The Wedding Guest

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Did she have any particular interests?”

  “Dance was her thing. She was graceful. When she was little I spent you don’t want to know how much on ballet and tap lessons. Then she said she’d be fine on her own, she didn’t need all those teachers telling her what to do. Which made sense to me. You’re born with that, right? You can’t teach a big fat ape to be graceful, right?”

  Milo smiled.

  Dorothy Koster said, “I swear there were times she could float. Now you’re telling me she’s gone. It makes no sense.”

  He said, “When’s the last time you heard from Susie?”

  “The last time was…a while ago. She called me, she was happy. New boyfriend. The boyfriend before that she was happy, too. I said why’d you end that one? She laughed, she’d never really let on about personal stuff. The boyfriend before she found in Panama. If you’re going to ask me, don’t know his name—just that she said he was smart and good looking and Jewish. I’ve got nothing against Jewish people, my boss at The Kitchen is Jewish, Andy Streit, treats me well, treats everyone well.”

  I said, “What else did she tell you about the boyfriend from Panama?”

  “Not from Panama. She met him in Panama, he was American. She was dancing at a hotel, he worked there. He was going to run his own hotel one day.”

  Milo said, “No name, huh?”

  “You think he did it?”

  “Not at all, ma’am, just trying to collect information.”

  “Well,” said Dorothy Koster, “she did have a nickname for him. Handsome Hilton. Like the hotel, but he wasn’t a real Hilton. It was like she was making fun of him. In a nice way. Susie could get like that. Liking someone but still playing around with them. She teased me. But in a nice way. My name, Dorothy, she was always trying Wizard of Oz jokes. Like I should get a dog named Toto, that kind of thing.”

  I said, “No problems with Handsome Hilton but she moved on.”

  “The new one was supposedly brilliant, she called him The Brain. Which reminded me of a science-fiction movie that scared me when I was a girl. This brain, separated from a body, sitting there in a glass jar, bubbling and buzzing.”

  She shuddered. “Anyway, she said this one had taken her to a new level. Opened her mind to books, theories, stuff she’d never thought about. It made her want to try harder. I said, See, I always said you were smart but me you didn’t believe. Usually, when I tried to make a point, she’d change the subject. This time she said, You know, Mom, I think you’re right.”

  Dorothy Koster’s face crumpled. “Finally I get some credit, huh?”

  I said, “How much schooling did she have?”

  “She finished high school, had to repeat a bunch of summers but finally, yeah, they graduated her. I said how about junior college, you’ve got what it takes. Instead, she left. Just packed her bags while I was at work and left me a note to say she was traveling and poof. Maybe if she went to junior college like I said…God wouldn’t just do that. So I guess there really is the Devil.”

  * * *

  —

  Milo asked if she had photos of Susie, anything at all that could be helpful. Her answer spoke volumes.

  “I’ve got photos from when she was little, elementary school. Once she hit junior high, she refused to let me take any.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She said she was ugly, she didn’t want a record of it. I said, that’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of—oh, yeah, I did sneak one in. When she was at dance class, she was probably fifteen—no, sixteen, hold on.”

  She stood up, tottering, but avoided my supporting hand. “I’m fine, that was just a weird thing.” Walking to the left, she was gone for a few moments, returned with a color snapshot.

  Lovely, lithe girl in a pink tutu and white tights. Toe-pointing on pink ballet shoes, arms outstretched gracefully.

  I said, “Gorgeous,” and meant it.

  Milo said, “Really lovely.”

  “She was, she was,” said Dorothy Koster. “Now—when can I come get her, sirs?”

  “Soon as you’re able, ma’am.”

  “I’ve got the money. Harry’s pension fills in the gaps. Who do I talk to?”

  He gave her his card, one from the coroner’s administrative office, and three from mortuaries that work smoothly with the crypt. Some people carry spare change and gum. His pockets are a bit different.

  Dorothy Koster said, “Okay, thanks.”

  “Is there anything you can think of that might help us, ma’am?”

  “Nope.” She waved his card. “If that changes, I know how to reach you.”

  She accompanied us to the door. “I won’t say nice meeting you, but you did a good job, it’s got to be tough.”

  “Thanks so much, ma’am.”

  “That’s part of it,” said Dorothy Koster. “The way you call me ma’am.”

  CHAPTER

  37

  As he had following the visit with Paul Kramer, Milo drove a bit and pulled over. “You’re thinking what I am, right?”

  I said, “Same story as Peter Kramer.”

  “It’s like they were on the same path.” He sucked in his breath. “Ended up in the same place.”

  “By the same hand.”

  “Like you said, the fucking Brain cleaning house.”

  “Susie would’ve been ripe for a Pygmalion thing,” I said. “Convinced she was stupid, finally someone tells her different.”

  “Trips to the library, goddamn textbooks. Not for her sake. He was out to control and manipulate her. Offs her boyfriend, plays with her for a while, she outlives her usefulness, he gets Lotz to drive a spike into her head and choke her out.”

  “You see Garrett as capable of all that?”

  “Because he comes across as a wimp? Why not? If he fooled Susie and maybe the Booker girl, why the hell couldn’t he put on an act for us?”

  “Kramer and Lotz had a link to the building. The only connection Garrett has is his sister lives there.”

  “Maybe that’s enough. He visits, notices things. Collects people like a serious psychopath.”

  “You know what I’m going to say.”

  He waved a big hand. “Anything’s possible but. What’s the but?”

  “All we really have on him is that he’s bright.”

  “Plus that look he gave when Poland came up, same for his parents. Plus, the goddamn wedding was his, who better to need damage control—hold on.”

  He reached for a buzzing jacket pocket, removed his phone, went on speaker. “Alicia…what’s up, kid?”

  Bogomil said, “Something to report on Amanda, Loo. Finally she left and went somewhere other than to campus or to get food in the Village. Got on her trusty little bike and pedaled past the Village—sketchily, I might add. She spaces out, doesn’t look where she’s going, drifts in front of cars. Couple of times she got honked, didn’t even react.”

  “Lost in thought,” said Milo.

  “Lost in something,” said Alicia. “Anyway, this time she kept going east and crossed Hilgard into the residential streets. Then over to Wilshire at Selby where there’s a light. She crosses, bikes a couple of blocks west nearly getting pulverized, then turns off at one of the fancy high-rises and rolls down into the sub-lot.”

  Milo copied the address she recited. “The gate was open?”

  “No, there’s a call box. She knows the combination. Interesting, no?”

  “Very.”

  “It’s a high-end place, Loo, even for the Corridor. Valets out front, working with the level of chrome you’d expect. I considered asking the staff if they knew her but the heap I got from the impound lot and the way I’m dressed they’d probably call the station on me. Plus I wanted to check with you first.”

  “Good thinking, kid. Let’s hold off for the
time being. Where are you?”

  “Back at my desk. I watched the place for a couple hours but it’s tough, no parking on either side of Wilshire and I couldn’t exactly slide the heap in with Bentleys and Mercedeses. So I just kept circling and passing. No sight of her since, sorry.”

  “Nothing to apologize for, getting that address is a big step.”

  “Hopefully it’s not her rich grandma’s crib.”

  “There was no grandma at the wedding.”

  “Oh, yeah. So maybe it was some kind of tryst. Though it’s hard to see her having a thing with the kind of guy who’d live there. Not only is she weird, she’s dowdy. Today she rode her bike in this ugly, flimsy gray dress, it’s billowing and blowing up like an umbrella, her legs are spread open from here to Arizona and she’s totally unaware. If she wasn’t wearing a shaper, she’d have given Westwood quite a show.”

  “A shaper.”

  “It’s a girl thing, Loo. Tights you put on under other clothes, they end above the knees and take care of bulges you don’t want to advertise. Not that this one has any bulges. Skinny and straight up and down as a boy. Why’d she wear a shaper? Maybe she’s got a twisted body image, maybe it’s for biking. Or like I said, she’s just weird.”

  “Maybe,” said Milo. “Okay, take the rest of the day off.”

  “Why?”

  “Your watch on her went way past the call, even with the overtime I’m gonna write up. This is good work, I want you rested.”

  “Really?” said Bogomil. Softer voice. “That’s totally nice. Maybe I found my niche.”

  * * *

  —

  He hung up, pocketed his phone, stared out the windshield. “Don’t say it.”

  I said, “Say what?” But I knew what he was getting at.

  He ticked a finger. “A, unless Garrett has millions no one knows about, he doesn’t have a place in a Corridor high-rise. B, he’s in Italy so it can’t be him Amanda just went to see. Let alone wearing a body shaper for.”

  My mind raced, what-ifs tumbling in. I kept silent.

  He drummed the dashboard, produced a panatela that he quickly replaced with a chocolate lollipop. “Sugarless, got it at the dentist.”

  I smiled.

  “Hey. I didn’t mean no talk for the rest of the day. I wanted a Trappist monk for a buddy, I’d write the ad differently.”

  That broke me up. When I recovered, I said, “The Corridor’s fine for luxury housing but you’d still need somewhere to shop and recreate.”

  “So?”

  “The nearest place for that is the Village. If The Brain spends time there, he’d have ample opportunity to come across the building on Strathmore, maybe meet a vulnerable young female. And/or a vulnerable addict like Lotz. Alternatively, he learned about the building from Susie Koster through her relationship with Peter Kramer.”

  He kept working on the lollipop, jaw tightening, eyes compressing.

  I said, “That doesn’t work for you?”

  “It works. Go on.”

  “What makes you think there’s more?”

  He grinned.

  “Okay,” I said, “third possibility is that The Brain is rich enough to keep two places—Wilshire for his main crib and Strathmore for finding his prey. Or sticking with the affluence angle, he’s familiar with the building because he’s got a financial interest in it.”

  “A honcho at Academo.”

  “Not necessarily. When outfits like Academo build, they don’t put up all of the money, they go to outside investors and syndicates. The Brain being a serious investor would explain Pena getting squirrelly.”

  He held up a hand in mock self-defense. “I ask for a breeze and get a hurricane. Okay, so we could be looking for an intellectual type with big bucks, maybe with a link to Poland. How about we take a look at Wilshire, we get lucky some prancing Slavic popinjay in a monocle will just happen to strut out to his Rolls.”

  CHAPTER

  38

  Traffic back to the city was less obliging. Fifty-three minutes after leaving Dorothy Koster’s North Hollywood hideaway, we were coasting the eastbound lanes on Wilshire just past Westwood Boulevard.

  A red light at Selby gave us the chance to idle in front of the address given by Alicia. Towering above a copper-roofed porte cochere paved in gray slate was a sharp-edged obelisk clad in pink granite and trimmed with more copper. Glass doors offered a coy hint of crystal chandelier. Twenty-four stories, generous windows offering views to everywhere.

  Three maroon-clad valets hustled to accommodate a queue of vehicles. As Bogomil had promised, high-end horsepower: Porsche, Mercedes, Mercedes, Bentley, Range Rover, Mercedes. Every set of wheels black or white.

  Milo found a parking spot three blocks north of Wilshire and we headed back to the tower. Not much foot traffic on the Corridor and walking in L.A. can generate suspicion if you don’t look like you belong. Milo had on one of his fossilized gray suits, a white wash-’n’-wear shirt, and a skinny brown tie. Respectable enough if you didn’t get too close. I’d thrown a blue blazer over a gray polo and jeans, which could mean anything from tourist to movie mogul.

  As we neared the building, another white Mercedes pulled in. Moments later, engine hum was drowned out by a roar of anger.

  We slowed our stride, ready to spy while looking apathetic.

  The choler was coming from a middle-aged woman in total pink Chanel. Including inflated lips. Her target was one of the valets, a thin red-haired kid no older than twenty. The other two valets, older men, stood by as Red weathered the blast, grinding his jaws.

  The gist of the rage was Chanel’s conviction that “five minutes, thirty-eight seconds, I’ve been timing,” was too long to wait for her car to come up from the sub-lot.

  The kid looked at his feet. Chanel’s botulin eyes managed to move a smidge. “That’s it? You have nothing to say? You’re a fucking idiot!”

  One of the older valets, beefy and gray-haired, hurried over. “Ma’am, so sorry.”

  “That’s not enough! I want to hear it from him! It’s him I gave my keys.” The immobile orbs tugged themselves down to a diamond-bracelet watch. “Six minutes, forty-eight seconds!”

  The kid hung his head.

  “Pea-brain—what, you don’t understand English?”

  The older man said, “I’ll get your car. Jeremy, take a break.”

  Chanel said, “A break from what? He’s not doing anything.”

  “Jeremy.” Waving his fingers. “Ma’am, I’m getting your car right now.”

  “Not the Escalade, the Mercedes.”

  * * *

  —

  Jeremy shuffled off, exiting the porte cochere and walking west.

  Milo looked at Chanel, stamping her foot and patting blond meringue hair. “Classy.”

  I said, “She did us a favor.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll explain while we walk.”

  * * *

  —

  We followed Jeremy’s slouch up Wilshire, hanging half a block behind. Nowadays, a lot of people seem incapable of moving their feet without consulting their phones. Jeremy jammed his hands in his pockets and kept up a slow but steady pace.

  When he crossed Malcolm Avenue, we closed the gap and Milo said, “Jeremy?”

  The kid stopped, turned slowly, head protruding like that of a turtle inspecting a fly egg. Milo walked up to him, card out. Jeremy scanned but didn’t react.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, sounding amused. Up close, his skin was pallid where buttermilk freckles didn’t intrude. Pinkish eyelashes lowered and rose, exposing stolid, hazel eyes. “My dad’s checking up on me?”

  A smile full of braces.

  Milo said, “Your dad?”

  “Captain Karl Jacobs.”

  “Pacific Division.”

 
Jeremy’s grin was all-knowing. “What, he thinks I’m screwing up?” Shrug. “Maybe I am. Maybe it’s breathing toxic fumes from the cars, like poison in my brain, or something. Still, shouldn’t detectives be chasing crime or something?”

  I said, “Why would you think you’re screwing up?”

  “I just got my ass reamed by some rich lady.”

  “We saw. Not your fault she’s a total bitch.”

  Jeremy’s smile withered. “You saw it?” He studied me, unsure how to respond.

  Milo said, “We were interested in the building and happened to walk by. Man, you’ve got a talent for cool. That was me?” He blew out air. “My partner’s right. They gave Oscars for bitchdom she goes home with a big, ugly statue.”

  Jeremy’s analysis shifted to him. Hazel eyes sharpened. “Why are you talking to me?”

  “Like I said, the building. We saw you and thought you might know stuff that could help us. I’m serious, man. You’ve got nerves of steel.”

  Jeremy shrugged, working hard at not being pleased by the compliment. The flush under his ears gave him away. “Yeah, I’m chill. It’s like the way my brain works. My dad thinks it means I don’t give a rat.” Soft titter. “Usually, I don’t.”

  Milo said, “Your dad got you the job at the building?”

  Jeremy tweaked a lapel. “You really don’t know?”

  “We really don’t.”

  “More like forced me to do the job. Now I got to wear this shit.” Tweezing a maroon lapel between his fingers and grimacing.

  “Why that building?”

  “One of the other valets is one of you, retired, used to work for Dad. Dad called Rudy, Rudy fixed it, Dad said I had no choice if I wanted to live at home.” Another rueful touch of the lapel.

  Milo said, “Rudy’s the one who just told you to take a stroll?”

  “Yeah. He makes like he’s on my side but I think he narcs me to Dad regularly ’cause when I get home Dad has all these questions, it’s like he knows what happened. Tonight’ll probably be like that. Like it’s my fault things jam up and it takes time.”