Heartbreak Hotel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Milo said, “Lap-dance leads to true love and he thinks she’s a choir girl?”

  Howe said, “With a geek, who knows? They can be like raw meat to girls in the know. You’ve probably got a technical term for that, Doctor.”

  I said, “Raw-meat-itis.”

  Melanie Howe laughed. Then she told us the story.

  —

  Vicki Elena Vasquez, twenty-two, performing, variously, as “Fatima,” “Selena,” or “Madrilena,” had arrived in L.A. thirteen months ago after a youth misspent in Texas and Louisiana. Arrests for DUI, shoplifting, and petty theft, but clean since she’d turned Californian and began earning decent money taking off her clothes in sweaty dumps mislabeled as gentlemen’s clubs.

  A little over two months ago, after a double shift at the City of Commerce skin-palace, she’d driven to a hipster bar west of downtown called Brave Losers, a place she’d been once before with “other girls, I don’t remember who or when.”

  Two Zombies into the early-morning hours, she’d struck up a conversation with a “hot blond chick and a hot dude,” neither of whose names she could recall ever knowing.

  Nor could she remember leaving with the couple.

  “They roofied me or something.”

  She’d woken up in an unknown place at an unknown time, tied to the posts of an unfamiliar bed, with the man’s penis up her anus and the organ of “a fat dude sitting on me” in her mouth. At the same time, the blond woman performed cunnilingus on her “but did it rough, like teeth, she hurt me. All of them did. I thought I was gonna die.”

  At that point in the narrative, Melanie Howe’s notes documented, “V is crying and exhibiting signs of extreme anxiety: twitching, blinking, scrunching her face.”

  As Vasquez realized what was happening, she tried to protest and was slapped hard in the face. Then someone’s hand, she couldn’t be sure whose, grasped her neck and exerted pressure until she began to lose consciousness.

  “I didn’t want to die so I let them do what they wanted.”

  The triple rape continued “for a long time,” until the assailants got off her and told her to forget them if she didn’t want to die. The good-looking man then slapped her face several times, the woman pinched her nipples, and the fat man smacked her rear and said, “Nice place to visit but I wouldn’t wanna live there.” She was then blindfolded tightly and pulled into a shower where several hands scrubbed her, “poking and rubbing deep inside everywhere. It hurt.”

  Her vision still obstructed, she was dried off. A piece of cloth landed on her shoulder and she was ordered to get dressed. The cloth was the black Zara micro-dress she’d worn to the bar and after much effort she managed to get into it. Her underwear, stockings, and shoes were left behind as she was dragged outside and shoved into the backseat of a car. A silent ride of unknown duration ensued until the vehicle stopped and she was shoved out onto a hard surface.

  She lay there woozy, stunned, and terrified until she heard the car drive away and managed to remove the blindfold—her own black stockings. She was in an alley. Her purse lay a few feet away. Two hundred dollars, her share of the cash tips she’d earned that evening, was gone, but her credit cards and cellphone were in place.

  “Considerate rapists,” said Milo.

  I said, “Smugness. They’re telling her, go ahead, call for help, we couldn’t care less.”

  Melanie Howe said, “It did puzzle me, why leave anything? But now that I’m hearing it, you’re probably right, Doctor. Anyway, she 911’d and because it was an alley it took a while to find her.”

  Milo said, “Alley, where?”

  “That’s the thing, she didn’t know. Dispatch finally got her to use the phone and GPS. East Brentwood, apartment district, Westwood, just north of Wilshire. She got taken to the health center at the U. I was on that night, by the time I got there the rape kit had been done. Totally negative for semen, foreign blood, any kind of fluid. So they used condoms or the shower did the trick. That was a letdown but I was encouraged because initially she seemed to be a good victim, able to describe them enough to work up sketches. Also, the modus was pretty specialized, we don’t see many mixed-gender gangbangs. Between that and how calculated and callous it was, I figured a similar would show up somewhere. Fortunately, the drawings got done. Unfortunately, she changed her mind.”

  She opened the file, showed us three faces.

  Crude and ill-defined renderings, way below Shimoff-quality and in another context, probably useless. But once you’d seen Gerard Waters’s and Henry Bakstrom’s photos, the connection was easy.

  The female suspect was another story, just another proto-blonde. Not as pretty as in Shimoff’s rendering. This artist had drawn her slightly off kilter, probably unintentionally.

  Milo showed Howe the mugshots.

  She said, “Oh, God. If I’d had these to show her she might’ve stuck with me. Then again, with Geeky in the background, probably not.”

  “Think showing them to her now could pull up more info, Mel?”

  “Maybe, if you can even get to her, who knows where she’s at psychologically? Any suggestions, Doctor?”

  I said, “No harm trying.”

  Milo said, “That’s what I like about him, practical.”

  Howe said, “If you think it would help, I’m happy to go with you. But I think it could hurt, she associates me with real bad memories and the second interview didn’t go well. Not that I pushed her but she got really hostile, like I was the enemy.”

  “After she went AWOL, how’d you find her?”

  “She let slip the boyfriend’s first name, Charlie, and figuring he’d been a regular at the club in Commerce, I talked to the owner. Guy didn’t come in anymore, so he was happy to oblige. Charles Ruffalo. DMV shows a face like a spaniel but he drives an Aston Martin and has a house in the hills, the address is in here. Whether or not Vicki’s still with him, I can’t say. If she is, I’d be careful about ruining her relationship, so you might want to make sure the Aston’s not there. So do you want me to tag along?”

  Milo said, “I see your point, think I’ll try by myself.”

  “Either way,” said Howe. But she sounded relieved. She pulled out a pack of Winstons, bounced it on her thigh.

  Milo said, “Thanks, Mel. Maybe it’ll work out for both of us.”

  “Appreciate the thought, Milo, but I’m out of it. Vicki’s lack of cooperation, the passage of time, any bruises are healed. Even if I did have my suspects, defense could always claim it was a consensual party. Especially given her occupation and level of intoxication.”

  I said, “Even with being dumped on the street?”

  “That’s her story. They’ll say they dropped her off and she was fine, wandered into the alley and got mugged.”

  “She drove from work to the bar. What happened to her car?”

  “Nowhere to be found. If it ever got that far, a prosecutor could threaten to add GTA to the charges but no way that would happen. Defense counsel would say no car, no evidence of theft, plus, losing jurisdiction of her own wheels just proves how intoxicated she was. And guess who the judge would agree with? She really was hammered, guys. Blew a .24 at the hospital with no evidence of any other drug in her system, including Rohypnol. If they roofied her, it could’ve worn off but her vulnerability could’ve come purely from way too much booze.”

  I said, “She met them in a bar. Bartender have anything to say?”

  “Busy night, loud, crowded, he maybe remembered seeing Vasquez but not the other three. I don’t doubt her, I’m sure it happened, poor thing. And I don’t hold anything against her, it’s her life.”

  She studied the mugshots. “Murder suspects. She doesn’t know how lucky she is. So now you get to look for three really bad people.”

  “Two,” said Milo. “Found the ugly one.” He described Waters’s crime scene.

  Howe said, “The Palisades? Where they dumped Vicki isn’t super close to there but it’s not that far, either. The fact that they
picked her up on the Eastside and dumped all the way west was interesting. Now I’m finding it fascinating.”

  Milo said, “Their crib is in our jurisdiction.”

  “Lucky us,” said Melanie Howe. “Good luck. I’d say give my regards to Vicki but that’s not going to help you.”

  —

  We left her staring at a second cigarette, walked back inside the station and up the stairs. When we reached the corridor leading to Milo’s office, he said, “Gottlieb distances himself, she does the same. I’m starting to feel like a leper.”

  “Take it as a vote of confidence,” I said. “With you in charge, why bother?”

  He groaned. “Oh, man, there’s friendship and then there’s pathological enabling.”

  “What am I enabling?”

  He shook his head, unlocked his door, settled in his chair hard enough to threaten its integrity. Placing his palms together, he gave a small bow. “Please, Dr. Therapist Sir, no more questions, my head’s gonna explode.”

  Leafing through the Vasquez file, he said, “What’s the chance Vicki will supply any relevant info?”

  I kept silent.

  “I said no questions, amigo. Answers are fine.”

  I smiled.

  “Monty Lisa,” he said. “Just what I need.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  A call to Smooth Operator Gentleman’s Club in City of Commerce confirmed Vicki Vasquez no longer danced there. A call to Brave Losers Cocktail Lounge west of downtown elicited stuporous ignorance of her patronage from three separate employees.

  Milo phoned Charles Ruffalo’s residence on Credo Lane. Out of service. Same result with Vasquez’s cellphone.

  “For all we know he moved her up to Silicon Valley.” He stood. “Only one way to find out.”

  GPS’ing Credo Lane, he studied the map.

  “High up. At least we can catch a view.”

  I said, “There you go,” but the street-grid on the screen meant more to me than a random attempt to find a witness.

  Little more than a jog from the home of an actress whose shattered mind had led me on a search for a missing child last year.

  Milo saw me staring. “What?”

  “Zelda.”

  “Oh, yeah, that. Something about Hollywood, the hills, huh?”

  “People think they can hide up there.”

  “We know better.”

  —

  Charles Ruffalo, “an independent IT Consultant and Data Manager,” according to his LinkedIn page, lived at the apex of an axle-tormenting road that skinnied as it unraveled north of Sunset.

  We zipped past the Chateau Marmont as if the hotel was an afterthought. Celebrities had partied and died there. Ordinary people, too, but who’d know or care?

  The hospitality industry was based on a strange concept when you thought about it. Foster homes for adults that were seldom homey. Pledges of comfort and security impossible to guarantee.

  I was still turning that over when Milo parked near the house. Charles Ruffalo’s chrome address numerals were placed just off center on an eight-foot wall of gray stucco. Stress cracks sprouted from the bottom and spidered upward. The low flat roofline of a house barely cleared the barrier. Off to the left was a wide gate made of plastic trying to pass as glass.

  Chrome for the front door, same finish for the keypad.

  Milo said, “Tight little fortress, can’t even check if the Aston’s there.”

  “I had one of those, I’d garage it.”

  “If she’s in there with or without Geeko, and I say who I am, what’s the chance she’ll open up?”

  Noise from behind saved me from the sad, truthful answer. Big mass of brown, chugging up the hill.

  UPS truck. It rumbled just past us, motor idling as the driver jumped out with a package, laid it down in front of the door, pushed the button, and dashed back behind the wheel. After effecting a jerky three-point turn that maimed part of a neighbor’s shrubbery, he sped off.

  Before the sound of the truck engine had wiffled to silence, the chrome door opened and a woman came out, rubbing her eyes. Young, pale, and chesty, wearing a black top with a hood that flopped on her back and hot-pink yoga pants striped with silver. Hair a half foot below her waist was curled at the ends like a pageant queen’s do. White-blond on top, mahogany in the center, black on the bottom. A cosmetic parfait.

  She bent and picked up the package. By the time she’d finished reading the label, we were there.

  Even with dual smiles and Milo’s softest, “Ms. Vasquez? L.A. police, nothing to worry about, we’d just like to touch base,” Vicki Vasquez reacted with the purest terror I’d seen in a long time.

  Tight-throat wheeze followed by a gasp. Electric eyes bouncing as her already wan complexion lost color.

  She backed away from us, trembling hands letting go of the package. I caught it. Something addressed to C. Ruffalo from Net-a-Porter. From the size and the rattle, probably shoes.

  Vicki Vasquez said, “My Jimmy Choos,” and burst into tears.

  I said, “Here you go.”

  Instead of taking the box, she crossed her arms. “I—I—I…”

  “So sorry to barge in,” said Milo. I’d never seen him more avuncular. That and his badge offered subtly did nothing to calm her.

  She said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  I said, “We don’t want you to, either.”

  She gaped. Nice teeth. Even with the chattering.

  I chanced inching closer to her, kept my voice low and soothing, my speech slow and rhythmic.

  Hypnotic induction voice. Back when I was helping kids deal with pain, I could do ten inductions a day, leave the hospital sleepy and serene.

  Vicki Vasquez didn’t seem impressed but a second later, she did reach out for the box. Hugged it to her bosom and maybe that was enough temporary comfort because she stopped retreating.

  I said, “There’s absolutely no need to talk about what happened to you, Vicki. This is something different.”

  She continued staring. Finally: “What?”

  No sense being abstract. “The people who assaulted you are suspected of murder.”

  Milo’s arched eyebrows said, That’s psychology?

  Vicky Vasquez said, “Charlie’s right.”

  “Charlie—”

  “My soulmate. He says I’m lucky.”

  “He’s right, you sure are.”

  “Who did they murder?”

  “Someone involved in a business deal,” I said.

  “Nothing to do with me.”

  “Absolutely nothing. But if we could show you some photos—”

  Vicki Vasquez looked down the road. “Out here?”

  “If you’ll allow us, we’re happy to come inside—”

  “Let me see that badge again.”

  Milo complied, showed her his card, as well.

  She said, “Homicide. Okay, that’s not my problem. Come in.”

  —

  The house was more gray stucco inside and out, the flat roof white pebbly stuff. The interior was one sprawling space backed by glass and floored in slate. A few randomly placed pieces of bright-red and blue furniture carved from foam coexisted with molded-resin tables. Italian contemporary, probably uncomfortable, probably expensive.

  The glass let in sky and hillside and the real estate dreams of homeowners lower down in the hillside pecking order, most content with postage-stamp lots. Altitude reduced patio furniture to matchsticks. Lawns and swimming pools were colored mosaic tiles.

  Vicki Vasquez crossed halfway across the room, placed her package on one of the tables, refolded her arms across her chest. No art, no books, no cooking implements visible in the kitchen. A seventy-inch flat-screen took up the largest masonry wall, wires dangling. A single photograph was propped on another table. Vasquez in the merest black bikini standing next to a skinny guy in his forties wearing baggy swim-trunks. Ruffalo had thin dark hair, gray temples, a hangdog face unrelieved by a Bucky Beav
er smile so wide it threatened to bisect his head.

  Moving back inside seemed to shore up Vicki Vasquez’s confidence. She tossed her hair, clamped her hands on her hips, turned so her body formed an hourglass framed by glass.

  Panorama drama.

  She said, “Show me what you got.”

  Gerard Waters’s and Henry Bakstrom’s mugshots narrowed her eyes. She flipped the bird, made a raking motion with her other hand.

  “Motherfuckers. Catch them and kill them.”

  Milo showed her Alex Shimoff’s drawing of the blonde.

  Her nostrils flared. A screech escaped from somewhere deep inside her.

  “You know her, Vicki?”

  “Duchess. Fucking bitch, I hate her the worst.”

  “Duchess.”

  “That’s what they called her.”

  “What’d she call them?”

  “I never heard none a their names.”

  “But the men called her Duchess.”

  “That’s no name, anyway,” said Vicki Vasquez. “Right? That’s like a…a…”

  I said, “A title.”

  “Yeah, a fucking title. Like she’s a queen or something. Fuck that, she ain’t. She’s a fucking bitch.”

  I said, “You especially hate her because—”

  “She’s a girl. She should be on my side.”

  That let loose a storm of obscenity and a quick march across the picture window and back. When she returned, Milo said, “What else can you tell us about them?”

  “You didn’t find my car?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I don’t give a,” she said. “It was crap, Charlie’s buying me a Mustang.”

  “Good for you. Anything else you remember?”

  “They need to die.” She stabbed air. “Charlie knows kickboxing, he could smash their fucking brains and shove it up their asses.”

  “Glad you have someone to protect you.”

  “Charlie loves me.”

  “Is there anything you can–”