Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

The result was years of additional litigation, yet another forfeiture, and a rushed-through statehouse decision to use taxpayer money to fund demolition of all but “a stable western wing plus loggia plus supplementary outbuildings.”

That took half a decade to accomplish, after which a young Dubai-based sheik with a penchant for totaling seven-figure supercars scored the site at an even lower price. He hired a “cutting edge” architect who designed a “postmodern tower merging with the psycho-structural suggestion of the original wing as an exemplar of stylistic incest.”

Nothing since then.

How much of the parade had Thalia witnessed? Kurt DeGraw claimed she’d scored a bargain and maybe she had. But living through the changes only to end up smothered in bed seemed a steep price to pay.

Milo phoned at four twenty-three P.M.

“I’m here at the scene, just went over the bungalow. No evidence she kept a safe but I did find a little under three grand in cash in her underwear drawer, so it doesn’t look like burglary. She wasn’t sexually molested, either. I’m open to suggestions about motive.”

I said, “Maybe someone enjoys beating God to the punch.”

“A psycho with a thing for the elderly? Crossed my mind so I checked for similars over the past ten years. Nothing remotely like Thalia. Every elderly vic was either collateral damage in a drive-by or dispatched to the next world by a loving relative. A lot of the family cases were arguments that escalated, the rest were rotten kids trying to inherit early. The money crimes tended to be staged burglaries. This one’s just the opposite, everything peaceful, no misdirection, not even a drawer pulled out. With those bruises, the murder would have been detected soon enough. Why not try to mask it as a burglary?”

“Maybe the bad guy was overconfident, felt he’d masked it as a natural death. Or showcasing the murder was the thrill.”

“Like one of those trusted nurses, turning off respirators or shooting crap into I.V. lines? You know where that leads.”

“Refugia or another staffer.”

“Refugia,” he said, “is judged honorable by everyone she ever worked with. More important, she’s alibied for last night until six in the morning, when she left for work. Per her sister and brother-in-law, but there’s nothing to say they’re lying. I asked DeGraw how many other people had regular contact with Thalia and he said he had no idea. I suggested he do everything in his power to speed up the investigation because the media would love to do an ironic story about the murder of a helpless old woman. He thought I made an excellent point and promised to get back to me. Obviously, we need to know about a will, if she had one. I found a checkbook in her nightstand drawer with two business cards clipped to the cover. Lawyer and money manager, put calls in to both. Her balance is impressive, Alex. Over four hundred thousand.”

“Five years of rent in reserve. What else did she spend on?”

“Not much for the past year except a check written to you, dated a coupla days ago.”

The day before I’d met her. Confident woman. “Six-grand retainer.”

“Why so much up front?”

“No good reason,” I said, “that’s why I haven’t cashed it. I told her it was way too much and inappropriate. She claimed I was doing her a favor by keeping her bookkeeping simple. Then she joked that if she didn’t live long enough I’d profit and if that bothered me I could donate the overage to charity.”

“You’re sure she was joking about not making it to the end?”

“It seemed that way but now I’m not sure.”

“Well,” he said, “don’t see why you shouldn’t get paid for your time. Especially now since we know how generous the department is.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Meaning mind my own business.” He laughed. “What else... I had our locksmith install padlocks on the porch and the door and one of our carpenters is due any minute to nail the windows shut. DeGraw tried to talk me out of all that, promised to ‘maintain vigilance.’ ”

“The way he looked out for Thalia.”

“Exactly. I’ve got uniforms stationed for a day or two but my captain says that could end if he needs personnel. I’ve put in the order for Thalia’s stuff to go into storage at the crime lab, director’s doing me a favor but that’s also time-limited so it’d be nice to find out if there are heirs.”

I said, “I picked up a few factoids,” and recapped the Aventura’s history. “The earliest she moved in is probably ’50 or ’51, after the squatters were evicted and it became a hotel again. She’d have been in her thirties, rates had dropped, she took advantage of it. But even good deals come with escalator clauses so eventually it climbed to eighty-four thou a year.”

“Deal or no deal,” he said, “if she could come up with that kind of dough, why not invest in a nice full-service condo? Instead, she bunks down in her little slice of heaven even while the ground’s shaking and everything around her is crumbling?”

I said, “Let’s hear it for clapboard. She was clearly a woman with her own personal vision, manipulated me so skillfully that I didn’t mind.”

“Because she was old and adorable,” he said.

“That plus people skills she was probably born with.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad she had her moments in the sun, watching them take her away was pathetic. One of the crypt guys made a crack about wishing they were all so light — hold on, someone trying to call in.”

Seconds later: “Thalia’s lawyer, all broken up and ready to see me. I’m gonna give the carpenter another fifteen and if he doesn’t show, I’ll head over. I’m assuming you’ll want to join me.”

“Name and address.”

“Richeline Sylvester, calls herself Ricki. Olympic Boulevard west of Sepulveda.”

The building was eight stories of suntan-colored glass, the three bottom levels, parking.

A smooth, silent elevator rocketed me to Richeline Sylvester’s office on the seventh floor. Her name only on the door.

Milo sat in the waiting room checking his phone and drinking something dishwater-colored from a frosty glass. Minimal waiting room; white walls, charcoal carpet, no windows, a single blotchy blue flower print.

A bearded man in his twenties wearing a plaid shirt and a red tie sat at a clear plastic desk. He smiled as if he knew me and pointed to a pitcher resting on a tray. “Iced jasmine tea? Freshly brewed.”

“No, thanks.”

Milo said, “Try it, it’s delicious.”

The young man beamed. His phone beeped. He picked up, listened, said, “Sure.” To us: “Boss is ready for you, to the right, guys.”

A right turn was the only possible route to twenty feet of hallway. Doors to the left were marked Supplies, Restroom, Library. The right wall conceded a couple of windows but the tinted glass blurred an already hazy eastern panorama.

Like viewing the world through murky pond water.

The last door was held open by a well-padded woman in her fifties with curly blond hair shaped into an unflattering bowl. She wore a rust-brown mock turtle over a knee-length tan skirt and flat white sandals. Turquoise in her ears and around her neck, no makeup, reading glasses on a chain.

She examined both of us, settled on Milo. “Lieutenant? Ricki Sylvester.” He introduced me and she gave me a longer look. “You’re also a detective?”

Someone curious enough to ask. Or maybe I just wasn’t giving off a cop vibe.

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware is our consulting psychologist.”

“There’s something psych-y about what happened to Thalia?” She grimaced. “I’m not sure I want to hear about that.”