Mystery: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “Adventure, freedom, embrace, and spiritual are words that probably come up a lot on SukRose. Especially spiritual, everyone claims to be spiritual. But even so, a four-way match would be quite an accomplishment. Toss in a low-frequency word like Cohibas and Tara having ESP sounds real good. Unless you sell data to Sweeties under the table and of course you don’t do that.”

  “We don’t, I swear.”

  “Then it’s really puzzling, Suki. We randomly sampled a whole bunch of your profiles. Guess how many times Cohiba or Cohibas showed up on anyone’s other than Stylemaven’s and Mystery’s?”

  Silence.

  “Any guess but zero would be wrong, Suki.”

  “Okay, so what?” she said. “Someone with a username and a password showed his profile to her.”

  “Another Sweetie sharing the wealth?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “All those girls competing for a few choice rich guys and they’d hand over freebie data just to be nice?”

  She shrugged.

  Milo said, “We have an alternative explanation.”

  “What?”

  He showed her an enlargement of Steven Muhrmann’s DMV photo. “He look like a sharing type to you?”

  Suki Agajanian’s mouth dropped open. “Him?”

  “Well, look at that,” said Milo. “A spontaneous reaction.”

  She gaped.

  He said, “Obviously you’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Stefan whatwashislastname—Moore,” she said. “What does he have to do with any of this?”

  “His real name’s Steven Muhrmann.”

  “I knew him as Stefan Moore.”

  “How do you know him, Suki?”

  “He worked for us, okay? Only for a short time, no big whoop.”

  “When?”

  She clicked keys. Gasped. Sat back and stared at the ceiling. “Oh, shit.”

  Milo said, “The date, please, Suki.”

  “Right around the same time.”

  “As …?”

  “As him registering. Stylemaven—Suss.”

  “The date,” he repeated.

  She read it off woodenly.

  Milo said, “That’s two days after Stylemaven came on and one day before Mystery registered.”

  “Shit.”

  “How long did he work for you, Suki?”

  “Less than two weeks—hold on.” Click click. “Guess I don’t have a record but it wasn’t long, maybe a week, a week and a half.”

  “Looks like he used his first day on the job to access your database.”

  “No way,” she said. “He didn’t even have computer skills.”

  I said, “And you know that because …”

  “He told us, up front.”

  “What an honest guy.”

  “Shit.”

  “I’ll bet he made a big deal about being a computer dummy, Suki. I’ll bet you and Rose were impressed by all that upfront honesty.”

  She closed her eyes. Massaged her brow. “I’ve got a crazy headache.”

  I said, “His ignorance of computers made you feel comfortable. No way he could mess with your data.”

  She sat up straight. “That bastard—but no way, he’d never be able to get into the profiles, we’re security-paranoid, you want to know how paranoid we are? We double-encrypt everything, use layers of firewall, it’s like the Pentagon—Brian says the Pentagon should be as secure. We do everything to maintain the integrity of the data because without our data, we’re toast.”

  “What exactly were Stefan’s duties?”

  “He was a gofer, ran errands, took deliveries.”

  “Did he answer the phone?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “When?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Was he limited to when you and Rose were here or did he work the phones when you went out to lunch?”

  Silence.

  Her whisper was fierce. “Oh, fuck.”

  I said, “You never bothered to turn the computers off because Stefan was a computer dummy.”

  The sound that she made next was hard to characterize. Part laughter, part cackle, part bronchial congestion. “Shit, shit, shit, how could we be so … no, no way, I can’t believe …”

  I said, “Did you fire him?”

  “No, he quit.”

  “Did he give a reason?”

  “He just stopped showing up.”

  “So he didn’t officially quit, he just flaked. Because his real job was over.”

  Her head dropped as if yoked by sudden, crushing weight. “I am so sorry. But you’re not saying that caused … what happened to her. You’re not saying that, right?”

  Milo said, “One way or the other Tara Sly got aimed at Markham Suss. If Stefan ripped you off, that’s one thing. But if you broke your own rules and took a bribe to guide the process, that’s a whole different kettle of scrod.”

  “No, no, we’d never do that, there’s nothing personal going on here, everything’s done online.”

  “Romantic.”

  I said, “You had no idea she matched him that precisely?”

  “Why would we? We don’t look at that kind of thing.”

  He said, “How about after we came in with Tara’s picture? You didn’t get curious.”

  Her jaw swung from side to side. “Sure we did but all we learned was she only matched one Daddy and that was good, we figured at the worst we’d give you that and you’d leave us alone.”

  “The fact that they registered within days of each other and hooked up nearly immediately didn’t impress you?”

  “I swear,” she said. “That didn’t even register with us, we were just trying to cover our—to stay out of a mess. We’re sorry, okay? And we never connected it to him—that bastard. Why would we? He came across like a dummy. Even now, you can’t prove he had anything to do with it—that our data was even corrupted.”

  “A five-word match, Suki? Cohibas.”

  “What I said, another girl shared.”

  Milo and I didn’t speak.

  “Okay,” she said. “It could also have been a glitch.”

  He said, “What kind of glitch?”

  “Programming errors, it happens, we fix them. But really, it could’ve been another girl. Maybe they traded.”

  “Like baseball cards,” said Milo. “Hey, here’s an idea for a spin-off: Daddy and Sweetie cards, collect them all, kids.”

  “Whatever.”

  “ ‘Gee, Tara, I was surfing with my username and password and just happened to come across this rich old dude who has a thing for Cuban cigars and I thought, hey, that’s perfect for you, you love rich old dudes who stink of tobacco and talk about karma, here you go, honey. And once you get your very own username and password you can return the favor—and, oh yeah, homegirl, here’s four other words you can stick in your profile to form a mathematically improbable coincidence because I ran a careful word-search in order to maximize your success.’ ” He slapped his cheek. “ ‘Oops. You lost your face.’ ”

  Suki Agajanian’s eyes filled with tears. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Then how about you channel all that remorse into action, Suki. As in no more delays and legal bullshit and you tell us the address Stefan gave when he applied for his ten-day job.”

  “Of course, no problem.” Click. “Here it is.” She printed a single sheet.

  The same defunct mail-drop Connie Longellos had given to Muhrmann’s landlord.

  Milo said, “Where’s the rest of his job application?”

  “That’s it, I promise. I know it looks skimpy but we were working day and night to accomplish the important things, didn’t have time to get all official with him—and like I said, he was barely here.”

  “How’d you find him in the first place?”

  “He found us,” she said. Leftward eye slide. Her lips vibrated. She’d never pass muster as a psychopath.

  “How’d he find you?”

  “Slipped his n
ame and number under the door with a note saying he was looking for office work. He said he’d interviewed downstairs, someone told him we needed a gofer.”

  “Who downstairs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You never verified.”

  “We were busy. We thought we needed help. Once we got set up and he was already gone, we learned the computers could do everything a person could do except better. That’s the beauty of eBiz, you keep overhead to a minimum.”

  “Bunch of smart kids, you and Rose and Brian,” he said. “Anyone else in the family involved?”

  “Michael—our baby brother—did some Web design for us, he’s artistic, but that’s it.”

  “Tell us everything you remember about Stefan Moore.”

  “He was okay,” she said. “Polite, didn’t say much.”

  I said, “He kept out of your way and you were busy so that was perfect.”

  “Yes. You’re not saying he’s the one who … oh, God!”

  Milo said, “What we’re saying is we’ve got a dead girl on our hands and ol’ Stefan was seen in her proximity the night she died. That makes him what we call a person of interest.”

  Her head dropped again. “This is a shit-filled nightmare.”

  “For Tara Sly it was a nightmare, for you it’s an inconvenience, Suki.”

  She looked up, dark eyes blazing. “You don’t get what I’m saying. Any of this gets out and we’re complete and utter toast and it couldn’t come at a worse time.”

  “Business is tough?”

  “Just the opposite, business rocks. We’ve been fielding some serious buyout offers that could be huge, so please, please, please, don’t go public with any of this. Please.”

  Milo said, “We’ll do our best, Suki. If you’ve told us everything you know.”

  “I have! I swear to God!”

  “Let’s go back to something Brian claimed: You don’t collect personal data on Sweeties once the initial criminal check comes back clean.”

  Moment’s hesitation. “Basically … okay, we keep addresses and phone numbers, no reason not to. I’ll give you Mystery’s. Will that work for you?”

  “Excellent, Suki. You’ll also give us her real name.”

  “I would but I don’t know it.”

  “Come on—”

  “It’s true, I’m being totally honest with you now, I want to be honest, there’s no reason to hold back.”

  “You do a criminal check but don’t probe for real names.”

  “We go by what they tell us,” she said. “We’re not the FBI, we shouldn’t be expected to have … what do you call them—dossiers.”

  He stared at her.

  “I swear.”

  “All right, Suki. Let’s have her address and phone number.”

  “Okay, okay, okay.” Click click click. “Oh, God.”

  “What?”

  “Blank space,” she said. “It’s been deleted.”

  “By who?”

  “No way to tell.”

  “When?”

  “Can’t tell you that, either.”

  “Looks like your database is far from incorruptible. Better fix all that before the buyout offers are finalized.”

  She shot us a crooked smile. “I’m going to be sick.” Announcing calmly as if introducing her next piece at a piano recital.

  By the time she reached the door she was retching.

  The bathroom she ran to was close enough for us to hear.

  Truth in advertising.

  uki Agajanian returned from the lav pasty-faced and hunched, limp hair tied in an unruly knot.

  “Don’t worry, I’m fine,” she said, as if we’d expressed concern.

  Milo said, “Now what else are you going to tell us?”

  “I swear there’s nothing, guys. It’s not like I actually met her. Or him. To us they’re just names.”

  We waited her out.

  She said, “I swear.”

  “One more question: Did anyone else named Suss log onto your site?”

  She hesitated, threw up her hands, typed. “Negative.”

  “What about Longellos?” He spelled it.

  “Negative.”

  “Okay, Suki, we’re leaving now but if we find out you held back on anything—”

  “I haven’t,” she said. “That would be poor judgment and I’m known for good judgment. We’re going to button things down even tighter from now on, but no one ever accused any of us of being stupid.”

  “Let’s hear it for the Agajanian kids,” he said.

  “We’re achievers. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Now, I really need to get to those emails.”

  We left her at her desk, texting with one hand, typing with the other. But before we reached the door to the hallway, she was running toward us, barefoot. “Could I ask you one thing—you don’t have to answer but I really need to ask. How’d you actually connect us with her? Tara. Whatever her real name is.”

  “Just what we told you,” said Milo. “Anonymous tip.”

  Ashen innocence gave way to a crafty smile. “C’mon, guys, really.”

  “Really.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Who’d want to screw us like that? That’s totally sneaky and low.”

  Milo said, “Anonymous tips are our bread and butter.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “What is?”

  “People messing with each other.”

  He winked at her. “We love our job anyway.”

  As we walked to the elevator, he said, “Truth is, I’ve been wondering about the tip myself, trying to figure out who else knew about any of this. With all the trouble Muhrmann and Tara and probably Connie Longellos took to cover their tracks, you’d think they wouldn’t confide in anyone else.”

  I kept my voice even. “You’d think.”

  In the car, he said, “Rich family, it’s all gonna boil down to mow-ney.”

  I said, “How about this for a soap opera: Suss fell quickly into lust, started out paying Tara a monthly allowance, no big deal for someone with his net worth. Then he became emotionally involved and upped the stipend. With Stevie and Connie and Tara splitting the proceeds, that kind of progress was in everyone’s interest. But the goose keeled over unexpectedly, the income stream dribbled out, and not only did Tara refuse to hook up with another Daddy, she wanted a lump-sum payment to finance her retirement, threatened Connie she’d tell the rest of the family about the scheme. That would mean more than lost income to Connie. It would spell disaster.”

  “Swimming with the sharks,” he said. “Stupid delusional kid. But who was she waiting for that night at the Fauborg?”

  “Maybe Connie.”

  “You said she looked like she was out on a date.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  The elevator arrived. Empty. Once we were inside, he searched for cameras, found nothing but didn’t speak.

  When we were back in the parking lot, he said, “Connie’s relationship with Tara was more than business?”

  I smiled. “It happens.”

  “A threesome,” he said. “Tara, Connie, and Steve-o, sex and money all meshed up together. Oh, man, that’s more than a soap opera. More like a reality show.”

  “American Idolatry?”

  We both laughed.

  I said, “One more thing: Tara’s ambitions could’ve been fueled by promises Suss made to her, as in permanent relationship.”

  “Leaving his wife for his bimbo?”

  “Whether or not he meant it, it wouldn’t have seemed outlandish. Check out the society photos in any Westside throwaway. Geezers with arm candy.”

  “Then he dies and she’s nothing but an ex-chippie. Yeah, that could motivate some serious foolishness.”

  “In order to keep her believing, he bought her some bling.”

  “The watch.”

  “Jewelry would be attractive to Tara, because it’s relatively liquid and she could sell it privately without paying taxes. She wore the wa
tch in front of Muhrmann but what if Suss gave her a lot of other baubles that she kept from him and Connie? If they’d found out, there’s yet another motive to punish her.”

  “So the date at the Fauborg was a setup from their perspective. But what was Tara expecting?”

  “A night of fun.”

  In the car, he said, “They plan to kill her, why go public at a hotel and risk being seen?”

  “Muhrmann never went inside, it’s only a fluke that we noticed him. Neil the waiter told us no one appeared during his shift, so maybe Connie never showed and Tara left and met up with Muhrmann. He told her there’d been a change in plans, Connie had rented a party pad in the Palisades. They drove to a predetermined spot where Connie was waiting and the two of them finished her off with a .45 and a shotgun. They went for overkill because Tara’s extortion had made it personal. Obscuring her face had the added bonus of making it tough to identify her. And it worked. We still don’t know who she really is.”

  “Rub it in … okay, let’s do some drive-bys, see where these people bunk down.”

  We took Laurel Canyon into the Valley, picked up the 134 west to the White Oak exit, headed south and crossed Ventura Boulevard, and climbed into the hills of prime Encino.

  Portico Place was a gracious stretch of big houses shielded by healthy shrubbery and high gates. Phil and Connie Suss’s address matched one of the grandest constructions: two towering stories of hand-troweled, tile-roofed, ocher-stucco Tuscan Revival set off by meticulously shaped date palms and brandy-colored bougainvillea and preceded by a cobbled motor court. Filigree double gates revealed a white BMW 3 series and a bronze Lexus convertible.

  Milo said, “Mama and Brother Frank go for 90210 but Phil and Connie sure ain’t slumming. Pretty good for a guy with no obvious income.”

  He eased a soft whistle through his front teeth. “Nothing like the lucky sperm club.”

  We watched nothing happen for nearly an hour before returning to the city.

  Drs. Frank and Isabel Suss resided in 90210 but their house on the 500 block of North Camden Drive would’ve fit any middle-class suburb.

  The one-story ranch was painted pinkish beige. A skimpy front yard was mostly concrete. An older Honda sat in front.

  “Two doctors,” he said. “They’re probably gonna be at work.”

  During the twenty minutes we sat there, the only action was a neighbor’s uniformed maid walking a mouse-sized Chihuahua.