Mystery: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

I said, “What I find interesting is that even though Franklin has a career of his own, he tops Phil’s billing. That could turn out just to be alphabetization. But if it’s a sign of favoritism, Connie’s anger quotient just got kicked up.”

  Milo said, “Frank’s a skin doctor, for all we know he got paid to certify polyester as dermal-friendly. Phil, on the other hand … yeah, it’s interesting.”

  Robin said, “Those kinds of jobs are pretty common in rich families. Nice way to avoid estate and gift tax.”

  Both of us turned to her.

  “When my father got sick, he told me he wanted me to inherit as much as possible but he knew that no matter what he stipulated in the will Mom would hold everything back for herself. So he incorporated his cabinetry business and made me a majority partner. That gave me legal possession of his tools, his benches, and a whole lot of wood he’d been stockpiling, plus some cash he put into the company account. Without all that, I could’ve never started my own business.”

  I said, “How’d Mom react?”

  “We never talked about it but I know she was mad, because when I asked for my old bedroom suite that Daddy made for me when I was seven, she said Daddy made sure everything was built-in because he wanted it to remain with the house. I knew he’d just put in elbow bolts for earthquake safety, but what was the point?”

  She shrugged. “The point is money’s always mixed in with ego. A family with big money can be a powder keg.”

  Milo said, “Frankie and Philly as consultants. Reminds me of the rooster who was pestering the hens so they castrated him and turned him into a consultant. One question, though: If Phil was getting serious dough through the company why would Connie lose her gallery?”

  I said, “It’s not what you make, it’s what you keep. Or it’s possible Phil had the means to save Connie but chose not to. Maybe their marriage had run into problems due to Connie’s alcohol issues. If he found out she’d hooked up with Muhrmann in rehab, that could’ve been the tipping point.”

  He said, “Yeah, that would squelch spousal enthusiasm.”

  “Connie was in a position to know that her father-in-law was looking for love in cyberspace. She and Muhrmann decided to use Tara as bait. And what Robin just said about ego beefs up the motive: On top of financial gain, Connie would be sticking it to the entire family.”

  He took a bite of chicken, chewed slowly, enjoyed a pasta chaser, then another. When he put his fork down, he seemed distracted. “How does any of that lead to Tara getting her face blown off? If Markham were still alive, I can see a power struggle as motive. Tara realized she was doing all the dirty work, demanded a bigger share—or tried to go it alone and cut Connie and Muhrmann out. They got pissed, expressed it with a .45 and a shotgun. But with Markham dead, there’s nothing to fight over.”

  Robin said, “Unless Markham left some serious assets for Tara in his will and Connie coveted them.”

  “Fooling around on the side’s one thing, Rob. Putting it in writing’s a giant step into scandal.”

  “Exactly why he would’ve done it as a message from the grave. In his profile, Markham made a big deal about creativity. Setting up his mistress and wreaking havoc on his family could’ve been his last project.”

  I said, “With Markham dead, Tara would’ve still had value to Muhrmann and Connie if she agreed to help them snag another Daddy. But what if she refused? And what if her resolve was strengthened precisely because Markham had bequeathed her substantial assets? Connie and Muhrmann would be doubly frustrated. And that syncs perfectly with Muhrmann hitting his mother up for cash right after Markham’s death. Tara got confident and cut him off.”

  “Overconfident,” said Robin. “She had no idea who she was fooling with.”

  Milo put his fork down. “Thank you, Nick and Nora … none of it feels wrong.” He hauled himself up. “Guess it’s time to learn more about this lovely bunch.”

  amantha “Suki” Agajanian’s red Audi TT Roadster zipped into the lot behind her building at ten thirty-five a.m.

  Milo knew the car was hers and that her real name was Samantha because he’d spent the early-morning hours researching her and her sister.

  Preceding that with a look at the Suss family, using the Web and property tax rolls.

  No additional financial details had surfaced following the sale of the company. As a privately held corporation, Markham Industries had done a good job maintaining its privacy.

  One surprise: Philip and Franklin’s shared birth date made them twins.

  “ ’Bout the least identical I’ve ever seen,” said Milo.

  Despite the dissolution of Connie’s gallery and her possible fling with Steven Muhrmann, she and Philip remained married and living together on Portico Place, not far from the Encino Reservoir. The P.O.B. she’d cited in her reference for Muhrmann was a mail-drop a few miles away, long since rented by someone else and the proprietors didn’t remember anything about her.

  Drs. Franklin and Isabel Suss were in their tenth year of paying taxes on a North Camden Drive house in the flats of Beverly Hills. Before that, they’d lived in a smaller place on Roxbury, south of Wilshire.

  Leona Suss was the sole occupant of a two-acre estate on Hartford Way, just north of the Beverly Hills Hotel, and of a condo in Palm Desert. Both properties had been purchased by a family trust twenty-seven years ago.

  None of the Susses had ever been married to more than one spouse.

  “Too much goddamn stability, it’s un-American,” said Milo.

  The Agajanian sisters, on the other hand, had each been divorced in their twenties, twice in Rosalynn’s case. The founders of SukRose.net had been truthful about owning a Lake Arrowhead cabin but their city digs was a shared Hollywood Hills rental, just south of the bird streets.

  Rosalynn drove the same model Audi as her sib, in silver. Columbia, Penn, and the U. verified both women’s educational claims. One parking ticket each, paid punctually, comprised their contact with law enforcement.

  The slot I’d found at the far end of the parking lot allowed us to watch Suki as she headed for the building’s back door, pressing an iPhone to her ear. She smiled as she listened, smiled as she talked. Switched to texting and kept up the mirth. A tailored tweed jacket bisected firm, generous buttocks, and skinny jeans made the most of her legs. Five-inch red stilettos caused her to teeter every few steps but the occasional loss of balance did nothing to shake her good cheer.

  As if she’d put in a bid to purchase the universe, fully expected it to be accepted.

  We waited until she’d disappeared into the building, spotted her entering the elevator. She looked up from her phone just as the doors began closing. Saw us and raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow as we stepped in.

  Milo gave a small salute.

  She returned to her mini-screen.

  The lift stopped at the second floor. Two of the other riders exited, leaving behind an older woman in a baggy plaid coat and bad makeup who looked ready to discipline someone. She’d been standing close to Suki, moved quickly to put maximum space between them. Sniffed, as if the younger woman was emitting anything but Chanel No. 10.

  Ding. Floor three.

  Suki hesitated.

  Milo said, “Ladies first.”

  The old woman said, “Someone get a move on.”

  Out in the hallway, the texting continued.

  “Morning, Suki.”

  “Morning.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “I don’t think so. Brian gave you what you need.”

  “Brian gave us basics. Since then, life got complicated.”

  “For who?”

  “That depends.”

  She looked up from the screen. “I don’t appreciate being pressured.”

  “That sounds like something Brian told you to say.”

  “No. It’s how you’re making me feel. I don’t deserve it.”

  “Let’s go talk in your office.”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

>   “I can get one but I sure hope it doesn’t come to that, Suki. For your sake, because once the process starts, it takes on a life of its own. As in your business gets closed down for as long as it takes our techies to replicate your hard drives and scour your records.”

  “No way you can do that.”

  Milo clicked his tongue. “That’s what they all say, Suki.”

  “This isn’t Syria or Iran,” she said. “You need grounds for a search.”

  “We have grounds,” he said. “No matter what you’ve seen on TV, murder cuts through the smog.”

  “No way,” she said, but her voice faltered.

  “The sad thing, Suki, is we probably don’t even need your hard drives and going through them is going to be a major pain. All we’re after are the answers to a couple of simple questions, so how say we all do ourselves a collective favor?”

  “You just said everything was complicated.”

  “But you can make it simple again.”

  The door to a neighboring office opened. Two men in fitted suits and open-neck shirts came out laughing.

  “Morning,” said one.

  Suki’s return greeting was barely audible and both men studied her as if she’d rebuffed them at a club.

  “Whoa,” said one. “Time to move on.”

  As they boarded the elevator, the other said, “Was that the police? Weird.”

  Suki mouthed, Damn.

  Milo said, “Let’s talk in your office.”

  “Fine. But no promises.”

  SukRose.net’s dark, empty suite gave way to fluorescence as Suki punched wall switches on the way to her office. Vacuum tracks and an orangey-chemical smell said the space had been cleaned overnight. But the aroma of last night’s Mexican takeout fought to be noticed and the crew had left packets of hot sauce next to one of her computer screens.

  She frowned, brushed them into a trash basket, and looked past us.

  The computers hummed. Hardware and software collaborating to align rich men with young female flesh.

  I supposed it wasn’t that different from what had constituted marriage for centuries, before the ideal of romantic love went from fictional device to social norm. And who knew? Maybe the concept of soul mate would one day reduce to bytes and bits.

  Right now, a beautiful girl with a missing face made it feel wrong.

  As we’d waited in the lot, Milo had asked me to begin the questioning. You know how I feel about that math science crap.

  I said, “Suki, how random is your process?”

  “You’ll have to be more specific about what you mean by ‘process.’ ”

  “Matching Daddies with Sweeties.”

  “The process is we provide data and people find their own way.”

  “All by themselves.”

  Her eyes shifted to the left. “That’s what I just said.”

  Milo walked to her window and parted the drapes. The blade of light that shot through was harsh and white.

  She kept her eyes on him until he returned to his seat. “What were you looking at? Are there more of you out there?”

  He said, “Great view. You’ve got yourself a really sweet setup here.”

  He has a way of making pleasantry sound ominous. Suki Agajanian swallowed. “Whatever.”

  I never enjoy lying glibly but I’m better at it than I’d like to think. “Suki, we had some math types examine your site. The consensus is that for you to succeed in a competitive field, the likelihood of random sorting as your dominant mode is about the same as sticking a monkey in a room with crayons and paper and expecting it to produce a Shakespearean sonnet over a long weekend.”

  She swayed from side to side. If she were a boat, she’d be taking on water. “Is that so?”

  I nodded.

  “Then your so-called math types don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  “You’re saying you never narrow searches in order to maximize compatibility.”

  Her eyes repeated the same journey portside. “There are steps we can take if people request. So what?”

  “What kind of steps?”

  “Constructive focus.”

  “Zeroing in on common interests.”

  Nod.

  “Favorite foods and such?”

  “Deeper than that,” she said. “Values, experiences, intellectual pursuits.”

  I tried to imagine a deep conversation between Markham Suss and Tara Sly.

  “In order to zero, you use word-search software.”

  She held out two palms. “Uh-uh, no way I’m going to get into technical aspects. Wouldn’t do it even if we were already copyrighted—and we’re looking into that. Because anything can be modified and ripped off.”

  “We’re the last people you need to worry about stealing your stuff,” I said.

  Her arms crossed over her chest. “Nope, no can do. Now, if there’s nothing else you—”

  “So we agree that random surfing for true love might be fun in theory but narrowing the focus works significantly better.”

  “Significance is a statistical concept,” she said. “You mean importance.”

  “Okay, focus is important.”

  “I guess that depends.”

  “Do you word-search routinely or is it an option?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I said, “My guess is it’s a paid option, the geezers get a do-it-yourself base-rate or pony up additional dough for assisted loving.”

  Suki Agajanian’s crisscrossed arms tightened, folding her shoulders inward, as if someone had laced her into an oppressive corset. “Relationships aren’t a joke.”

  I said, “They’re anything but. Do you charge per word, or is it a package deal?”

  “I don’t see why you’d care about that.”

  “Are Sweeties and Daddies both eligible for assistance?”

  “Everyone finds their own way, that’s the beauty of—”

  “Daddies pay to enroll on the site but Sweeties don’t.”

  “Brian already told you that.”

  “So if there is an extra for-fee service only Daddies get to use it, correct?”

  Long silence. Petulant nod.

  I said, “Sweeties fend for themselves.”

  She said, “Trust me, they do fine for themselves.” Sweat beaded her pretty Levantine nose. She dropped her arms, laced her fingers. A knuckle cracked. The pop made her jump.

  When your own body scares you, you’re easy prey.

  I said, “Obviously, you see where we’re headed.”

  “Obviously I don’t.”

  “Cohibas.”

  She wheeled back in her desk chair. Hit an obstruction and came to a jarring halt, braced herself on the desk-edge. “We did absolutely nothing wrong.”

  “No one’s saying you did, Suki.”

  “Then can you please leave so I can go about my business? I’ve got a ton of emails to deal with.”

  “As soon as we have the exact dates Tara Sly and Markham Suss registered with you.”

  “Uh-uh, no way, I can’t do that,” she said. “Not before I consult with Brian.”

  Her iPhone lay on the desk. Sparkling pink case, like a toy you might give to a three-year-old girl. I held it out to her.

  She didn’t budge.

  “Call him, Suki, so we can all go about out business.”

  “That’s everything you want?” she said. “Just dates and then you’ll leave me alone?”

  “You bet.”

  She laughed. “Then you really wasted your time cause the dates are right out in the open, at the top of each profile.”

  Exactly.

  Milo pulled out Stylemaven and Mystery’s ventures in creative writing. “According to this, Mr. Suss registered twenty-three months and four days ago.”

  “If that’s what it says.”

  “And Tara aka Mystery came on real soon after, three days to be exact.”

  “Okay.”

  I said, “How much do you charge for keyword pro
mpts?”

  “You asked me that already.”

  “Don’t recall any answer, Suki. And frankly, we don’t get why you’d want to be evasive if paying extra for prompts is a policy that all new Daddies learn about when they enroll. Unless it isn’t and you fool with the fee based on some hidden criterion. Like how much you think they’re good for.”

  “No! Everyone pays forty dollars for three words and each additional word is twenty each.”

  “Per month?”

  “Per two months but they can change the prompts if they’re not getting results and there’s no extra fee.”

  “What percentage of your members opt to pay for any prompts?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it the majority?”

  “We’ve never counted.”

  “Quants like you and Rose?” I said. “That’s hard to believe.”

  She sagged. “It’s about half.”

  Quickie math made that serious income.

  She said, “Now can I get to my emails—”

  “Half the Daddies pay for advanced searches while the Sweeties rely on their wits.” I smiled. “So to speak.”

  “You’d be surprised,” she said. “Some of them are smart and educated.”

  “Tara Sly must’ve been really smart to snag her Daddy that fast,” I said. “Though you’d never know it from her spelling and grammar.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Either that, or she had ESP.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Another eye jog.

  I said, “Take a guess how many words she and Stylemaven matched on.”

  Silence.

  “Five, Suki. Adventure, freedom, embrace, spiritual. And, most strikingly, Cohiba. Our math types say the probability of that happening by coincidence is infinitesimal. What we’re thinking is Mystery wasn’t surfing for some theoretical Daddy. Right from the beginning she set out to get Stylemaven. That would be no big deal if Sweeties had access to Daddy profiles before they registered. All she’d have to do is read about his interests and match them. But that would wreak havoc with your site and turn it into one big linguistic competition. So you keep Daddy profiles off limits to anyone without a username and a password. Unless you mess with that rule for a fee.”

  “We do not.”