Jonathan Kellerman - Guilt

“Landlords have to notify tenants about service calls, so Wedd would’ve had time to clean up.”

“In this case the landlord got phone authorization from Wedd the same day. He did say from the look of the place Wedd didn’t seem to use it much. Which backs up the dual-crib theory. I was able to get Wedd’s cell number and email, as well as the work history Wedd listed on his application.”

He pulled out his pad. “Steadily and gainfully employed for over three years at a company called CAPD, Inc. The intriguing factoid in this whole data storm is CAPD has no listed address. The ‘PD’ part made me wonder if they’re trying to sound police-like, a hush-hush private security outfit. But there are no business listings in the county under that name and when I called the number Wedd listed I was automatically transferred to a company of the same name on Grand Cayman Island and their answer was an electronic beep that then cut off midsentence. And when I searched for an island address, there was none.”

I said, “The Caymans are big on offshore banking.”

“That was hypothesis two, some shady financial scam, and Qeesha being a naughty girl mighta had a history with them. So I called Ray Lhermitte in New Orleans but CAPD meant nothing to him.”

“Wedd told Sommers he worked in the industry. I just fielded my own bit of intrigue, based on that.”

I told him about my agency calls, the evasive response at Gold Standard.

“Maybe he just didn’t like the sound of my voice but my gut says he was hiding something.”

A cop across the room flashed a thumbs-up. Milo growled, “Rank conformist.” To me: “Gold Standard. Why not Platinum? Okay, let’s ditch these bandwagon-jumpers and see what Gold Standard’s all about.”

He threw cash on the table. The woman in the sari rushed over and tried to return the money. “For your commission!”

“Give it to charity,” he said.

“What charity, Lieutenant?”

“Something kind and gentle.”

“Like you.”

He stomped out of the restaurant.

The woman said, “Such a wonderful man!”

One of the cops called out, “Pardon, could we have some more of that spinach?”

As we drove to the south end of Beverly Hills, I thought of something. “Sommers said Wedd avoided conversation. How’d he know Wedd was an Industry guy?”

“Let’s find out.”

Sommers answered his phone. “He used to get Variety delivered.”

“Used to?”

“Haven’t seen it for a while. Also the way he walked was a tip-off. Full of himself. Like ‘I’m a dude who knows people.’ He do something bad to those girls?”

“No evidence of that, Robert.”

“Meaning maybe he did,” said Sommers. “Okay, if he shows up I’ll let you know.”

Gold Standard’s address matched a two-story building clad with salmon-colored granite. Quick ’n Easy Postal and Packaging took up the street-level space. The female clerk working the counter was young and cute with doe eyes and a fox-face. Her hair was a red tsunami. Sleeve tattoos and a steel stud jutting from her chin said pain wasn’t an issue for her. Neither was discretion.

Milo said, “Where can I find the people who rent Box Three Thirty-Five?”

“Go outside and up the stairs.”

I’d been wrong about a mail drop. Was glad to be humbled.

“If their office is right here why do they need you?”

The clerk said, “Hmm. ’Cause I’m cute?”

He squinted to read her name tag. “Well, sure, I can see that, Cheyenne. Is there any other reason?”

She twirled the chin stud. It caught for an instant, made her wince, finally rotated. “The building owner doesn’t provide mail slots for the tenants.”

“How come?”

“ ’Cause that was the deal in order for us to move in. It worked, most of them rent from us. Are those guys in trouble or something? ’Cause they don’t seem like the type.”

“What type is that?” said Milo.

“They’re kinda … like old?” She inspected us. “I mean serious old.”

“Grandma and Grandpa.”

“Not like my Gram-peeps. They don’t have a clue.”

“These guys do.”

“These guys are like cool dressers. In an old way.”

“These fashion plates have a name?”

“Plates?” she said.

“What are their names, Cheyenne?”

A fingernail pinged the stud. A speck of blood seeped from between steel and skin. A tiny red bubble formed. She flicked it away. “They are in trouble? Wow.”

“Not at all, Cheyenne. We just need to talk to them.”

“Oh. They’re Daisy and Jack. She used to act on TV and he was like a musician.”

“They told you that.”

“Yeah, but it’s true, I saw her acting.”

“Where?”

“On TV,” she said. “One of those movies, cowboys and horses. She was like the girl he loved.”

“The main cowboy.”

“Totally. He put her on the horse and they did a lip-lock. She was hot.”

I said, “Was Jack playing guitar in the background?”

“Huh? Oh, no, he was like into trumpets or something. In a TV band.”

“One of those late-night shows?”

Blank look. If I was a network head I’d be worried about longevity.

Milo said, “So what kind of business do Daisy and Jack run upstairs?”

“I dunno.”

“What kind of mail do they get?”

“Dunno that either.”

He smiled. “You never look?”

“Mail comes in the morning,” she said. “I get here at noon. Why don’t you just go up and talk to them if you’re so interested?”

“They’re in?”

“Dunno.”

“Okay, thanks, Cheyenne.”

“So maybe they’re in trouble, huh?”

Stairs carpeted in cheap blue low-pile polyester led to a windowless foyer rimmed by five slab doors. No sound from behind any of them. Gold Standard Professionals’ neighbors offered electrolysis, bookbinding, tax preparation, and gift counseling.

Milo said, “Gift counseling? What the hell does that mean?”

I said, “Maybe they tell you who’s been naughty or nice.”

“Next there’ll be laxative counseling. ‘We open new channels of communication.’ Okay, here goes nothing.” He rapped on Gold Standard’s door. A male voice said, “Who’s there?”

“Police.”

“What?”

“Police. Please open up.”

Another “What?” but the door cracked.

Jack Weathers had added a clipped white mustache and some wrinkles since his Clarion interview. He was tall, well built, seventy to seventy-five, wore a white polo shirt under a sea-green cashmere V-neck, taupe linen slacks, calfskin loafers sans socks. His skin was shiny and spray-bronzed, his eyes a deeper tan. A wedding band crusted with pave diamonds circled his left ring finger. One pinkie hosted a white-gold emerald ring, the other a rose-gold creation dominated by a massive amethyst. The gold chain around his neck was curiously delicate.

He said, “Police? I don’t understand.”

Milo flashed the badge. “Could we come in, please, Mr. Weathers?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course, sir.”

A female voice said, “Jack? What’s going on?” Before Weathers could answer, a woman came up behind him and shoved the door wide open.

A foot shorter than her husband, Daisy Weathers had on a black jacquard silk top, cream gabardine slacks, red stilettos that advertised a virtuoso pedicure. Serious bling glinted at all the predictable spots. The white in her hair verged on silver-plate. The style was some cosmetologist’s ode to meringue. Her eyes were glacier-blue, oddly innocent. Small bones and a sweet face had kept her cute well beyond the expiration date.