

  “Maybe I should be looking into his genius brothers.” He opened his eyes and pivoted toward me. “Sad, kid like that in the wrong family.”

  “Poor fit,” I said. “I see it all the
time.”

  “It causes problems all the time?”

  “It can be worked with.”

  He nodded. “My brother Brendan. The rest of us are built like beer kegs with legs. Football, weight lifting, wrestling. Then we get this when we turn thirty.” Patting the bulge of his gut. “Believe it or not, I’m not the tonnage champ in the family. My brother Mel beats me by at least thirty pounds, my brother Will’s six-five, gotta be three fifty minimum. Brendan, on the other hand, is not only the smartest, he takes after my mother’s side, a bunch of leprechauns. Five-seven, one thirty on a good day. The rest of us could bench-press him and not breathe hard. He became a graphic artist, moved to Pittsburgh, owns his own ad company.”

  Abrupt laughter, bassoon-pitched, gushed from between his lips. Someone else might’ve thought he was smiling. I knew he was remembering.

  “Little Brendan was the one everyone suspected was gay. He ended up married to a beauty queen and has five terrific kids.”

  I said, “Keeps life interesting.”

  “What does?”

  “When order is disrupted.”

  “Hah. I sure disrupted my family. When I finally snuck out of the closet, Dad came close to stroking out…so ol’ Peter wasn’t up to Suzy’s intellectual aspirations and she tossed him over for someone who was?”

  “That’s the bet I’d take. He got replaced and eliminated.”

  “By Susie and The Brain, or just The Brain?”

  “Nothing suggests she was violent.”

  “If she had no beef with Kramer, why would The Brain bother? Didn’t sound like he was serious competition.”

  “Not for the time being,” I said.

  “The Brain worried she might change her mind and took out death insurance? That’s pretty savage.”

  “Or he’s got over-the-top dominance needs and decided to get rid of a complication.”

  “And then Susie became a complication? What, she failed an achievement test? Forgot to put on her body shaper?”

  “Or he simply got bored with her,” I said. “He was ready to end it but she wasn’t, because to her the relationship was more than romance. It represented what she thought was a new life. Feeling smart. That garage doesn’t look like full-time lodgings. She probably drifted back and forth between it and The Brain’s place. But then he kicked her out permanently. She found out he was going to the wedding and decided to confront him—”

  “Or he was part of the wedding party.”

  “Garrett?” I said. “Fine, either way. She threatened to show up, he said, No prob, see you there, wear that sexy red dress, we’ll have fun, discuss our issues. Instead, he sent Mike Lotz to take care of her. A junkie who also ended up replacing Pete Kramer. That can’t be coincidence, Big Guy. Maybe The Brain had something to do with Lotz being hired.”

  “What kind of influence would he have?”

  “He could be a longtime resident, comfy cozy in a penthouse, with access to vulnerable students like Cassy Booker.”

  Maybe Amanda Burdette; I kept that to myself.

  Milo said, “Older guy, gets all intellectual with younger women, gets into their pants…until he ditches them.”

  “Easy to see why Lotz had to die. Addicts aren’t known for discretion so once he carried out his mission, he became a liability.”

  “Or Mr. Cerebral just gets off on killing people.”

  “They’re not separate issues,” I said. “View the world as your solo stage, everyone else becomes a prop.”

  He returned to staring at the street. “Goddamn building. That obsequious little bastard Pena still isn’t returning calls. Same for the woman he gave me in Columbus—Masio—and everyone else I’ve tried at Academo. CCTV’s rarely a big deal. These people are starting to smell bad.”

  Turning the ignition key violently, he revved the unmarked’s engine. “What to do before I get to death-knock poor Mrs. Koster has just made itself obvious.”

  “Onward to the wilds of Westwood Village.”

  “You are quite the brain, yourself.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  Staying on the Glen to Wilshire, he headed west, gliding along the Wilshire Corridor, a stretch of wannabe New Yorkish high-rises between Comstock and Westwood Boulevard.

  As he entered the Village, he said, “The way you put it before, housecleaning. That’s cold, kiddo. You’re supposed to be the sensitive guy but you talk about the worst stuff like it’s business as usual.”

  Interesting point. Working with him had probably armored me with a carapace of sorts.

  I said, “If you’d prefer, I can dredge up a pout and some tears.”

  He laughed again, softer, less corrosive, covered the distance to the Strathmore complex far too quickly.

  Parking illegally across the street, he said, “You’re getting one more chance to do this politely, Bob,” and tried Pena’s number. No answer.

  I said, “Maybe he’s on vacation. Enforced or otherwise.”

  “Or worse.” He groaned and put his palms together. “Merciful God, please don’t tell me Bob’s also been housecleaned by The Phantom of Westwood.”

  We got out and headed for Building B. Just as we arrived, the doors opened and two girls emerged.

  U. sweatshirts, short-shorts, lace-up boots, long hair swinging in rhythm with spangled smartphones.

  “I’ll be penniless in New York,” said one. Enjoying the notion.

  “I’ll be penniless in Los Gatos,” said her friend, equally buoyant.

  They hurried off, laughing. Milo shook his head and reached for the door.

  I was closer and caught it.

  He muttered, “Reflexes,” strode past me, crossed the entry, and beelined to a ground-floor door marked Manager.

  No resistance from the knob. He stormed in, leaving me to catch the door.

  Bob Pena was sitting at an ugly woodite-and-chrome desk, eating a sandwich. As Milo charged toward him, his eyes bugged.

  “Bon appétit, Bob. Don’t choke. Yet.”

  Pena put down the sandwich and gaped. Homemade meal resting on a bed of waxed paper: bologna on white, sliced carrots, potato chips, plastic-wrapped cheese saltines, a cluster of green grapes. Can of Fresca to wash it down, the top not yet popped.

  “I—how’d you—”

  “Get in here? Obviously your security leaves much to be desired. Why haven’t you returned my calls, Bob?”

  Pena shrank back. Atop the desk was a black-bound ledger, a copy of Sports Illustrated, and a standing calendar in a cheap turquoise plastic frame. Soft-focus photo of Academo’s home office in Columbus, a columned heap of colonial bricks fit for a mortuary.

  Milo said, “That was a real question. Bob.”

  “I—I—I had nothing to tell you.”

  Milo cracked his knuckles and settled a haunch on a corner of Pena’s desk. Brushing aside the ledger and the magazine, he studied Pena the way a snake examines a mouse. Pena scooted his chair backward but there wasn’t much by way of escape space before he collided with a metal file cabinet.

  Milo said, “I’m genuinely puzzled, Bob. CCTV footage comes up all the time when we’re working cases and everyone we ask is happy to help.”

  Pena looked at his lap. “I’d like to help.”

  “But?”

  “The decision isn’t mine.”

  “The company has a problem cooperating with law enforcement.”

  “I gave you the name of someone—”

  “Yeah, yeah, Sandra Masio. Problem is, she doesn’t answer my calls, either. No one at Academo does.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Pena, sounding as if he meant it.

  “I mean it’s not a controversial thing. Bob. All we want to know is did the late Mike Lotz leave the building on a certain day. We’re talking a dead junkie janitor. I can’t
imagine why the company would give a shit.”

  Pena’s arms stretched forward, hands braced along the edge of the desk. His cheek muscles twitched and one eye sagged.

  Milo inched closer and drew himself up. Beer keg with legs tilting forward, about to topple.

  Pena’s knuckles blanched. “I’m really sorry.”

  “A junkie janitor. So it makes us wonder. Maybe someone else is being protected.”

  Pena blinked.

  “Is that it, Bob? Someone who lives here? A VIP tenant—smart guy, a professor type?”

  Three more blinks. Frantic head shake. “I don’t know about that.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I don’t know anything about what you’re talking about. I just do my job.” Pena’s voice had weakened. Trying to muster indignation and failing pathetically.

  I pointed to the ledger. “Does that list all the tenants?”

  “No, no, expenses.” Wheeling forward, Pena flipped the book open, showed us columns of numbers. “For taxes.”

  I eased the ledger out of his hand and turned other pages. Itemized costs, no names.

  Milo said, “Okay, show us the book that does list the tenants.”

  “Can’t do that,” said Pena.

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Can’t. Company policy. If it was up to me, honest, I’d—”

  “What’s the big secret?”

  “Privacy,” said Pena. “It’s what sets us apart.”

  “From?”

  “Regular dorms. You got to understand the situation.”

  “Educate us.”

  “We’ve got rich folk wanting something different for their brat—their kids.”

  I said, “Nowadays, brats don’t care much about privacy.”

  “Not them, who cares about them?” said Pena, volume rising, sparked by an upsurge of confidence. Quoting policy does that for some people. “It’s the parents. They’re paying the bills, they want their babies protected.”

  Milo said, “Then maybe they should find out that people seem to like this place for dying.”