Either way, she seemed to have no taste for real-life evil; not a single volume of true crime.
Perhaps her concerns about an actual psychopath had been recent.
Or nonexistent.
—
I’d read the spine of every book, was standing near the bookcase unable to conjure the merest what-if, when Milo charged in breathing audibly.
“Nothing.”
He began searching behind and under nightstands, flipping corners of rugs, peering under the canopy bed, checking the carved posts to see if they rotated, lifting the mattress.
Emptying drawer after drawer only to snuffle and proceed to the next futile step.
Some cops toss a room with the abandon of deranged adolescents. My friend’s grooming may come across as hastily assembled but he puts things back exactly as he found them.
Considerate detective. The dead get most of his respect.
His industriousness spurred me to reexamine the books, removing each volume, fanning it open and shaking to dislodge anything secreted between pages.
No hidden treasure but as I neared the end of the mystery section I spotted handwriting on the title page of a small leather-bound book.
Small because it was the original edition—a cheap paperback, still bearing its lurid covers behind panels of tooled black morocco.
Robber’s Destiny by a writer named Alden Smithee.
The inscription was blue block letters, ink laid down unevenly by an unsteady hand.
TO MIDGET HEY THIS GUY
GOT IT LOVE MONARK
I’d read a lot of pulp fiction, keeping busy between sets when I worked my way through college playing guitar in pickup wedding bands. All had been borrowed from an old, rheumatic sax player. Stan something, a recovered alcoholic who sidestepped the other musicians’ methods of killing time—smoking weed and emptying airline vodka bottles.
I’d come to enjoy the fist-in-the-face syntax, overwrought plots evoking the late-late-night TV movies my father watched when his own booze addiction got in the way of sleep.
But I’d never seen this one or heard of the author. I ran my gloved finger over the leather. Robust and pebbly, bordered in still-bright gold. Someone taking the time to give a dime novel a fancy re-bind.
I began paging through the tough, urgent prose and the anything-but-subtle story line took shape: jewel heist gone bad, the usual noir combo of seduction, betrayal, and violent death.
Did the inscription have anything to do with Thalia? For all I knew, she’d picked the book up in a secondhand store.
I had a third go at every other book in her collection. No additional leather or inscriptions.
Midget. Easy to see someone her size acquiring the moniker.
If so, who was Monark?
I showed the message to Milo, who was rubbing his back and looking ready to spit.
He said, “A king who can’t spell? When was it published?”
I turned to the copyright page. “ ’Fifty-three. Probably not long after she moved here.”
“Yeah, well, I was hoping for something more recent. Let’s try to find that driver, Creech.”
—
As we neared The Can, Alicia Bogomil hurried toward us waving a bright-green Post-it. “No address on Leon but here’s his number, he’s listed.”
Milo gave her a quick hug that made both of them blush.
DMV gave up Leon Creech’s address on Wooster Street just south of Olympic, and when Milo phoned, Creech answered.
“Alicia told me. I was wondering if you folks would call. Seeing as I knew Miss Thalia pretty darn well.”
“We’d appreciate talking to you, Mr. Creech. Could we drop by your home right now?”
“Why not? I’m not going anywhere. You over at the hotel?”
“We are.”
“Twenty-three minutes on a good day,” said Leon Creech. “Longer if people are driving like idjuts.”
CHAPTER
11
Only a few idiots; we made it in twenty-nine minutes.
Leon Creech’s mint-green stucco traditional was one of the few remaining single homes on a block of duplexes and apartment buildings. Most of the front yard was concrete. A car covered by a custom-fitted, all-weather navy-blue cover luxuriated in two parking spaces.
Milo lifted the cover. Waxed navy-blue paint, chrome polished to mirror-brightness, the rounded butt of a Lincoln Town Car. A blue-and-gold plate from the late seventies read I DRYV U.
The front door opened. A tall stooped man in his seventies wearing a brown cardigan over a red golf shirt said, “That’s my baby. Ford had a lock on the market and stopped making them, corporate idjuts.”
“Mr. Creech. Milo Sturgis and Alex Delaware.”
“Sirs. Come on in.”
—
The living room was crammed with cut-glass lamps, souvenir plates, fleecy throws, and overstuffed seating. Mementos from Disney World, Graceland, Carlsbad Caverns, Mount Rushmore. Calendar landscapes favored Bambi-deer in autumn-red forests. A black-and-white photo showed a young couple on their wedding day.
Like Thalia’s bungalow, unmodified in decades. Lower-budget than Thalia, but just as meticulously maintained.
Creech’s complexion was pale with sallow borders. Same color scheme for hair thin enough to fly away on a low-breeze day. He motioned us to sit, settled with care on the other side of a hexagonal coffee table. The table hosted a bowl of mixed nuts, a pitcher of water, and three drinking glasses. Slices of lemon floated in the water.
“Unsalted, hope you don’t mind. The blood pressure.”
Milo said, “Probably a good idea for me, too.”
Creech appraised him. “Can’t hurt to be careful.”
Milo picked out a Brazil nut, molared it to dust, and crossed his legs. Creech crossed his, too. Brown-and-tan argyle socks, black New Balance walking shoes.
“Thanks for taking the time, Mr. Creech.”
“Got plenty of it, sir. It’s hard to believe someone would do that to Miss Thalia. If anyone was class, it was her. Can you tell me what happened?”
“Afraid not.”
“I get that. Used to work criminal apprehension in the army.”
“CID?”
“No, just plain MP in Seoul, South Korea. The base was huge, right in the middle of the city. Twenty thousand young bucks, always someone in trouble. Anyway, I understand about keeping it close to the vest. But you definitely think someone killed her?”
“We do, Mr. Creech.”
“Damn,” said Leon Creech. “That’s just obscene.”
“How long did you drive her?”
“Approximately two years, sir. Started a career of driving eight years before that when I retired from the unified school district—used to supervise maintenance in some tough neighborhoods. I began with the big companies—CLS, Music Express—decided to reduce my hours and work for myself. The Aventura was perfect, I knew I’d be taking it easy.”
“Not much business, there.”
“Place is always struggling. You know what they mostly do now, right?”
“Surgical aftercare.”
“The fancy hotels didn’t want to deal with it. Too much liability and I imagine there’d be all kinds of unpleasant stains on the upholstery and whatnot. The fancy surgeons want to keep all the money to themselves so they mostly handle transport but sometimes they don’t or can’t. Perfect for me, I wanted part-time. I bring my lunch, listen to big bands on the Sirius, somebody needs a lift, I take them. They don’t, I don’t, who cares, I got my pension.”
“How often did Ms. Mars want to be driven?”
“Not often,” said Creech, reaching for an almond. He studied it for a moment before nipping off a corner and chewing slowly. “Less as time went on and then it stopped.”
“When?” said Milo.
“Two or so months ago. Out of the clear blue she came out to the parking lot and said, ‘Leon, I’m sorry. No more excursions for me, I’ve seen everything I want
to see in this world.’ She was walking real slowly, I guess I hadn’t noticed because she always seemed like she was okay. Then she shook my hand and handed me an envelope and left.”
Creech’s sunken cheeks vibrated. “I figured a nice tip, hundred bucks if I was lucky.”
He placed the partially eaten almond on the table. “It was a five-thousand-dollar check.”
Milo whistled.
“I wondered if she’d made a mistake, so I walked back to her bungalow. She was out on the porch in that big chair she liked. Smiling like she expected me. Before I could say anything, she said, ‘Leon, don’t argue. It’s a retainer in case I change my mind and want to resume excursions.’ I said did she realize how long it would take to chew down five grand with fifty bucks per hour of driving? She said, ‘Leave the accounting to me, Leon.’ Then she said she was tired and went inside. Never saw her after that.”
Creech picked up the almond, looked at it, popped it in his mouth and chewed rapidly. His eyes were watery and brown, his brow pale and surprisingly unlined. “I deposited the money. It didn’t feel exactly right but she wasn’t open to argument.”
I said, “Did she make large gifts to anyone else?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. Only thing I did see her do regularly was come back with desserts for the hotel people. She’d usually bring me a burger or a sandwich. The only other person took care of my stomach like that was my wife and she passed twenty-one years ago.”
“Nice person.”
“The best.”
“But no other money gifts you ever saw.”
“You’re thinking she put herself in a situation by flashing cash?” said Creech. “If she did, I never saw it.”
Milo said, “She eat by herself or with company?”
“Always by herself. Always in Beverly Hills. Cheesecake Factory, La Scala Boutique, Spago, E Baldi.”
“And then she stopped going out, period.”
“People get tired, sir. I’m seventy-two and there’s days I don’t want to do a thing.”
“Know the feeling, Mr. Creech. In two years of driving her, what did you learn about her background?”
“Nothing. She never got personal. A lot of times she slept. Which was fine with me, I like to concentrate on the road.”
I said, “So no mention of family or other people in her life?”
“No, sir.”
“We’re asking, because as you know from your MP experience, the most important thing is to understand the victim.”
“The victim,” said Creech. “It feels terrible using that word for her. I know she was real old but she was also real alive. I knew I’d never live close to as long as her, fact is with my family genes, I’m doing great making seventy-two. But however much I lasted, I said to myself, Learn from her. Enjoy each minute. Tell you one thing, I enjoyed driving her. This city, a stranger gets into your car, they want you to be a psychiatrist.”
He shook his head. “Fifty bucks an hour don’t cover that.”
“Speaking of strangers,” said Milo. “We hear you were at the Aventura a couple of days ago.”
“Got restless, so I figured what the heck?”
“Did you happen to drive people called the Birkenhaars?”
Creech’s jaws clenched. “You saying they had something to do with—”
“Not at all, Mr. Creech. They were the only people staying near Miss Mars’s bungalow so we’d like to ask them if they saw anything. So far we haven’t been able to locate them.”
“Them. That’s exactly the type I was talking about.”
I said, “Wanting psychotherapy.”
“With them it was more like sex therapy,” said Creech. “Disgusting. I came this close to pulling over and telling them to call Uber or something.” He shifted in his chair. “I was raised Mennonite. Don’t practice anymore but it sticks with you.”
I said, “A moral code.”
“You bet, right and wrong. And those people were just wrong.” He looked down at his lap, tugged up his trousers.
I said, “They got sexual in the back of your car?”
“Not actually…doing it. More like playing around?” Sallow edges had turned pink. “Laughing, like it was a joke. She pulls out her you-know-whats and they’re both…disgusting.” Head shake. “It’s not like I was out to watch, when I’m driving, I’m driving.”
“But that kind of thing is hard to ignore.”
“Exactly, sir. Someone’s making those noises you’re going to check the rearview to make sure it’s not getting crazy back there. Which it was, I came this close.”
He created a slit of space between thumb and forefinger. “Maybe they figured out they needed to behave because they stopped. But they kept laughing and every so often one of them would sneak in a touch of her.”
Milo said, “They talk to each other in a foreign language?”
“Why would they, they were Americans.”
“They told the desk they were Austrians.”
“Then they lied.”
“What names did they use for each other?”
“Never heard any names, everything was whispers. Didn’t take them long to…do what they did. Like wanting to be in a limo so they could show off. Even the other guy, I got to admit, that surprised me.”
“The other guy.”
“The good-looking ones I pegged as a couple. They looked like they went together. Slick, you know? Like actor-types. The other guy was shorter and heavier and had a face like a warthog. Him I figured for the guy who tags along. But then she—he also got—I really don’t want to talk about it, it’s the kind of thing I forgot when I stopped working for the big companies, crazy proms, kids acting crazy.”
“No prob,” said Milo. “Where’d you take them?”
“House of Blues on Sunset,” said Creech. “What I hear is there’s no seats, you have to stand up, talk about getting a backache.”
“Who was playing?”
“Search me, sir. I didn’t look. I just wanted to drop them off and go home.”
“They didn’t need return transportation.”
“Not from me. I’d have said no if they did. On top of everything else, no tip.”
“How’d they pay?”
“Cash,” said Creech. “But just the fifty minimum. No class, whatsoever.”
—
Back in the car, Milo said, “Backseat threesome, some personal assistant.”
“Americans,” I said. “They lied about everything.”
“And now they get hunted.” He placed a second call to the crime lab, said the need for a print tech in Bungalow Five was urgent. That moved the ETA to early tomorrow morning.
I said, “We could try the House of Blues, maybe someone remembers them. If not, there are the restaurants Thalia frequented.”
“Creech said she ate alone.”
“He’s out in the car, could miss something.”
“Thalia had dinner with them?”
“Long-lost relatives get in touch, she’s curious, agrees to meet up, but something bugs her so she doesn’t invite them to her home.”
“But they got there, anyway. Okay, let’s find out.”
—
The House of Blues had been reserved for a private party that night. Small VIP gathering, record-business honchos and their significant others. The manager was absolutely certain no one matching the frisky trio had been there.
At the Cheesecake Factory, La Scala Boutique, Spago, and E Baldi, we found hosts and servers who knew and adored Thalia. A regular. Not weekly but maybe once a month. So nice. The word “classy” kept coming up. Her preferences ran to white wine or a Sapphire Martini on the rocks with a twist, olives on the side, followed by some kind of salad and a seafood entrée that she barely touched. Never dessert for her, but always to-go packages of sweets for her “friends.”
Seeing the hotel staff as her social circle. Living in an increasingly narrowing world, two rooms her universe.
Doing fine with that u
ntil the worst aspects of humanity oozed over her threshold.
CHAPTER
12
Discouraged by no sightings of the Birkenhaars with Thalia, Milo dropped me back home at seven twenty P.M.
I said, “Thalia was big on retainers.”
“Probably just what she said, keeping it simple. Thanks for your time, enjoy your nice life.”
I said, “Come in for a bite.”
“No, thanks, too much homework.” He glanced at the backseat where Ricki Sylvester’s file on Thalia sat.
“Happy to split the job with you.”
“Against regulations.”
I laughed.
He said, “True, but like I said, it’s homework, ergo I’m taking it home.” He revved the engine. “Something comes up from the print tech, I’ll let you know.”
“Regards to Rick.”
“He’s on-shift, perfect opportunity for me to plow through.”
As I got out of the unmarked, the front door opened and Robin stepped out onto the terrace. She waved and danced down the stairs, hair loose, face scrubbed and gorgeous.
“That’s a vision,” said Milo. “Ergo your nice life.”
“Hi, guys. Long day?”
Milo said, “Fun and games. I brought Romeo back in workable shape.”
She kissed me. “He doesn’t require much work. I threw together some pasta with a bunch of random leftovers. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
“Ouch,” he said. “That’s the sound of my arm being twisted.”
—
“Random leftovers” meant veal roast, Genoa salami, artichoke hearts, cherry peppers, mushrooms, onions, fennel, chicken. Accompanied by a bottle of Barolo, and Blanche begging at Milo’s feet.
Robin said, “No chicken for her, please, Big Guy. Her tummy doesn’t like it.”
“The rest is okay?”
“Not onions, either.”
Blanche reacted to that with a head-cock. Milo fed her a piece of veal, ate, wiped his mouth. “This is fantastic. What do you call it?”
Robin said, “Use it or lose it. Thanks for helping.”
He beat his chest. “Public service. Along those lines, pass the bowl, please.”
—
Heartbreak Hotel Page 9
