Jonathan Kellerman - Survival Of The Fittest

“Yeah. She said in Russia she'd been a mathematician, taught college.”

“So the school's a moonlighting thing.”

Laurel looked uncomfortable. “Strictly speaking we don't allow tenants to conduct business out of their units but hers isn't any big deal, she maybe sees a couple of guys a week and she's very quiet. Very nice. Which is why I'm sure you have the wrong information-”

“Guys? All her students are men?”

Laurel touched his beard. “I guess they have been… oh, no.” He laughed. His teeth were stained brown from nicotine. “No, not Irina, that's ridiculous.”

“What is?”

“You're implying she's some kind of call girl. No, not her. We wouldn't allow that, believe me.”

“You've had problems with call girls?”

“Not in this building, but others, farther east, sure… anyway, Irina's not like that.”

“You own the building?”

“Co-own.” Brief glance at the floor. “With my parents. They retired to Palm Springs and I took over to help them out.” He yawned. “Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Does she also operate a company called Hermes Electric?” said Milo.

“Not that I know- what's this about?”

“Where's this insurance company she works for?”

“Somewhere on Wilshire. I'd have to go check her file.”

“Could you, please?”

Laurel stifled another yawn. “It's really that important? Come on, what is it she supposedly did?”

“Her name came up in an investigation.”

“About electricians? Some kind of construction fraud? I could tell you stories about construction. Everyone in construction is a sleaze, the work ethic is totally gone from American civilization.”

He stopped. Milo smiled. Laurel rubbed his goatee and exhaled. “All right, hold on, I'll get the file- want to come in?”

“Thanks, sir,” said Milo. “Thanks for your time.”

Laurel shuffled off, slippers flapping, and came back with a yellow Post-it stuck to his thumb like a tiny flag.

“Here you go. I was wrong, it's an escrow company, Metropolitan Title. On Wilshire, like I said. On her application she put data manager. I'm not comfortable giving information to you without her permission but this you could get anywhere.”

Milo took the yellow paper and I read the address. The 5500 block of Wilshire put it somewhere near La Brea.

“Thank you, sir. Now we're going to pay Ms. Budzhyshyn a visit.”

“At this hour?”

“We'll be sure to keep things quiet.”

Laurel blinked. “No… excitement or anything?”

“No, sir. Just talking.”

A tiny, mirrored elevator took us creakily up to the third floor and we stepped into a yellow hallway.

Two units per floor. Number 6 was on the left.

Milo knocked. Nothing happened for several moments and he was about to knock again when the peephole brightened. He showed his badge. “Police, Ms. Budzhyshyn.”

“Yes?”

“Police.”

“Yes?”

“We'd like to talk to you, ma'am.”

“To me?” Husky voice, thick accent.

“Yes, ma'am. Could you please open the door?”

“Police?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“It's very late.”

“I'm sorry, ma'am, but this is important.”

“Yes?”

“Ma'am-”

“You wish to talk to me ?”

“About Hermes Electric, ma'am.”

The peephole shut.

The door opened.

She was forty or so, five three and stout and barefoot, wearing a white Armani X sweatshirt over black sweatpants. Her brown hair was chopped short and her face was pleasant, maybe pretty ten years ago, with a small but bulbous nose shadowing full lips.

Beautiful complexion- rosy cheeks over ivory. Gray eyes, searching and alert under precisely plucked brows.

She'd opened the door just enough to accommodate her hips. Over her head was a darkened front room.

“Ms. Budzhyshyn?” said Milo.

“Yes.”

“Hermes Electric?”

One-beat pause. “I am Hermes Language School,” she said, pronouncing it Hoor-meez. She smiled. “Is there problem?”

“Well, ma'am,” said Milo, “we're a little confused. Because your address also matches a company called Hermes Electric out in the Valley.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“That is… a mistake.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What about Mr. Almoni?”

She backed away from the door and narrowed the opening.

“Who?”

“Almoni. P. L. Almoni. He drives a van for Hermes Electric. Has a post-office box not far from here.”

Irina Budzhyshyn said nothing. Then she shrugged. “I don't know him.”

“Really.” Milo leaned forward and his foot slid closer to the door.

She shrugged again.

He said, “You're Hermes and they're Hermes and their number is listed with your address.”

No answer.

“Where's Almoni, ma'am?”

Irina Budzhyshyn stepped back farther, as if to close the door, and Milo took hold of it.

“If you're protecting him, you could be in deep trouble-”

“I don't know this person.”

“No such guy? It's a fake name? Why does your boyfriend need one?”

Barking out the questions. The stout woman's lips blanched but she didn't answer.

“What else is phony? Your language school? The data-manager job at Metropolitan Title? What do you really do for a living, Ms. Budzhyshyn? Whether or not you tell us, we'll find out, so save yourself some trouble right now.”

Irina Budzhyshyn remained impassive.

Milo forced the door wider and she sighed.

“Come in,” she said. “We'll talk some more.”

She turned on a table lamp shaped and colored like a larva. Her living room was like thousands of others: modest proportions, low ceiling, wall-to-wall brown nylon, forgettable furniture. A folding card table and three folding chairs established a dining area. Behind a white Formica counter was a pale oak kitchen.

“Please sit,” she said, fluffing her short hair to no visible effect.

“That's okay,” said Milo, gazing at a back doorway blocked by strings of wooden beads. Through it I saw an open bathroom door: night-light dimness, underwear over a shower door.

“How many other rooms back there?”

“One bedroom.”

“Anyone there?”

Irina Budzhyshyn shook her head. “I am alone… Would you like some tea?”

“No thanks.” Milo took out his gun, passed through the beads, and turned left. Irina Budzhyshyn stood there, not moving, not looking at me.

A minute later he returned. “Okay. Tell us about Hermes Electric and Mr. P. L. Almoni.”

This time the name made her smile. “I need to make a phone call.”

“To who?”

“Someone who can answer your questions.”

“Where's the phone?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Anything else in there I should know about?”

“I have a gun,” she said calmly. “In the drawer next to the refrigerator, but I'm not going to shoot you.”

With a few quick strides, he retrieved it. Chrome-plated automatic.

“Loaded and ready.”

“I'm a woman living alone.”

“Any other arms?”

“No.”

“And no P. L. Almoni lurking in some attic?”

She laughed.

“What's funny?”

“There's no such person.”

“If you don't know him, how can you be sure?”

“Let me make the call and you'll understand.”

“Who're you going to call?”

“I can't tell you until after I make the call. You're not a county sheriff so I don't even have to cooperate with you.”

Statement of fact, no defiance.

“But you're cooperating anyway.”

“Yes. It's… practical. I'm going to call now. You may watch me.”

They went into the kitchen and he stayed right next to her, towering over her, as she punched numbers. She said something in a foreign language, listened, said something else, then handed the receiver to him.