Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

“I bother.”

Outside the restaurant, he hitched up his trousers and looked at his watch. “Time to talk to Tony Mancusi Junior, our misdemeanor drunk.”

“The lack of a serious record says nothing about a gambling problem,” I said.

“Yeah, but why get involved with living, breathing sharks when you can boot up and use PayPal?”

“Why would a movie star staying at the Four Seasons go trolling for thirty-dollar streetwalkers on Sunset when he’d have access to call girls who look better than his leading ladies? Sometimes dirty and dangerous is part of the thrill.”

“Games,” he said. “All right, let’s talk to this joker. At the very least, I’ll be the bearer of really bad news.”

Anthony James Mancusi Jr.’s phone was disconnected, which made Milo more intent on finding him.

The papers on his eight-year-old Toyota listed a residence on Olympic, four blocks east of Fairfax. The address matched a pink neo-Regency six-plex built around a compact, green courtyard. Vintage charm, blooming flowers, spotless pathways. If you discounted the brain-sapping traffic roar, not bad at all.

The landlord, a sixtyish Asian man named William Park, lived in one of the ground-floor units. He came to the door holding a copy of Smithsonian magazine.

“Tony?” he said. “He moved out three months ago.”

“How come?” said Milo.

“His lease was up and he wanted something less expensive.”

“Money problems?”

William Park said, “The units are two-bedrooms. Maybe Tony felt he didn’t need so much.”

“In other words, money problems.”

Park smiled.

Milo said, “How long did he live here, sir?”

“He was already here when I bought the building. That was three years ago. Before that, I don’t know.”

“Easy tenant?”

“Mostly,” said Park. “Is he in trouble?”

“His mother just passed away and we need to find him.”

“Passed away… oh.” Park studied us. “Something… unnatural?”

“Afraid so, Mr. Park.”

“That’s terrible… hold on, I’ve got Tony’s forwarding address. Sometimes I still get mail for him.”

“Have any of his mail now?”

“No, I mark it forward and the mailman takes it away.” Park disappeared into his apartment, leaving an open view of a neat white room.

Milo said, “The observant Mr. Moskow, now him. Law enforcement and the citizenry, working hand in hand. Maybe the world ain’t so mean, after all.”

Strange thing to say after viewing Ella Mancusi lying in a quart of her own blood. Still, it was nice to hear him positive.

I said, “Global warming.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.”

Park returned and handed Milo a scrap of paper.

Post office box, L.A. 90027.

East Hollywood. Good chance it was a mail drop. Milo smiled through his disappointment and thanked Park.

“Anything I can do to help. Poor Tony.”

“So he was a good tenant,” said Milo. “Mostly.”

Park said, “Sometimes he was late with the rent, but he always paid the extra fee without griping.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He told me he used to work for the studios – a grip, moving scenery. A few years ago, he hurt his back and had to live on disability. His mother helped him out. Sometimes, the rent check was hers. Someone killed her?”

“How well did you know her, Mr. Park?”

“Me? I didn’t know her at all, just cashed her check.”

“Did Tony talk about her?”

“Never. Tony didn’t talk much.”

“Quiet guy.”

“Really quiet,” said Park.

“How often did his mother pay his rent?”

“Hmm… I’d say about half the time. Maybe more the last few months.”

“How much more?”

“I believe out of the last six months, she paid four.”

“Did she mail you the checks?”

“No, Tony gave them to me.”

“What was the nature of Tony’s disability?”

“You mean was he crippled or something like that? No, he looked normal. But that doesn’t mean anything. A few years ago I had a ruptured disk. It was painful but I kept it to myself.”

“Tony suffered in silence.”

“You don’t suspect him, do you?” said Park. “He was never violent.”

Uncomfortable with the notion that he might’ve rented to a killer.

Milo said, “These are just basic questions, sir.”

“I hope so. He was really no trouble at all.”

The mail drop was in a litter-strewn strip mall on Vermont just above Sunset, one of those metallic-smelling mini-vaults lined with brass boxes, where the renters get keys and twenty-four-hour access.

A sign in the window said, In case of problems check with Avakian Dry Cleaners next door.

At the cleaners, a man unraveled a pile of crumpled shirts and said, “Yes,” without looking up. William Saroyan mustache, quick hands.

“Police. We’re looking for one of your box holders. Anthony Mancusi.”

Time to look up. “Tony? He brings his bulk laundry here. With the price of water and soap, we can do it just as cheap and you don’t need your own machine. What’s up with Tony?”

“His mother died, Mr…”

“Bedros Avakian.” Tongue click. “Died, huh? Too bad. So how come the police are here?”

“It wasn’t a natural death.”

“Oh… that’s real bad.”

“Could we have that address, please?”

“Yah, yeah, hold on, I get it for you.”

Avakian walked to a small desk and clicked a laptop. “Got a pen? Give Tony my condolences.”

Anthony Mancusi Jr.’s new digs were in a grubby three-story box on Rodney Drive, not far from the strip mall. No landscaping, no charm, inquiries to be directed to a real estate firm in Downey.

The front door was key-locked. The directory listed eighteen tenants, each with a mail slot. No one answered at A. Mancusi ’s unit.

I said “Bit of a step-down from his last place. That and his mother taking on more of his rent says money issues.”

Milo tried the button again, pulled out a business card, and dropped it into Mancusi’s mail slot. “Let’s get over to the rental lot.”

As we headed for the car, movement up the block caught my eye. A man in a short-sleeved white shirt and brown pants shambled toward us.

Less hair than two years ago, the blond tint was peroxide, and he’d put on weight in all the predictable places. But this was the man not thrilled to pose with his mother.

Milo told me to wait there and went up to greet him. The glint of the gold shield caused Tony Mancusi’s head to retract, as if he’d been slapped.

Milo said something.

Mancusi clapped both sides of his own head.

His mouth opened and the mewling that emerged filled my head with an image: animals shackled in the slaughterhouse.

The end of hope.

Tony Mancusi’s hands shook as he fought to get his key into the lock. When he dropped it the second time, I took over. Once we were inside the grimy little room he called home, he braced himself against a wall and wailed.

Milo watched him, impassive as a garden gnome.

Some detectives put a lot of stock in people’s initial reactions to bad news, suspecting the too-stoic loved one, as well as the scenery-chewing hysteric.

I reserve judgment because I’ve seen rape victims blasé to the point of flippancy, innocent bystanders twitching with what had to be guilt, psychopaths offering renditions of shock and grief so convincing you wanted to cuddle them and feed them soup.

But it was hard not to be impressed with the heaving of Mancusi’s rounded shoulders and the racking squalls that nearly lifted him off a threadbare ottoman. Behind him was a wall fitted with a Murphy bed.