“How long did Miss Mars live here?”
“A long time, Lieutenant.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“Well,” said DeGraw, “I’ve been here two years and she was well established by then. My predecessor told me about her. The unique situation.”
“Permanent residency.”
“Exactly, Lieutenant. We don’t normally allow it.”
“Why’d you do it for Miss Mars?”
“She had a contract.”
“Stating?”
“I’m not familiar with the details,” said DeGraw.
“You don’t keep records?”
“With regard to current data we keep excellent computerized records, but there have been informational changes.”
“Meaning?”
“Updated systems. Information gets deleted.”
“No old ledgers in a storage room?” said Milo.
DeGraw’s expression said Milo had suggested he pierce his own scrotum. “Dust, mold, insects? I can’t imagine we’d want anything like that.”
Milo flipped a notepad page. “Who owns the hotel?”
“The Aventura is in transition.”
“From what to what?”
DeGraw sighed. “I’m not at liberty to discuss but a sale is currently being considered.”
“Who’s selling?”
“The parent company is Altima Hospitality.”
“Where’s corporate headquarters?”
“Dubai.”
“Who owned it before Altima?”
“Another corporation,” said DeGraw.
“Which one?”
“Franco-Swiss Château Limited.”
“And before that?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
“How much did Miss Mars pay to live here?”
“She got a bargain,” said Kurt DeGraw. “Whoever agreed to it originally must’ve been—” DeGraw shook his head. “She was flat-rated with cost-of-living increases but she still got a bargain. One hundred ninety-six dollars and some change per day. With tax added, she paid a little over seven thousand dollars a month and that includes full board and maid service.”
“Eighty-four thousand a year, give or take.”
“A bargain,” said DeGraw. “Full board plus afternoon tea if she wanted it? And she always did. The current per diem on a deluxe bungalow is four hundred and eighty dollars.”
“No air-conditioning is deluxe.”
“Lieutenant. Many guests, particularly our sophisticated Continental travelers, prefer fresh air, and Miss Mars never complained.”
“You have no idea who she signed the original agreement with?”
“It was decades ago.”
“Have you tried to get her to move?”
DeGraw looked away. “There was an initial suggestion when we took over that she might be more comfortable somewhere else. With compensation for moving tossed into the package.”
“She turned you down.”
Nod.
“The deal was iron-clad,” said Milo.
DeGraw looked as if he’d swallowed a glass of warm spit. “Apparently.”
“When was the hotel built?”
“The Aventura was erected in 1934.”
“El Ori-hi-nal,” said Milo.
DeGraw blinked. “What’s left of it. We’d love to tear it down but preservationists…our priority is The Tower.”
“How many guests can you accommodate in total?”
“The Tower handles a hundred forty-five, the old wing, around forty.”
“Plus The Numbers.”
“Occupancy in The Numbers is at a far lower rate than the rest of the hotel. In fact, it’s not uncommon for it to be zero.”
“Except for Miss Mars.”
“Her situation was unique.”
“People opt for A.C.”
“People opt for everything electronic. WiFi, Bluetooth,” said DeGraw. “Today’s traveler demands instant connection.”
That sounded like an ad line. I said, “Speaking of technology, where are your surveillance cameras?”
“We have no cameras.”
Milo said, “Really.”
“You are surprised,” said DeGraw, with the glee of a magician unfurling his trick. “Franco-Swiss had begun installing a system. When we took over, an executive decision was made to de-install.”
“Why?”
“We choose not to rely on the false sense of security provided by electronic surveillance. Instead, we employ a top-notch security team.”
“Guards patrol.”
“Security personnel are aware.”
“How often do the bungalows get patrolled?”
DeGraw’s fingers fluttered. “When there’s a reason for coverage, it occurs.”
“No formal schedule.”
“Lieutenant. We pride ourselves on the human touch. Decisions based on actual need, not mechanics. We’ve never had a problem.”
Milo cocked a finger at Uno. “Time to amend that claim.”
DeGraw blew out a long gust of air. Mint fought a losing battle with garlic. “Our mission is based on discretion and privacy. An inviting home away from home where a traveler can stay without fear of being harassed.”
“Harassed by who?”
“Unwanted observers.”
“Paparazzi?”
“This is L.A., Lieutenant.”
“Cameras wouldn’t help with that?”
Theatrical sigh. DeGraw licked his lips. “If I tell you something in confidence, will it remain that way?”
“If it doesn’t relate to Miss Mars.”
“Can’t see that it does, so please be discreet.” DeGraw’s eyelids shuttered and opened repeatedly, an out-of-control camera. He leaned in closer. “One of our specialties is surgical aftercare.”
“Get a little tuck ’n’ roll then get tucked in.”
“We’ve developed a specialty, Lieutenant, have accommodated numerous highly important individuals during their time of physical need. Physicians are here frequently, nurses as well, but no one wears a uniform nor is medical equipment carried openly.”
“How’s it transported?”
“In luggage.”
“Covert clinic,” said Milo.
“You can see why cameras would be unwelcome, Lieutenant.”
I said, “You’ve got no gate or guard booth. It’s pretty easy to enter the property.”
“Superficially it is,” said DeGraw. “That’s part of the illusion.”
“Meaning?” said Milo.
“As your assistant just said, apparent ease.”
I hadn’t.
Milo said, “Explain.”
Another sigh. “The tighter you close something up superficially, the more inviting it becomes to those people.”
“Security staff peek behind the trees.”
DeGraw inched closer. “I’ll give you an example and hopefully you will understand. An obvious sentry, a guard booth, both would scream vulnerability. Instead, there’s always a triad of staffers at the front desk, one of whom is a highly trained security specialist.”
I thought back to the ponytails. No clue as to which one was the eyes-and-ears.
“Subtle,” said Milo.
“Exactly, Lieutenant. Even a room maid could be one of our security staff.”
“Is Refugia Ramos one of your security staff?”
“Normally, I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you,” said DeGraw. “But given the circumstances, no, she isn’t. What I’m trying to get across is that our guests deserve harassment-free healing and we see that they get it. For surveillance cameras to be effective they’d need to be computerized and computers can be hacked.”
“No nose jobs uploaded to Gawker.”
DeGraw let out a garlic-mint gust. “I’m glad you understand.”
“What about WiFi opening up electronic doors?”
“We set our system up so that each traveler has his or her individual link to cyberspace. Once
they’re logged in, several firewalls go up. We have no way of learning our guests’ connection patterns, nor do we wish to.”
“But you do know when they order room service.”
“That’s an entirely different thing. Extremely limited.”
“How many of your guests are post-surgical?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Do they ever stay in The Numbers?”
“Never,” said DeGraw, “always in The Tower. Security covers every floor regularly. And please, Lieutenant, no implication that whatever happened to Miss Mars—if something did—can be linked to us. She was happy here, had every opportunity to leave if she changed her mind.”
“Got it, Mr. DeGraw. You’re sure there are no old ledgers, anywhere?”
“I’m afraid not.” Kurt DeGraw smiled crookedly. “Though obviously, we’ve held on to an old lodger.”
Milo and I stared at him.
“Well,” he said, “that may have come across wrong—but don’t you people do the same thing? Try to lighten up a sad situation? Now please tell me what’s going to happen.”
—
What happened was the arrival of the death army.
Six cops in three patrol cars were charged with maintaining the scene.
A coroner’s investigator named Gideon Gulden agreed the bruises pointed toward a suspicious death and got to work.
Enjoying the fresh air, a pair of burly crypt drivers killed time with their phones and waited to transport.
The lab squad was on its way.
Milo and I walked back toward the hotel, checking each bungalow, getting no response. Yellow tape had been strung up at the mouth of the pathway. A fleet of official vehicles was parked where the fire van had sat, blocking the exit from the Spanish wing’s loggia.
Curious absence of onlookers, just Kurt DeGraw on his phone and the ponytailed woman I’d seen yesterday at the desk. This morning, she had appraising eyes and a harder expression.
I pointed her out to Milo and she walked away.
He said, “The expert, I’ll check her out later.”
“Kind of quiet, considering.”
“Weird-quiet. Guess they are good with the prying-eyes set.”
“Or maybe everyone in The Tower is sedated while recuperating.”
“Clinic masquerading as hotel,” he said. “Terrific business model, when you think about it. Liquid diets at an inflated rate, no wild parties. Still, you’d think some gossip-monger would catch on.”
“Despite what DeGraw claims, getting in was easy. Maybe because The Numbers and Thalia are considered nuisances. She refused to leave so they gave her the minimum.”
“She give you any indication she was unhappy with the accommodations?”
“No,” I admitted. “Just the opposite, she seemed at ease.”
“Except maybe when she thought about a reprobate heir. Which leads me to another question: If getting hold of her dough was the goal, why wait so long? Circumstances change, but still.”
I had no answer for that.
Milo said, “Eighty-four grand a year. A bargain to DeGraw but it’s still serious dough. How did a public-sector numbers cruncher have the means to pay it year after year? Plus those Tiffany lamps, her jewelry, whatever else she had stashed in the room.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Answering service text passing along a message from an especially meticulous family lawyer. Mr. Bunyan wanted to confirm my evaluation in fifteen minutes. Two kids, five and seven, tied up in a custody battle. Both had lived in France for most of their lives until their mother decided to move them away from their father. Very little English. A translator would accompany them.
If I left now, I’d make it in time. “Gotta go, Big Guy.”
Milo said, “Things to see, people to do? Have fun, something turns up, I’ll let you know.”
CHAPTER
6
As I neared my house, my service called. Mr. Bunyan letting me know today’s consult was canceled, the parents had reconciled.
I’d be paid for a day’s work.
My karma was shaping up strangely; at this rate, I should go looking for a subsidized crop not to grow.
I got home, drank coffee, walked to the studio and told Robin about Thalia.
She gasped. As a child, she cried a lot, does her best to avoid it now. But now the tears flowed and she tried to distract herself by brushing sawdust from her bench.
She put her whisk away. “That was stupid, I never met the woman. Milo’s sure it was murder?”
“That’s what it looks like.”
She shuddered, took hold of my arm, rested her head on my shoulder. “No life’s worth more than another. But shouldn’t there be extra credit for endurance?”
—
I returned to my office, opened a drawer, found Thalia’s uncashed check.
Getting paid not to work doesn’t sit right with me. I’d figure something out.
Meanwhile, time to learn about the Aventura.
—
The Web had plenty to say. Built in 1934 by a consortium of private investors who’d managed to make money during the Great Depression, the hotel had been conceived as a “Spanish Revival masterpiece that would rival the 23-year-old Beverly Hills Hotel, the relative upstart Beverly Wilshire, built in 1928, and the venerable Bel-Air occupying 60 acres two miles east of the former bean farm where the four-story, three-hundred-room structure was erected.”
The finished product featured three swimming pools, one a “therapeutic lagoon” filled with salt water trucked in from Santa Monica, plus half a dozen tennis courts. Llamas, ostriches, and exotic parrots were caged in a private zoo. The Aventura Slim, a since-forgotten cocktail based on absinthe, was served up at the Agua Caliente Bar.
An old black-and-white photo depicted an imposing structure with “El Ori-hi-nal” little more than an appendage leading to “tropical gardens and secluded meditation spots.”
Soon after the Aventura’s construction, the business plan faltered, leading to dissolution of the consortium and sale to a “shadowy group of investors reputed to have ties to organized crime, including former bootlegger and mobster Leroy Hoke. Hoke was also rumored to have been a member of the original group who’d taken control by exerting pressure on his partners.”
Under new management, the hotel acquired a reputation as a place where illicit lovers could expect to enjoy privacy, gamblers could operate one-night casinos, and rich girls could undergo illegal abortions.
The surgeries were reputed to have taken place in a series of bungalows tucked into the western edge of the property. Known as The Numbers, hidden from view by thick vegetation, and reached via a guarded footpath, the outbuildings served as a hotel within a hotel, ideal for clandestine activity.
Origin of the name inspired debate, with some chroniclers guessing a literal reference to the numerals on the doors of the clapboard structures and others claiming it reflected the operation of numbers and other rackets.
Everyone agreed that by the late thirties the Aventura was a favorite of the demimonde, and the absence of police raids suggested cozy connections to those in power.
On December 14, 1941, a week after the U.S. entered World War II, Leroy Hoke was convicted of racketeering and tax evasion and sent to San Quentin. The Aventura was shut down and loaned to the U.S. Army as officer housing, and after the war served as a short-term military psychiatric hospital specializing in “shell shock.”
By 1948, ownership had shifted to a third syndicate, this one announcing intentions to demolish the structure and build low-cost housing for workers servicing the burgeoning upper class of Bel Air and Brentwood.
That plan ran headlong into protests by the intended utilizers of domestic service. Drawn-out legal battles were followed by complaints that the hotel’s abandoned grounds had become a “haven for vagrants.”
On August 9, 1950, William Parker became L.A.’s new police chief, ushering in an era of iron-fist law enforcement.
One of Parker’s first directives was to raid the now squalid Aventura acreage and “convince” the transients to vacate.
Parker might have played a part in the city’s demand that the still-litigious owners clean up their mess within days or face criminal prosecution. A December 1950 sale transferred the property to a St. Louis hotelier named Conrad Grammar, who promised speedy rehabilitation and return to “the glory days of luxuriant hospitality.”
Grammar kept his word but his profligate spending saddled the Aventura with crushing debt. Unable to shake its unsavory reputation, the hotel proved unable to compete with its high-end rivals and ended up offering package deals to road-tripping families.
The burgeoning upper class groused about a “trailer park totally at odds with the new face of Brentwood.”
In 1957, Grammar got out of the hotel business, switching to the manufacture of recreational vehicles, and the Aventura began decades of revolving-door foreign ownership.
A British group tried to make a go. Then Italians, Franco-Italians, Franco-Swiss, Franco-British, all-Swiss.
On February 2, 1971, an Icelandic corporation announced plans for the world’s largest “health-oriented spa,” including forty prefab authentic Icelandic saunas scattered around the property for “thermal rejuvenation on impulse.”
The neighbors began grumbling.
On February 9, 1971, the earth shrugged.
Tremors originating in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains blossomed into a 6.5-magnitude disaster. Most of the Sylmar Quake’s damage was concentrated in the Valley, but older structures throughout the L.A. Basin suffered as well, including four dangerously sagging stories of Spanish Revival stucco resting on an unbolted foundation set atop soft earth that had once nourished beans. Strangely, several wooden cabins on the property survived intact.
By the time the aftershocks ceased, the Icelanders had cut bait and a Macao-based concern had taken the property at a poorly attended auction. A grand scheme to build the world’s most luxurious six-star hotel was thwarted by the necessity of demolishing the main building running up against the demands of preservationists that “any structurally sound components of the historic locale be left in place.”
The result was years of additional litigation, yet another forfeiture, and a rushed-through statehouse decision to use taxpayer money to fund demolition of all but “a stable western wing plus loggia plus supplementary outbuildings.”
Heartbreak Hotel Page 5
