Motive

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Nothing in Century City.”

  Maureen said, “I don’t think so …”

  Ralph barked, “What, Mo?”

  “Remember that lawsuit, honey?”

  “Be specific, Mo.”

  “That landlord, the Iranian—Hooranian, Hoorapian?”

  “Frivolous,” said Ralph.

  “Sure was,” said Maureen, “but weren’t the other side’s attorneys in Century City?”

  “Heartless developers,” said Ralph. “Who remembers?”

  Milo said, “What was the lawsuit about?”

  Maureen said, “Clients of ours, the Hoor—no Har—the Hargarians, that’s it, the Hargarians, a nice couple, they owned a couple apartment buildings in North Hollywood, some developer bought up the rest of the block, tried to force them to sell by going to the city claiming they were neglecting the property, causing a public nuisance.”

  “Frivolous,” Ralph repeated. “And nasty.”

  I said, “What was the outcome?”

  “What do you think? The bastards made life miserable for the Hargarians and they sold.”

  Maureen said, “I think the other side’s lawyers were in Century City. Or maybe it was the developers. Ralph and I only got involved at the end, when they were negotiating the terms of the sale, the other side wanted a look at tax records to verify rental income.”

  “Katherine Hennepin delivered the records?”

  “I’m not saying that, Lieutenant, I’m only saying it’s possible.”

  Ralph Gross said, “I didn’t deliver them and you didn’t.”

  “True,” said Maureen.

  “Who does that leave, Mo?”

  Maureen said, “Hold on,” and began tapping computer keys. “Hmm, nothing on Hargarian … no listing for Hargarian.”

  Ralph said, “You probably got the name wrong.”

  Maureen silenced him with an outstretched palm. Tap tap tap. “Here it is, three months ago … Shagrarian … ah, yes, three hours’ billing for Katherine’s services—ah, I remember, she was so sweet, she volunteered but I insisted on including it on her hours worked.”

  She beamed. “Maybe I could be a detective, Lieutenant.”

  “Apply and I’ll give you a recommendation,” said Milo.

  Ralph said, “Why the dickens is this building so important?”

  Maureen said, “Obviously dark deeds are going on there.”

  They both looked at Milo.

  Milo said, “Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Oh c’mon,” said Ralph.

  “It’s probably nothing sir, just being careful.”

  “Ha. You’ll probably never want to retire, the job being so juicy and all.”

  “Good for him, retirement is death,” said Maureen.

  “More like death is a form of retirement,” said Ralph. “Still, that pension’s something to think about.” Squinting at Milo. “At your age.”

  Milo said, “Who specifically did Kathy deliver the papers to?”

  Maureen tapped some more. “Says here Dublin Development.” She copied down the name and handed it to Milo.

  “Thanks so much, Mrs. Gross.”

  “You bet, Lieutenant.”

  Ralph said, “Thank us by solving the case. And think about this: The Shagrarians retired. She worked for Warner Brothers, had a good pension.”

  Dublin Development occupied a quarter of the ninth floor of Grant Fellinger’s building.

  I said, “She rides down after delivering the papers, it stops at seven, Fellinger gets on, works his charm. Be good to know if any other women in the building had the same experience.”

  “If they did, it didn’t end the same way. One of the first things I looked into when I worked Hennepin was to check for any other nasty cases with a food connection. Lots of domestic violence goes down in the kitchen—heat, knives, not enough salt in the stew. Mostly assaults, but I found a few homicides. Including an idiot who shotgunned his wife because she cooked liver for dinner and while he used to like it, he’d changed his mind. But nothing unsolved and nothing remotely similar.”

  “Maybe dinner for two was a later development.”

  “And?”

  “And the crucial link is still the building. Women who worked there or visited.”

  He stared at the paper with Dublin’s address. Phoned Binchy and said, “This will not be a fun job, kid, but if anyone’s up for it you are.” He outlined the parameters. “You can start with the computer but don’t stop there because we’re not talking actual crime scenes, it’s not likely to make it into the computer. You need to talk personally to the Hom lieutenants at every division and see if they remember anything related to the damn place or can send you to someone who does. A work address, visiting someone who’s got an office … what’s that?… I’m glad, Sean. Everyone has their own definition of fun.”

  As we crossed Mulholland and began the descent to the city, he said, “I know I’ve been a bear, but thanks for the help. It’s getting weirder but at least it’s getting somewhere.”

  “What’s next?”

  “You enjoy life and I take a crash course on the life and times of Grant Fellinger.”

  His phone played Grieg. “Sturgis … oh, hi … thanks … sure … yeah … be there right now.”

  I said, “Change of plans?”

  “That was Darius Kleffer, the maniac chef. Sounded kind of quiet, actually. Happy to meet, anything to help.”

  “Where and when?”

  “His place of employment. Hungry?”

  “You mentioned a snack.”

  “That was then, this is now. It’s gone way beyond snack. Agree?”

  “Sure.”

  “Yeah, right,” he said. “Iron-clad self-control. Don’t worry about it, we all have our failings.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  The latest big thing restaurants in L.A. cluster like spores on Third Street, Beverly Boulevard, and Melrose. Beppo Bippo was converted from a former Chinese laundry on Beverly just west of La Brea. I knew the history because back when I’d worked at Western Pediatric Medical Center, I’d drop off or pick up fluff and fold.

  Milo said, “Beppo, the comic book monkey.”

  “Don’t know that one.”

  “Oh, yeah, real cute. Mr. Fellinger could’ve picked up beauty tips from him.” A beat. “It’s also a poem by Byron.”

  I whistled. “No kidding.”

  He said, “Hey, the master’s degree’s pretty much useless except for crosswords and I hate crosswords.”

  “American lit leads you to Byron?”

  “Okay, you found me out, once upon a time I read all kinds of books—pull over there in the yellow, I’ll put my card on the window. You get ticketed, I’ll tell them we both have advanced degrees.”

  Back in laundry days, Mr. and Mrs. Chang had dressed up the dismal space with travel posters and photos of celebrities. Whoever had occupied it since hadn’t done much to remedy crumbling brick walls, cracked cement floors, clumsily taped AC ducting snaking across raw wood ceilings.

  Why bother in the age of lowered expectations?

  A trio of black-garbed chefs worked frantically in an open kitchen to the rear. Tables and chairs looked to be castoffs from an inner-city school. It was midafternoon, an off period between lunch and dinner, but every seat was occupied by people working at edgy with varying degrees of success.

  Drinking, feasting, and chattering competed with the passionate kissing of air and occasionally flesh. All those hard surfaces created a sea of noise as Milo and I made our way through narrow aisles created by sardine-pack ambience. Plates were small, portions Haute Scrooge. What looked like a mix of Italian and Japanese. Maybe some French thrown in.

  Milo muttered something.

  I said, “What?” and he cupped his hand over my ear and raised his voice. “Crudo meets sushi.”

  “Meets Godzilla,” I said.

  He laughed. Then we got closer to the kitchen and he turned serious.

>   A black-clad female server stood opposite each of the three chefs. None of the women was tall and it was easy to peer over them.

  The chefs were men. One was hefty with a rabbinic beard tucked into a snood-like net and long hair balled up and crammed into a greasy black Stetson. The other two were thin guys with sunken cheeks sporting Mohawks. Blue spikes in the center position, black to the right.

  Darius Kleffer’s DMV shot matched Black. But Blue could’ve passed.

  Kleffer spotted us, held up a delaying palm and kept working. Chop chop dice dice; a plate was shoved at one of the waitresses, who danced off to serve. Curly bit of shrimp spooning with a tiny crescent of foie gras. The pâté’s illegal to manufacture in California but you can still import it, goose and ducks be damned.

  Wiping his hands on a towel, Kleffer stepped from behind the counter, already smoking an unfiltered cigarette.

  He said, “Outside, okay? We got no open tables.”

  We followed him through the restaurant. A few diners tried to catch his eye, students seeking the teacher’s approval. Kleffer ignored them, head pushed forward like a battering ram. He caught ash in his palm and managed to carry most of it outside. By the time we reached the sidewalk, two-thirds of his smoke had been sucked down and he chain-lit another before pinching out the glowing end with bare fingers. Brief sizzle of simmering skin; it didn’t seem to bother him.

  Ducking into a cut between the restaurant and a perennially going-out-of-business Italian furniture store, he leaned against a grubby wall. “I litter, okay?” Ash and the dead butt sailed to the ground.

  “Okay,” he repeated. He had a soft voice designed for apology, bloodshot brown eyes, a face blanketed with two days’ of spotty gray beard and some sort of accent, probably Northern European. His left arm was ink from knuckles to above his biceps. The right one was clear. Plenty of pinholes in both ears, but no jewelry in evidence.

  Milo said, “Thanks for meeting with us on short notice.”

  Darius Kleffer said, “Sure. Sorry I didn’t answer the first time.”

  Downward glance.

  “You were in New York.”

  “I still could’ve answered your calls.” Head shake, twitch of jaw. “It was too hard. Sorry.”

  “Talking about Katherine.”

  “Yeah.” His cheek twitched.

  “Ready to talk about her now?”

  “I guess.”

  “As I told you, we haven’t solved it. So anything you know that could help us would be appreciated.”

  “I wish,” said Kleffer. “Sorry for not answering the first time. Really.”

  “No need to apologize, Mr. Kleffer.”

  “I know, I know—I guess I want to show you I’m no asshole. Even if you heard things about me.”

  “From who?”

  “Anyone who sees me when I’m drinking. When I drink, I’m a total asshole. When I don’t drink I think I’m a pretty much okay guy.”

  Looking to us for validation.

  Milo said, “Do you drink often?”

  “Most of my life,” said Kleffer. “When I was with Kathy, I stayed clean and sober. Then I moved to New York and got back into it heavy. It’s the lifestyle, but no excuses. I made a big mess of myself a bunch of times.”

  Milo looked at me.

  I said, “What would you like us to know about Katherine?”

  Kleffer reached for another cigarette. “To know? She was a great girl. A nice girl. Shy but very sweet.”

  “How’d the two of you meet?”

  Kleffer lit up. “Why would she go for a freak like me? You tell me, I never really figured it out but I didn’t complain about it.” Deep drag. Wet eyes. “You need to know this: I loved her.”

  Milo said, “We need to know because …”

  “I don’t know why I said that. I guess … I don’t know what I’m saying, guys, okay?” He looked to the side. “This is embarrassing, man. I told myself don’t wimp out in front of the cops, but …” He patted his chest. “The feelings, you know? I been pushing them aside. Now that I’m clean and sober again, they punch me hard.”

  I gave him time to smoke. “So where’d you and Kathy meet?”

  He smiled. “Oh, yeah, that question. At a restaurant. Funny, no?”

  “You were working?”

  “No,” said Kleffer. “I was eating. Thai food, there was a little strip-mall place near where she worked. I was in the Valley to pick up provisions and saw it and said what the hell.”

  “Slumming,” said Milo.

  “No, no, freaks who cook fancy for other people like to eat simple. Go into any Michelin star place after closing and check out what everyone’s eating. Bread, soup, a burger.”

  I said, “Getting away from complexity.”

  “Yes, yes, exactly. So that’s where I met Katherine. I was eating pad Thai and she was eating something with green curry and too much lemongrass, I could smell it from my table. Our tables were close, she was pretty—not in the hottie way, like … what I used to see in village girls in Germany. Natural, you know? I didn’t look so freaky, had a skinned head, but none of this Mo-Joke.” Ruffling the black spikes. “I should cut this shit off … anyway, I started talking to her, asked for her number and she surprised me by giving it. But the rest is not history.”

  Milo said, “Why not?”

  “I called her the next day, she said no thank you. She didn’t want to be rude but she had second thoughts, we didn’t have enough in common. I was bummed but I admired her for being brave.”

  “Brave how?”

  “I mean she could’ve just not answered the phone, right? Couple times, you give up. I was surprised she gave me the number in the first place. I am not every mother’s dream.”

  Milo said, “So what happened?”

  “I kept trying,” said Kleffer. “Not crazy stalking—I waited a week, then another. Why? I can’t tell you exactly, but something about her. She was different from the freaky chicks I meet at work. Old-fashioned, you know? Maybe it reminded me of my family, I don’t know. Solid people, my grandparents have a farm … I don’t know, who ever knows why you do things?”

  I said, “So you kept calling.”

  “And each time Kathy answered and we talked and that encouraged me to keep trying, maybe be more of a normal guy.” Kleffer laughed. “I grew out what hair I have, kind of a straight-dude look, you know? I figured if I ever got to see her again I’d wear long sleeves.” Rubbing his inked arm. “I don’t know why I did all this shit to myself in the first place.”

  I said, “How many calls did it take before she said yes?”

  “Four. I took her to a chamber music concert, then to a straight-guy steak house, nothing radical. We had fun talking, there was rapport, you know? I dropped her off and was okay with a cheek kiss. Eventually, it got more … we got involved.”

  “Until …”

  “Until Kathy broke it off. Why? Can’t tell you that, either.” Kleffer smoked, coughed, looked at the cigarette and shook his head and murmured, “Killing myself … after she dumped me, I went back to drinking, to being my asshole shithead self. I even went to her work to try to convince her to come back, she works for old people, I thought they’d have heart attacks but thank God they didn’t. Thank God Kathy didn’t file a complaint for stalking. I already had a couple of problems—losing my temper in bars. But you probably know that.”

  Milo said, “How many times did you go to her office?”

  “Just twice—I know, that’s two more times than right. I kept calling her, wanting to know why.” His eyes grew moist.

  I said, “Did you ever get an answer?”

  “She never came out and said it but there was another guy, had to be.”

  “Why?”

  “She started acting different. No time to hang out, too busy. She wasn’t nasty about it, just … when I was with her, she wasn’t really there. Like she was seeing me different. And when I asked her if there was someone else, she never said yes or no, jus
t changed the subject.”

  “Did you try to find out who he was?”

  “We have to get into that?”

  I smiled.

  “Okay, okay,” said Kleffer. “Did I drive by her place a few times? Yeah, yeah, sure. I was drinking, there was like a big hole, you know? In my heart, guys, in my brain. Then I heard about a TV pilot, being on a team with Mr. Luong, he’s a fucking genius. So I fly to New York, apply cold, get the gig and work a million hours and forget about women, including Kathy.”

  He looked at Milo. “Then one night I get home late, listened to my messages, there’s that one from you. Homicide cop? Kathy? I just fell apart, man. When I started with Mr. Luong, I went clean and sober. I listen to your message, I’m right back on the Jack.” Insipid smile. “Good American booze. Patriotic, no? I knew it was getting totally out of control. Maintaining my knife skills and sucking the bottle. I tried to stop suddenly, ended up in the E.R. at Bellevue with a detox reaction, they said I could’ve died. I said fuck the rent and got evicted, slept on couches, finally got this gig and came back.”

  “Everything going okay?”

  “You mean drinking?” Kleffer crossed his fingers. “So you don’t know who killed my Kathy?”

  Milo said, “Not yet.”

  “Not yet,” said Kleffer. “American optimism. You guys believe in the future, that’s why Americans invent all the good stuff.”

  “Is there anyone who might want to hurt Kathy?”

  “No one. She was a nice girl.” Kleffer bent a knee and scuffed the wall with one clog. “Obviously, someone didn’t agree with that, but who? I can’t tell you.”

  “Did you introduce her to any of your friends?”

  “What, you think some freak killed her?”

  “We’re looking into every possibility.”

  Kleffer grimaced. “Okay, sure, but no, we didn’t socialize with anyone from my work. I wanted to keep her away from freaks, didn’t want to share her with anyone. She calmed me down, I liked being alone with her.”

  I said, “The man you figured she was dating. Any ideas about him?”

  “Ideas?” said Kleffer. “Yeah. He outclassed me.” Barking laugh. “Not too hard, right? I figured it was money, prestige, a nice car, all the stuff women like.”