Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“How often do they visit?”

“Twice since I’ve been here, second time was like... four months ago. Some prince or emir, whatever, with an entourage. A kid, looked like he didn’t shave, drove up in an orange Lamborghini followed by a bunch of limos, walked past us, had some face-time with DeGraw. Afterward DeGraw was like he just dropped the soap in the prison shower. He waited like an hour and went home. Called in sick the next day.”

“Job insecurity and mistreatment,” said Milo. “That could make someone resentful.”

“He’s always resentful, probably born that way,” said Bogomil. “Do I think he’d off Miss Mars? Honestly, I don’t see it. He’s a wuss, not big on taking action, period. And what would be his motive? With or without her, the place is still going to struggle.”

“What’s your take on Refugia Ramos?”

“Quiet, goes about her business. She was Miss Mars’s regular so I can see why you’re asking. But sorry, nothing weird about her. I assume you ran all the checks.”

“We did. Clean.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Alicia Bogomil. She ground out her cigarette. “I wish I had something juicy for you guys but this place is mega-boring, only thing you ever see is softballs and nurses coming and going, only thing you hear is moaning behind doors up in The Can. Not the kind of moaning you get at other hotels, I’m talking the pain meds ran out.”

“Anyone on the staff twang your antenna?”

“My antenna.” She smiled. “I like that, gonna use it from now on. Nope, no one stands out, people are just putting in their time. Was there a burglary?”

“Doesn’t look that way.”

“But maybe?”

Milo smiled.

“Got it. Anyway, with no burglary, I can’t see the point of anyone on the staff doing something. Not much of a staff left, the Arabs keep cutting costs. But no new hires and I think I know everyone pretty well and I never saw anyone pull a hissy.”

Milo flipped a page. “What about Miss Mars’s visitors? Anyone stand out?”

“Never saw a single visitor.”

“She had a lawyer who came by, a woman named Ricki Sylvester.”

“Don’t know her,” said Bogomil, “but that doesn’t prove anything. I’m either at the front desk or patrolling The Can or having a room service meal, it all comes from the kitchen, now, no restaurants anymore. Tastes like hospital food, wish there were trucks coming by, nothing like a street taco. What does this lawyer look like?”

“Middle age, a little heavy, curly blond hair, maybe glasses around a chain and a briefcase.”

“You know,” said Bogomil, “I think I did see someone like that, like a week ago. Had no idea she was headed for Miss Mars. I was right here, taking a smoke break before going off-shift at seven, meaning four thirty in the afternoon, give or take. The lot was mostly empty, per usual, even the livery drivers are giving up. This crappy old Buick drives up, out comes a woman who fits that description. I figured her for a nurse or some rich person’s gofer, delivering meds, we see that plenty. She’s a lawyer, huh? Doing a house call? Guess that makes sense.”

“How so, Alicia?”

“Personal service for a client with bank.”

“Miss Mars had big bucks.”

“That would be my bet. Living here full-time and the way she carried herself, the way she spoke. She reminded me of the rich old women I’d meet when I used to waitress at a country club when I was in high school in Cincinnati. Ladies who lunch, you know?”

“Anything else you can think of?”

“Nope.”

Milo handed her his card.

“This reminds me of Albuquerque,” she said. “The job sticks with you even after you leave it. If I ever want to try LAPD, maybe you could give me a recommendation — just kidding.”

She pulled out a second cigarette. “Or maybe not.”

Alicia Bogomil said, “I’m heading back to the desk.” We stuck with her. A uniformed man waited outside the glass doors in a two-row golf cart.

Bogomil said, “Matt.”

“Alicia.”

The doors opened discharging two people.

The thirtyish hipster duo I’d seen in the lobby. Where bandages didn’t cover the woman’s face, her skin was inflated and glossy, the color alternating between eggplant and banana peel. She tottered and clutched the man’s elbow. He looked triumphant.

No sign of the little girl. I wondered what she’d been told.

The woman struggled to get into the back of the golf cart. The man sat up front and the vehicle putt-putted away.

Alicia Bogomil said, “Eye tuck and neck-lipo at her age? By the time she’s fifty she’ll have eyes on the side of her head like a goldfish.”

Milo said, “The things we do for love.”

“Love, huh? She’s up there on painkillers, he’s coming down to the lobby, telling me he’s a hot-stuff record producer and suggesting we meet sometime.”

I said, “Talent scout.”

She laughed. “I can’t carry a tune. Anything else you guys need?”

Milo said, “Where can we find DeGraw?”

She punched a four-digit code into her phone. Seconds later, it bleeped a digitalized “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” and she picked up. “Police are here for you.”

She clicked off. “He said he’d be down when he’s done. But no sense you guys wasting time. He’s checking out a room on Floor Three.”

The elevator stopped on Floor Two but no one got on and we got a brief view of beige walls, doors, and gray carpeting plus an earful of silence. The setup on Floor Three was identical.

One door, wide open. Before we got to it, Kurt DeGraw stepped out.

“I told Alicia I’d come down.”

Milo said, “Thought we’d save you the trouble. How’re we doing on that employee list?”

“Oh,” said DeGraw. “Soon as I can, you have my word.”

“We also need the names of anyone terminated during the last couple of years.”

“Really? You’re not thinking — oh, no, I can’t see anyone taking out an employment issue on a defenseless old woman.”

“Being thorough, Mr. DeGraw.”

I’d sidled closer to the doorway. The room was the same bland hue as the corridor, probably the result of market research. A hospital bed was propped up forty-five degrees. Used bandages, mattress pads, and paper towels littered the floor, along with rubber tubing that looked like hormonally enhanced pasta. Much of the paper was splotched with blood and other body fluids. Human leakage worthy of a crime scene.

Nothing like that in the pristine room where Thalia had been murdered.

Kurt DeGraw saw me looking. “Another successful recuperation. This will be perfectly sterile within a couple of hours.”

Years ago, I’d seen germ counts taken from “clean” hospital rooms. No such thing.

He got on a phone and told someone to have “three sixteen processed,” then cocked his head toward the elevator.

Milo said, “We also need to speak to the family in Bungalow Cinco.”

DeGraw said, “Pff. Good luck with that.”

“What’s the problem?”

“They’re gone, Lieutenant.”

“Since when?”

“As far as I can tell, yesterday.”

“You’re not sure?”

“People are free to come and go. What they’re not entitled to is a free room.” He pushed the elevator button. “An outrageous example of Penal Code Five Thirty-Seven.”

“Defrauding an innkeeper,” said Milo. “How’d they do it?”

“False passports and credit cards,” said DeGraw. “This day and age, anyone can get anything. Our medical guests are prepaid and they are sterling, I keep telling them we should stop trying to attract anyone else. ”

“ ‘Them’ being the folks in Dubai.”