Jonathan Kellerman - Gone

Milo looked around the small dismal room. “Location, location, location.”

“You got it. Close to everything, Lieutenant. The studios, the freeways, the beach, Beverly Hills.”

“I know it’s not your area of expertise, sir, but I’m trying to trace Mr. Meserve’s activities. If he hadn’t asked for an extension, would there be some reason you’d simply let him go for three months?”

Jabber’s eyelids half closed.

Milo moved closer, used his height and bulk to advantage. Jabber stepped back. “Off the record?”

“Is it a sensitive topic, Mr. Jabber?”

“No, no, not that…to be honest, this is a big building and we’ve got others even bigger. Sometimes things get…overlooked.”

“So maybe Meserve got lucky and just sneaked by.”

Jabber shrugged.

“But eventually,” said Milo, “his failure to pay rent would’ve caught up with him.”

“Of course, yeah. Anyway, we got at least his first month and damage deposit. He’s not getting nothing back ’cause he didn’t give notice.”

“How’d you find out he was gone?”

“Phone and electricity got shut off for nonpayment. We pay the gas but the utilities notify us when the other stuff goes.”

“Kind of an early warning system.”

Jabber smiled uneasily. “Not early enough.”

“When did the phone and electricity get shut off?”

“You’d have to call the main office.”

“Or you could.”

Jabber frowned, pulled out a cell phone, punched an auto-dial three-digit code. “Samir, there? Hey, Sammy, Ralph. I am, yeah, the usual…tell me, when did the juice get squeezed off at Overland D-14? Why? ’Cause the cops wanna know. Yeah…who knows, Sammy, they’re here now, want to talk to them yourself…okay, then, just tell me so I can get them outta- so they can find out what they wanna know. Listen, I got six more to deal with, Sammy, including two in the Valley and it’s already eleven…yeah, yeah…”

Ninety seconds passed. Phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, Jabber walked into the kitchenette, opened cabinets, ran his finger inside drawers. “Fine. Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I will, yeah.”

He clicked off. “Utilities went four weeks ago. One of our inspectors said there’d been no mail for six weeks.”

“Four weeks ago and you just came by today.”

Jabber colored. “Like I said, it’s a big company.”

“You the owner?”

“I wish. My father-in-law.”

“That him you were talking to?”

Jabber shook his head. “Brother-in-law.”

“Family affair,” said Milo.

“By marriage,” said Jabber. His lips twisted into a tight, pale blossom. “Okay? I gotta lock up.”

“Who’s the inspector?”

“My sister-in-law. Samir’s wife. Samir has her come around, check things out. She’s not too bright, never told anyone about the no-mail.”

“You have any idea where Mr. Meserve went?”

“I wouldn’t know him if he walked in right now. Why all the questions? What’d he do?”

Milo said, “Would anyone at the company have information about him?”

“No way,” said Jabber.

“Who rented to him?”

“He probably used one of the services. Rent-Search, or one of them. It’s on-line or you can call, mostly people do it on-line.”

“How’s it work?”

“Applicant submits an application to the service, service passes it along to us. Applicant qualifies, he puts down the deposit and the first month and moves in. Once we get occupancy, we pay a commission to the service.”

“Meserve have a lease?”

“Month to month, we don’t do leases.”

“Leases don’t keep the vacancy rate down?”

“You get a bum,” said Jabber, “doesn’t matter what’s on paper.”

“What does it take to qualify as a tenant?”

“Hey,” said Jabber. “Lots of homeless would kill for a place like this.”

“You ask for references?”

“Sure.”

“Who did Meserve give?”

“Like I said, I’m just the- ”

“Call your brother-in-law. Please.”

Three references: a previous landlord in Brooklyn, the manager of the Foot Locker where Dylan Meserve had worked before getting arrested, and Nora Dowd, Artistic Director of the PlayHouse, in West L.A., where the young man had been listed as a “creative consultant.”

Jabber examined what he’d written down before passing it along to Milo.

“Guy’s an actor?” He laughed.

“You rent to a lot of actors?”

“Actor means bum. Samir’s stupid.”

I followed Milo to the West L.A. station, where he parked his unmarked in the staff lot and got into the Seville.

“Meserve stopped his mail soon after he got busted,” he said. “Probably planning to rabbit if things didn’t work out in court.” He searched his notepad for the acting school’s address. “What do you think of that ‘creative consultant’ business?”

“Maybe he apprenticed to earn extra money. Michaela blamed Dylan for the hoax but obviously Nora Dowd didn’t.”

“How’d Michaela feel about that?”

“She didn’t talk about Nora’s reaction to Dylan. She was surprised at Nora’s angry reaction to her.”

“Dowd boots her but keeps him on as consultant?”

“If it’s true.”

“Meserve faked the reference?”

“Meserve’s been known to embellish.”

Milo phoned Brooklyn, located the landlord Dylan had cited as a reference. “Guy said he knew Dylan’s father because he’s a part-time musician himself and they used to gig. He has a vague memory of Dylan as a kid but never rented him an apartment.”

“Creative consultant,” I said.

“Let’s talk to the consultee.”

The PlayHouse was an old one-story Craftsman house on an oversized lot, just north of Venice Boulevard, in West L.A. Plank siding painted deep green with cream trim, low-set bulk topped by sweeping eaves that created a small, dim porch. The garage to the left had old-fashioned barn doors but looked freshly painted. The landscaping was from another age: a couple of four-story cocoa palms, indifferently pruned bird of paradise grown ragged, agapanthus, and calla lilies surrounding a flat, brown lawn.

The neighborhood was working-class rental residential, mostly boxy multi-units and boxy houses awaiting demolition. Nothing denoted the acting school’s function. The windows were dark.

Milo said, “Guess she doesn’t need to advertise. Or keep daytime hours.”

I said, “If most of the aspirants have day jobs, it’s an evening business.”

“Let’s check it out, anyway.”

We walked up to the porch. Floored with green board, thickly varnished. The window in the paneled oak door was blocked with opaque lace. A hand-hammered copper mailbox perched to the right. Milo flipped the lid and peered inside. Empty.

He pushed a button and chimes sounded.

No answer.

Two doors down an old Dodge Dart backed out toward the street. Hispanic man around thirty at the wheel, leaving a pale blue bungalow. Milo walked over, rolled his arm.

No badge, but people tend to obey him. The man lowered his window.

“Morning, sir. Know anything about your neighbor?”

Big shrug. Nervous smile. “No hablo Ingles.”

Milo pointed. “The school. La Escuela. ”

Another shrug. “No se.”

Milo looked into his eyes, waved him away. As the Dart sped off, we returned to the porch, where Milo jabbed the button several more times. A chime sonata went unanswered.

“Okay, I’ll try again tonight.”

As we turned, footsteps sounded from inside the PlayHouse. Lace wiggled in the window but didn’t part.