Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

Milo grimaced as the screen flashed and dimmed and flashed. “If you want to translate War and Peace, feel free to do so.”

I tasted the coffee, put it aside, closed my eyes, and tried to think of nothing. Sound came through the walls, too murky to classify.

Milo’s space is at the end of a hall on the second floor, set well apart from the detectives’ room. Not an overcrowding issue; he’s set apart. Listed on the books as a lieutenant, but he’s got no administrative duties and continues to work cases.

It’s part of a deal he made with the former police chief, a cozy bit of politics that allowed the chief to retire rich and unbothered by criminal charges and Milo to remain in the department.

As long as his clearance rate stays high, and he doesn’t flaunt his sexual preferences, no one bothers him. But the new chief’s big on drastic change and Milo keeps waiting for the memo that will disrupt his life.

Meanwhile, he works.

Whir-whir, burp, click-click. He sat up. “Okay, here we go…” He typed. “No state record, too bad…let’s try NCIC. C’mon baby, give it to Uncle Milo…yes!”

He pushed a button and the old dot-matrix printer near his feet began scrolling paper. Yanking out the sheets, he tore on the perforated line, read, handed them to me.

Reynold Peaty had accumulated four felony convictions in Nevada. Burglary thirteen years ago in Reno, a Peeping Tom three years later in that same city pled down to public intoxication/disturbing the peace, two drunk driving violations in Laughlin, seven and eight years ago.

“He’s still drinking,” I said. “Three beers he admits to. A long-standing alcohol problem would account for no driver’s license.”

“Booze-hound peeper. You see those tattoos?”

“Jailbird. But no felonies on record since he crossed the border five years ago.”

“That impress you mightily?”

“Nope.”

“What impresses me, ” he said, “is the combination of burglary and voyeurism.”

“Breaking in for the sexual thrill,” I said. “All those DNA matches that end up turning burglars into rapists.”

“Booze to lower inhibitions, young sexy girls parading in and out. It’s a lovely combination.”

We drove to Reynold Peaty’s place on Guthrie Avenue, clocking the route from the dump site along the way. In moderate traffic, only a seven-minute traverse of Beverlywood’s impeccable, tree-lined streets. After dark, even shorter.

On the first block east of Roberston the neighborhood was apartments and the maintenance was sketchier. Peaty’s second-floor unit was one of ten in an ash-colored two-story box. The live-in manager was a woman in her seventies named Ertha Stadlbraun. Tall, thin, angular, with skin the color of bittersweet chocolate and marcelled gray hair, she said, “The crazy white fellow.”

She invited us into her ground-floor flat for tea and sat us on a lemon-colored, pressed-velvet, camelback couch. The living room was compulsively ordered, with olive carpeting, ceramic lamps, bric-a-brac on open shelves. A suite of what used to be called Mediterranean furniture crowded the space. An airbrushed portrait of Martin Luther King dominated the wall over the couch, flanked by school photos of a dozen or so smiling children.

Ertha Stadlbraun had come to the door wearing a housecoat. Excusing herself, she disappeared into a bedroom and came back wearing a blue shift patterned with clocks, matching pumps with chunky heels. Her cologne evoked the cosmetics counter at some midsized department store from my Midwest childhood. What my mother used to call “toilet water.”

“Thanks for the tea, ma’am,” said Milo.

“Hot enough, gentlemen?”

“Perfect,” said Milo, sipping orange pekoe to demonstrate. He eyed the school pictures. “Grandchildren?”

“Grandchildren and godchildren,” said Ertha Stadlbraun. “And two neighbor children I raised after their mother died young. Sure you don’t want sugar? Or fruit or cookies?”

“No, thanks, Mrs. Stadlbraun. Nice of you.”

“What is?”

“Taking in a neighbor’s kids.”

Ertha Stadlbraun waved away the praise and reached for the sugar bowl. “My glucose level, I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to, anyway.” Two heaping teaspoons of white powder snowed into her cup. “So what is it you want to know about the crazy fellow?”

“How crazy is he, ma’am?”

Stadlbraun sat back, smoothed the shift over her knees. “Let me explain why I pointed out he was white. It’s not because I resent him for that. It’s because he’s the only white person here.”

“Is that unusual?” said Milo.

“Are you familiar with this neighborhood?”

Milo nodded.

Ertha Stadlbraun said, “Then you know. Some of the single houses are going white again but the rentals are Mexican. Once in a while you get a hippie type with no credit rating wanting to rent. Mostly we’ve got the Mexicans coming in. Waves of them. Our building is me and Mrs. Lowery and Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, who’re really old, on the black side. The rest are Mexican. Except for him.”

“Does that pose problems?”

“People think he’s strange. Not because he raves and rants, because he’s too quiet. You can’t communicate with the man.”

“Never talks at all?”

“Person won’t look another person in the eye,” said Ertha Stadlbraun, “makes everyone nervous.”

“Antisocial,” I said.

“Someone walks your way, you say hello because when you were a child, you learned proper manners from your mama. But this person didn’t learn and doesn’t have the courtesy to reply. He lurks around- that’s the word for it. Lurk. Like that butler on that old TV show. He reminds me of that fellow.”

“The Addams Family,” said Milo. “Lurch.”

“Lurch, lurk, same difference. The point is, he’s always got his head down, staring at the ground, like he’s looking for some treasure.” She pushed her head forward, turtlelike, bent her neck sharply and gawked at her carpet. “Just like this. How he sees where he’s going is a mystery to me.”

“He do anything else that makes you nervous, ma’am?”

“These questions of yours are making me nervous.”

“Routine, ma’am. Does he do- ”

“It’s not what he does. He’s just an odd one.”

“Why’d you rent to him, ma’am?”

“I didn’t. He was already here before I moved in.”

“How long is that?”

“I arrived shortly after my husband died, which was four years ago. I used to have my own house in Crenshaw, nice neighborhood, then it got bad, now it’s getting nice again. After Walter passed on, I said who needs all this space, a big yard to take care of. A fast-talking real estate agent offered me what I thought was a good price so I sold. Big mistake. At least I’ve got the money invested, been thinking about getting another house. Maybe out in Riverside, where my daughter lives, you get more for your money there.”

She patted her hair. “Meanwhile, I’m here, and what they pay me to manage covers my expenses and then some.”

“Who’s they?”

“The owners. Couple of brothers, rich kids, inherited the building from their parents along with a whole lot of other buildings.”

“Does Mr. Peaty pay his rent on time?”

“That’s one thing he does do,” said Stadlbraun. “First day of the month, postal money order.”

“He go to work every day?”

Stadlbraun nodded.

“Where?”

“I have no idea.”

“Does he ever entertain visitors?”

“Him?” She laughed. “Where would he entertain? If I could show you his place, you’d see what I mean, teeny-weeny. Used to be a laundry room until the owners converted it to a single. There’s barely room for his bed and all he’s got besides the bed is a hot plate and a little TV and a dresser.”