Heartbreak Hotel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “If I knew something, I’d tell it. I want you to catch them.” She grinned. “So you can do what you do.”

  Milo said, “What do we do?”

  “You guys?” she said. “The po-lice? You find ’em, you shoot ’em.” She flashed a gang sign. “LAPD. Baddest homeys in the hood.”

  We left her posed in the doorway, drinking a can of Fresca and playing with her hair.

  As we passed out of earshot, I flashed the same sign. “Yo, Homey.”

  Milo said, “Nice to be appreciated. Maybe she was on to something. Blondie’s in charge, sees herself as royalty.”

  We got back in the car.

  I said, “The way they assaulted Vasquez has similarities to burking, no?”

  “Three-on-one teamwork, a helpless body.” He stuck out his tongue. “All the stuff I’ve seen and you can still creep me out.” He started the engine. “Yeah, you could be right.”

  “Teamwork,” I said, “but no team spirit. First Waters got cut from the roster, then DeGraw. The Duchess and Bakstrom are the core—directing and producing. The others were likely expendable right from the beginning.”

  He pulled the same three-point turn as the UPS driver but avoided landscape assault. “Same old story. The good-looking popular kids rule.”

  CHAPTER

  34

  As we passed through the Strip, Elie Aronson called my cell.

  “No one’s talking about a big ruby, Doctor, stolen or legal. But that doesn’t mean nothing, if they took it out of the country fast. I talked to an Armenian, specializes in colored stones. He says the same thing I told you. That size, unless it’s garbage, for sure millions.”

  “Thanks, Elie.”

  “The Armenian,” he said. “He says he could handle something like that, you ever find it and it’s legal to sell it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Elie.”

  “Just passing it along.”

  —

  Forty minutes after leaving Vicki Vasquez, we were back in Milo’s office. He tossed his jacket on the floor and speed-rolled his desk chair to his keyboard.

  Several “Duchesses” in the moniker file, all young gang girls, except for a six-foot-six career burglar named Clarence Bearden inexplicably nicknamed Duchess C.

  NCIC and other rosters gave up a couple dozen more pretenders to nobility but none came close to fitting Blondie.

  Milo said, “What you said before, it’s a production. Maybe I’m looking for bad in all the wrong places. How about an actress?”

  “No shortage of them on the Westside.”

  “Especially the ones that don’t make it and get real hungry.”

  —

  No shortage of stage productions and movies with “Duchess” in the title or roles featuring noblewomen. An old English play, The Duchess of Malfi, was saturated with violence but bore no obvious link to the case.

  One contemporary actress popped up, Duchess Ella, a star in the industry known as Nollywood.

  Nigerian cinema. Not a blonde.

  Milo said, “That’s what I love about my job, learn something new every day.”

  He rechecked his notes and his messages. Sean Binchy had watched Ricki Sylvester last night, was off for the day, at his daughter’s class party.

  Nuttin. She went to work at nine.

  Leaning back in the chair, Milo clasped his hands behind his head and stretched his legs. Even phony relaxation didn’t mesh with his mood; he rolled his shoulders, flipped open Thalia’s murder book, and studied the old photo of the ruby.

  “A gazillion bucks of red carbon. Your jeweler pal’s right, that kind of payoff, Ken and Barbie could be sunning themselves in Abu Dhabi.” He shut the file. “Stuck on a lampshade and illegal. Good luck proving it was there in the first place.”

  I said, “Maybe the ruby was part of why Thalia called me. She was ready to cash in and leave it to charity, along with everything else. I’m obligated to confidentiality and have links to Western Peds. She could’ve hoped I’d help her work out a plan to gift it without attracting too much attention.”

  “That sounds like sucking you into a criminal conspiracy,” he said. “Shrink as laundry consultant. The psychopath talk really was about her?”

  “Her, Hoke, the life they shared years ago. Not guilt, necessarily. She was lighthearted, manipulative. More like tiptoeing into the past in order to rationalize.”

  “The wages of sin going to a good cause. If it had gotten that far, what would you have advised her about the ruby?”

  “That I was out of my element.”

  “So no risk to her,” he said. “Yeah, I can see that. She’s old and adorable, out to help sick kiddies, who’s gonna bust her, let alone prosecute her after all these years?”

  “I’m not sure anyone could be prosecuted,” I said. “All Thalia had to say was it was a gift, she had no idea. And once the department started digging and found Demarest’s report, I’m guessing they’d err on the side of discretion.”

  “How would they find it?”

  “You, being a peace officer, would give it to them.”

  “Would I?” He smiled. “I think she wanted more from you than help with a donation.”

  “Like what?”

  “What we all want. Absolution.”

  He yawned, closed his eyes and opened them. Shook himself off like a wet dog and shot to his feet. “No more oxygen in here, I need to kick-start my metabolism.”

  —

  We left the station and walked west on Santa Monica Boulevard, heading for coffee brewed anywhere but in the big detective room. The first place we found was a block up, jammed with stubble-faced idlers in their twenties and a homeless guy who’d cadged enough for a latte. A couple of blocks later, we scored lukewarm something-brown at a place that specialized in high-fat ice cream. No effect on my metabolism but a coconut vanilla cone and a tall cup seemed to replace Milo’s lethargy with green-eyed fury.

  As we headed back, he crushed the empty cup and kept up the pressure, as if trying to obliterate every molecule of paper by sheer dint of will.

  As we passed the first café, the homeless guy was sitting on the sidewalk, grinning toothlessly and holding out a grimy hand. “Panini for a gourmet? I like truffles.”

  Milo’s glare shut him up. The five Milo handed him nearly crossed his eyes.

  We picked up our pace.

  He said, “What bothers me the most is Sylvester, if she was involved. No matter how cagey you are, you have to trust someone. Your own lawyer sells you out…maybe ol’ Ricki didn’t freak out because of law school. Raking up memories of the past scares the hell out of her because she knows what she really is.”

  “All those house calls,” I said. “Lots of opportunity to spot the ruby. But something she said when you informed her Thalia was dead makes me wonder if she knew the extent of the plan. Along the lines of ‘never believed something like this could happen.’ Maybe I’m overparsing but ‘I never believed’ is different from ‘I can’t believe.’ ”

  “She knew something would happen.”

  “A burglary, not a murder. Easier to rationalize, with Thalia being rich and obviously not needing the ruby.”

  He tossed the now unrecognizable cup into a trash bin. “Maybe, but still. All that righteous talk of not charging for executor services? More like execution services. For all I know, she has money issues of her own and got the ball rolling.”

  We turned the corner on Butler. As the station came into view, he said, “Let’s have another go at Ricki. Wait here, I’ll get my stuff. Your turn to drive, I wanna think.”

  —

  Jared the bearded receptionist wore a turquoise polo shirt and a leather bolo tie and sat busying himself with his phone, his teapot and cup resting on a madras-print towel.

  Ignoring us as we walked up to the plastic desk. Pretending to be surprised when we arrived. “Oh, hi.”

  Milo said, “Tell the boss we’re here, please.”

  “Love to do that, but s
he’s not in.”

  “When’s she due back?”

  “Wish I knew, sorry.”

  Milo took the phone from his hand. Jared looked as if he’d had a limb ripped off. “Why would you do that—”

  “Same question, friend.”

  “And same answer, sir. I’m not hiding anything, she wasn’t here when I arrived and she’s still not here. I’ve called her several times and she’s not answering.”

  “Is that typical?”

  “No.”

  “Does it concern you?”

  “No. She’s an adult.”

  “So she does take time off.”

  “I’ve only worked here a few months. She’s always here but people change, right?”

  “Has she seemed different, recently?”

  “No. Why are you asking—”

  “When did you show up this morning? Jared, right?”

  Nod. “Around ten.”

  “When does the boss typically get here?”

  “Before me, like nine thirty. She likes to have quiet time for herself.”

  “Meditation?”

  “I don’t know what she does in there. Can I have my phone back? Don’t you need a warrant?”

  “Only if I read your messages and they go viral.”

  Jared flushed. Milo said, “Just kidding,” and put the phone on the desk. Jared snatched it up and held it to his chest. Nestling a tiny, electronic infant.

  “Jared, tell her to call when she does arrive.”

  “Sure.”

  Outside, Milo said, “We didn’t even get offered tea.”

  —

  As I drove away, he put his speaker on conference and called Binchy.

  “Sorry to interrupt the party, Sean.”

  “It’s over, Loot. What’s up?”

  “What time did Sylvester enter her parking lot?”

  “Around ten, but I didn’t exactly see her enter, Loot. You said loose surveillance, don’t get mad. I followed her until she was right at the lot and kept going.”

  “Okay.”

  “Did I screw up, Loot?”

  “Not at all, Sean. Have a nice day, go kiss the kid.”

  “Really, Loot. Did I mess up? If you want I can go up there, pretend to be a delivery guy or something and ask if she’s in.”

  “She’s not, I was just there.”

  “Oh,” said Binchy. “I did screw up.”

  “You didn’t, Sean. Her parking lot has cameras, if I need to, I’ll look at the footage.”

  “Darn,” said Binchy. “I should’ve looked back. I just—”

  “It’s okay, Sean. Give me her home address.”

  “All right…looking for it…darn, Loot.”

  Binchy read it off. Milo copied. “You want to really upset me, Sean?”

  “God forbid, Loot.”

  “Then no more apologies and keep your self-esteem up. Kiss the wife, too.”

  He hung up.

  I said, “Impressive therapeutic skills.”

  “I must be slipping.” He examined what he’d written. “Not far from here. But I’ll put in a fuel voucher for you, anyway. Drive, Jeeves.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  Ricki Sylvester lived in a mustard-colored two-story house on the eastern edge of Santa Monica, south of Wilshire. The block housed a couple of original structures like hers, the rest McMansion replacements.

  Flaking stucco blemished the walls, windowsills were in need of paint, the brown composite roof sported patches of missing shingles, landscaping was a scraggly lemon tree devoid of fruit and a lawn reduced to gray fuzz.

  Shabbiest address on the block. The place neighbors whisper about.

  Milo said, “Maybe she’s planning to cash in, figures it’ll be torn down, anyway, no need to keep it up. I’m thinking a bunch of cats and maybe a hoard of crap, inside.”

  We got out and walked to the front door. A bell-push was followed by silence. So was Milo’s steadily intensifying cop-knock. We walked around, peering through windows. Most were covered by shades. Those that weren’t revealed no hoarding, just the opposite.

  Minimal furniture, a monastic simplicity.

  No cats aroused by the presence of a stranger, inside or out. An untrimmed eugenia hedge walled more gray earth. Where a garage should’ve stood, a patch of cracked cement bore oil-stains.

  I said, “Not much estate for an estate lawyer.”

  “A piece of that ruby could change everything.”

  I said nothing.

  We returned to the car. He said, “I’m wrong?”

  “She’s practiced law for years, could live a lot better than she does so I’m not sure the issue is economic.”

  “What, then?”

  “There’s a depressive element to her. A man shows up, takes the time to woo her, she’d be vulnerable. Someone like Bakstrom would be perfect for the assignment but he doesn’t fit the description the waiter gave.”

  “Another member of the team we don’t know about.”

  “Or more than one other person,” I said. “Like we’ve been saying, this could be a family project.”

  “The clan strikes back.” He glanced at Sylvester’s house. “Think something bad happened to her? More culling?”

  “They do have that track record.”

  He put a BOLO on Sylvester and the Buick. “Now what?”

  I said, “The prison in Colorado has to be key. Bakstrom and Waters were cellies and Duchess had some sort of relationship with one or both of them. Maybe one of those pen-pal things or she has a criminal record of her own.”

  “She murders, she rapes,” he said. “Unlikely this is her virgin outing. But without a name, what am I supposed to do? Fly to Colorado and beg? Even if they wanted to help, their system’s totally screwed up.”

  I said, “Why not work from the bottom up? Forget wardens and data managers, find a guard who’ll talk.”

  “Power to the people,” he muttered. “How the hell do I do that?”

  “The old-fashioned way.”

  “Aw, Jesus.”

  —

  The two of us sat in the Seville as he began the call-fest, bypassing prison administration and beginning with the lowest-ranked person listed on the website, a guard captain named Potrero. He was out but his secretary obliged with Potrero’s nearest subordinate. And so on.

  The closer prison staffers were to hands-on, the more cooperative they were. Even with that, Milo contended with numerous delays and being kept on hold.

  All that frustration and the weather kicked up the heat in the car. As he fumed, I got out and strolled up the block.

  Three properties north of Ricki Sylvester’s house, a young, long-haired man in snug charcoal velvet sweats picked leaves out of a boxwood hedge. Fronting the hedge were fragrant gardenia bushes. Then, a velvety lawn, a matched pair of red-leaf plum trees, and half a dozen massive sago palms that cost hundreds of dollars each.

  The structure behind all that was a peach-colored Spanish retro-hacienda that tried to look authentic but didn’t come close. Too many architectural tweaks applied too exuberantly. What you see when young girls put on makeup for the first time.

  As I passed, the plucker stopped and watched me with suspicion. That level of vigilance plus the landscaping and the meticulous abode said potential busybody. I backtracked, he tensed up.

  I showed him the out-of-date LAPD consultant badge.

  He said, “There’s a problem?” Mediterranean accent.

  “We’re looking for one of your neighbors as a possible witness.”

  “Which neighbor?”

  “Ms. Sylvester. The mustard-colored house.”

  “Her. Bleh. She up to something?”

  “You’ve had problems with her?”

  “The house is the problem. She has no money? Fine, sell and let someone make it nice.”

  “She has money. She’s an attorney.”

  “No way.”

  I nodded.

  “Crazy,” he said. �
��My husband’s an attorney. Why would she live like this?”

  “Who knows? Anything else I should know about her, Mr.—?”

  “Massimo Bari.”

  “Where in Italy are you from?”

  “I’m from Malta,” he said.

  “Ah—so is there anything about—”

  “Her? Nothing. She doesn’t talk.”

  “Not friendly.”

  “I say hello, nothing, Robert says hello, nothing. She gets in that dump-car and drives away. Robert and I wondered where she went all day. An attorney? We figured she sits in the park.”

  “She’s got an office.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “She have any social life?”

  “Who’s going to want to be social with that?”

  “How about visitors?”

  “Nothing—oh, yeah, one time, long time—months—there was another car, Robert and I said, maybe we get lucky and she’s moving out.”

  “A car in her driveway.”

  “In back of hers, she parks all the way in,” said Massimo Bari. “Then it happened again, few nights later. Robert and I are so happy, finally. But then it’s gone, never comes back, nothing changes, she’s still here ruining the block.”

  “How long was the other car there?”

  “Don’t know, all I can tell you is in the morning it was gone. “There is something to worry about? More than an ugly house?”

  “Absolutely not. What kind of car?”

  “Minivan, they all look the same.”

  “Color?”

  “Darkish.” He grimaced. “I’m into color, but it’s at night, I’m not paying attention. Darkish.”

  “Did you notice who was driving it?”

  “Never saw no one, just a minivan, Robert and I were hoping for a nice family moving in. Is there something you’re not telling me, sir? She did something criminal?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Bari. It’s just what I told you.”

  “She’s a witness. To what?”

  “Nothing you should worry about.”

  He studied my face. “You look honest, I hope you are. It’s a great neighborhood, that’s why we put the money in. Robert and I were thinking. Maybe we should start a Neighborhood Watch. Like we had when we lived in the Valley. What do you think?”