Therapy

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Sounding you out. And letting you know he knew nothing about Mary Lou’s professional dealings.”

  “Nudging us closer to the blonde.”

  “Closer to Jerry Quick,” I said. “Deflecting attention from himself.”

  “A big man who dances fast. Larsen’s call about not needing the space— think they’re pulling up the tents?”

  “Probably.”

  “The blonde hanging with Angie. Wonder if it really happened.”

  “One way to find out,” I said.

  *

  Angela Paul’s last known address was a big-box, fifty-unit apartment complex just west of Laurel Canyon Boulevard and north of Victory, in an undistinguished section of North Hollywood. The freeway was a mile south, near Riverside Drive, but you could still hear it, rumbling, insistent.

  The air was ten degrees warmer than back in the city. A sign in front of the complex said two months of free satellite TV was included with new leases and that this was a security building. Security meant card-key subterranean parking and a pair of low-gated entrances. All that had no effect on the litter in the gutters or the splotchy blemishes that stained the facade— painted-over graffiti.

  No parking spots. Milo told me to pull into a red zone near the corner, he’d pay for the ticket.

  The twin gates meant two groups of mail slots. A. Paul’s button was on the north end of the building. Apt 43. No answer. No manager’s unit listed. Back to the southern gate.

  Apt 1, no name, just Mgr.

  It was 11:40 P.M. Milo jabbed the button.

  I said, “Let’s hope for a night owl.”

  “What’s a little sleep deprivation in the service of justice?”

  *

  A male voice said, “Yes?”

  “Police.”

  “Hold on.”

  I said, “He doesn’t sound surprised. Maybe the tenants are interesting.”

  A buzzer sounded, and we pushed through the gate.

  The fifty units were arranged in two tiers that looked down on a long, rectangular courtyard that should have held a pool. Instead there was sketchy grass and lawn chairs and a collapsed umbrella. A couple of utility doors on the ground floor were marked TO PARKING LOT. Three satellite dishes rimmed the flat roof. TV sounds washed across the courtyard. Then: music, a smudge of human voice, breaking glass.

  The manager’s unit was just to the right, and a man stood in the open doorway. Young, short, maybe thirty, with a head shaved clean and a little frizzle of chin beard. He wore gym shorts, a baggy white T-shirt that read WOLF TRAP 2001, and rubber flip-flops.

  When we reached him, he said, “I was expecting uniforms.”

  “You get a lot of uniforms?”

  “You know, noise calls and such.”

  Milo flashed his ID.

  “Lieutenant? Is this serious or something?”

  “Not yet, Mr . . .”

  “Chad Ballou.” He extended his hand for a soul-shake, thought better of it, and rotated into the conventional position.

  Milo said, “Lots of noise calls?”

  Ballou’s eyes traced the tiers. “Not more than you’d expect with all these people. I tell the tenants to let me know first if there’s a problem, but sometimes they don’t. Which is fine, I don’t really want to deal with their stuff.”

  “You manage the units full-time?” said Milo.

  Chad Ballou said, “Relatively full-time. My parents own the place. I’m at CSUN, studying classical guitar. They think I should study computers. The deal is I do this instead of their just giving me money.” He smiled cheerfully. “So what’s up?”

  “We’re looking for Angela Paul.”

  Ballou touched his chin growth with his right hand. His nails were longish and glossed. Those on his left hand were clipped short. “Paul . . . Forty-three?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “The stripper.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  “She put it on her lease application,” said Ballou. “Brought in pay stubs from a club to prove it. My folks wouldn’t have approved, but I said, hey, why not? Her income’s better than a lot of the losers who try to get in.” Ballou grinned. “They put me in charge, I figure it’s up to me to decide. Anyway, she’s been no problem, pays her rent. What’s the deal?”

  “We want to question her about an ongoing investigation.”

  “Have you tried her unit?”

  “No answer.”

  “Guess she’s out.”

  “She out a lot?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Ballou.

  “You have a pretty good view from your place,” said Milo.

  “When I’m here, I’m mostly practicing or studying. Unless there’s a complaint. And she never complained about anything.”

  “She have visitors?”

  “I couldn’t tell you that, either. I haven’t really seen her much. Forty-three’s all the way on the north end, upstairs. She can take the corner staircase down to the parking lot door, go in and out without being noticed.”

  “So you’ve never seen her with anyone else?”

  “Nothing registers.”

  Milo showed him the shot of the blond girl.

  Ballou’s eyes widened. “She looks dead.”

  “She is.”

  “Wow— so this is really serious. Is she going to be in trouble— the stripper? All I need is for some big mess that freaks out my parents.”

  Milo waved the photo. “Never seen her?”

  “Never. What happened to her?”

  “Someone made her dead.”

  “Jesus . . . you’re not going to tell me if I have something to worry about?”

  “If Angie Paul’s body is lying moldering in her unit, you might.”

  Chad Ballou blanched. “Shit— you’re serious?”

  “You mind taking a look?”

  “I’ll give you the key,” said Ballou. “You look.”

  “Legally,” said Milo, “that would pose a problem. You as the manager, have a right to make reasonable inspections. Say, if there’s a suspected gas leak, or a circuit goes out. Any maintenance issue.”

  Ballou stared at him. “Moldering . . . sure, sure— can I just open the door, and you look?”

  “Fine.”

  “Should we do it now?”

  “In a sec,” said Milo. “First tell me where Ms. Paul does her stripping?”

  “That I can do. That I can definitely do.”

  We followed Ballou into his apartment. Neat, sparse, devoid of character, with a sixty-inch digital TV in the front room along with three classical guitars on stands. The set was tuned to MTV. Heavy metal band, high volume. Ballou turned it down, saying, “I’m eclectic.”

  In the kitchen, next to the fridge, stood a trio of three-drawer files. Ballou opened the center drawer and fished out a black file folder. He opened it, thumbed, said, “Here we go,” and held out a sheet of paper.

  Angie Paul’s rental application. She’d claimed income of three thousand a month net, and a note in the margin said, “Verified.” Under place of employment, she’d listed “The Hungry Bull Club, W.L.A. branch (Exotic Dancer).” My eyes dropped to the bottom of the form. Personal references.

  1. Rick Savarin (manager, THB)

  2. Christina Marsh (coworker)

  Christa or Crystal.

  I said, “You ever check out her references?”

  Ballou said, “She showed me pay stubs.”

  “What about previous landlords?” said Milo. “Isn’t it standard to call them?”

  “I think,” said Ballou, “that she said she was from out of town.”

  “Where?”

  “Is this going to matter? Oh, man.”

  Milo said, “Where out of town?”

  “I don’t remember. She made enough money to handle the rent easily and came up with first, last, and damage deposit. So she stripped, big deal. She’s been an okay tenant.”

  Milo folded the application and put it in hi
s pocket. “Let’s have a look at her place.”

  *

  Angie Paul’s unit was similar in dimension to Ballou’s. Also neatly kept, with a smaller TV, cheap furniture, cotton throws, a couple of rose-and-kitten prints on the walls. The smell of heavy, musky perfume reached the doorway where I stood near Chad Ballou.

  Milo disappeared into the bedroom area. Ballou tapped his foot, and said, “So far, so good?”

  I smiled. It didn’t comfort him.

  A minute later, Milo emerged saying, “Nothing moldering. When Ms. Paul shows up, don’t tell her we were here but give me a call.” He handed Ballou a card.

  “Sure . . . can I lock up?”

  “Yup.”

  The three of us descended the stairs, and Milo had Ballou point out Angie Paul’s parking slot. Empty.

  “She still driving a ’95 Camaro?”

  “Think so,” said Ballou. “Yeah, bright blue.”

  *

  We returned to the Seville. Half past midnight. No parking ticket.

  “Lady Luck’s smiling down on us,” said Milo. “Finally.”

  I said, “Christina Marsh.”

  “Yeah, could be.”

  I started up the engine and he slapped a manic cha-cha beat on the dashboard. Three Scotches and Lord knew how many consecutive work hours, and he was running a mental marathon.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “You tired?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Me neither. When’s the last time you visited a strip joint?”

  “Not for a while.”

  “I’ve been to a few,” he said. Big grin. “Seen women strip, too.”

  CHAPTER 36

  The Hungry Bull, West L.A. branch, was on Cotner off Olympic, in an industrial zone that smelled like rubber cement. Next to the club was a Rolls-Royce junkyard, husks of once-glorious chassis and auto viscera piled high behind chain-link.

  Not much farther was a co-op art gallery where a gifted painter had been strangled to death in a bathroom. The last case Milo and I had worked together. If he was thinking about that, he wasn’t showing it.

  The club was housed in a windowless hangar painted matte black. Double-quilted chromium doors looked tacked on. A neon sign promised strong drinks and beautiful women.

  The industrial setting was perfect: no daytime neighbors with NIMBY fever, no one to complain about the hyperdisco two-four boogie beat punching through black stucco.

  The strip joint billed itself as a “gentleman’s club.” The parking lot was full of dusty compacts and pickups, and the two dark-haired guys guarding the doors were elephantine and tattooed. Somehow, I doubted we’d find jowly hale-fellows savoring cognac and fine cigars amid book-lined, mahogany splendor.

  Milo showed his badge to Elephant One and received a bow-and-scrape. “Yessir, what can I do for you?”

  “Rick Savarin on tonight?”

  The bouncer’s cantaloupe face was bisected by an old gray knife scar that ran from the middle of his brow, changed direction across the bridge of his nose, meandered across his lips, and terminated in the crook of a chin you could lean on for support.

  “Yessir. He’s in his office. Someone will direct you, sir.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  Elephant Two, even bigger and sunglassed, held the door. Immediately inside, yet another giant, this one lanky and long-haired and Caribbean, ushered us to the left, down a short corridor that ended at swinging doors, also quilted, in black vinyl.

  The main room’s color scheme was black with crimson trim. Three steps led to a sunken pit where intent-looking men ringed a circular stage. Two women danced naked, pulling off some pretty good gymnastic moves, and making love to stainless-steel poles. Both were ultrablond, big-haired, rail-thin, with breasts inflated well past biology. Each wore a red garter on her left thigh. The girl with the sun-ray tattoo bluing her entire back had more cash stuffed in hers.

  We reached the black vinyl doors. The lanky giant pointed and pushed them open. He stayed behind as we entered a short vestibule with two unmarked wooden doors and one with an aluminum sign that read MANAGER.

  Before Milo could knock, the door opened, and a young man wearing an extravagant black toupee smiled and held out his hand. “Rick Savarin. Come on in.”

  Savarin had on a soft-draping, powder blue suit with shawl-lapels, black silk T-shirt, blue Gucci loafers with no socks, a gold chain around a too-tan neck. His office was small and functional and smelled like a Shirley Temple. On his desk was a framed photo of a plainlooking woman and a puzzled toddler.

  Savarin said, “My sister, back in Iowa. Sit down, make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you guys something to drink?”

  “No thanks,” said Milo. “You from Iowa, too?”

  Savarin smiled. “Long time ago.”

  “Farm boy?”

  “That was a real long time ago.” Savarin slid behind his desk, sat, wheeled his chair to the wall, braced himself with a loafer on a drawer handle. On the wall were several nude calendars with the Hungry Bull logo and one from a liquor distributor.

  “So,” he said, tenting his hands. He looked around thirty-five, was well built, with puffy blue eyes and a tense mouth. When the mouth opened, a band of flashy dentition blared forth. Snowy caps. The hairpiece looked borrowed.

  Milo said, “Angie Paul.”

  “Angie?” said Savarin. “She worked here a while back. Her stage name was Angie Blue.”

  “The nails.”

  “The nails, the G-string, she drove a blue car. It’s a competitive environment, and the girls figure they need something distinctive. In Angie’s case a nice rack would’ve helped, but she convinced herself blue was a big deal.” Savarin chuckled. “So what’s she been up to?”

  “We’re looking for her as a person of interest,” said Milo. “When did she stop working here?”

  “Four months ago.”

  “Did she quit or was she fired?”

  “She quit,” said Savarin. “One of the customers— one of her regulars— swept her off her feet.”

  “Fraternizing with the customers?”

  “It’s against the rules, and we do our best to enforce it. But the girls who work here aren’t exactly into rules.”

  “Who was the regular?”

  “Some middle-aged guy, used to show up two, three times a week, then we wouldn’t see him, then he’d be back.”

  “To see Angie?”

  “Always,” said Savarin. “Lucky for her.” He passed a hand over his chest. “Some guys like the natural look. With all the silicone and saline I see all day, frankly a girl with a sweet face and a natural rack is a turn-on for me. But most customers?” He shook his head. “Even guys who like natural want something, and Angie was pretty near flat. I didn’t want to hire her, but she had good hips and a good butt, moved good during her audition. Also, she caught me at a time when I was low on girls.”

  “This regular really went for her.”

  “He came only on days when she was dancing, sat right in front, kept his eyes on her nonstop. She started doing her thing for him. He tipped her heavy; I guess they developed a relationship.” Savarin scratched his head. “I never saw her do a lap dance for him; that should’ve tipped me off.”

  “How so?”

  “He had no need for lap because he was getting it after hours.”

  “Describe this guy.”

  “Middle-aged, pretty ordinary,” said Savarin. “I never learned his name because he always paid cash and sat by himself and one time when I went over to ask if there was anything he needed, he blew me off.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He just waved his hand, like don’t bother me, I’m concentrating. Fine with me, it was his cash. He drank mostly soft stuff but a lot of it. Five, six Cokes a night. With lime. Occasionally he’d want some rum in it.”

  “Middle-aged,” said Milo.

  “I’d say fifty. Six feet tall, kind of skin
ny— kind of slumpy.”

  “Slumpy.”

  “Standing bent over, you know? Like something was sitting on his shoulders.”