Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

Emptying drawer after drawer only to snuffle and proceed to the next futile step.

Some cops toss a room with the abandon of deranged adolescents. My friend’s grooming may come across as hastily assembled but he puts things back exactly as he found them.

Considerate detective. The dead get most of his respect.

His industriousness spurred me to reexamine the books, removing each volume, fanning it open and shaking to dislodge anything secreted between pages.

No hidden treasure but as I neared the end of the mystery section I spotted handwriting on the title page of a small leather-bound book.

Small because it was the original edition — a cheap paperback, still bearing its lurid covers behind panels of tooled black morocco.

Robber’s Destiny by a writer named Alden Smithee.

The inscription was blue block letters, ink laid down unevenly by an unsteady hand.

TO MIDGET HEY THIS GUY

GOT IT LOVE MONARK

I’d read a lot of pulp fiction, keeping busy between sets when I worked my way through college playing guitar in pickup wedding bands. All had been borrowed from an old, rheumatic sax player. Stan something, a recovered alcoholic who sidestepped the other musicians’ methods of killing time — smoking weed and emptying airline vodka bottles.

I’d come to enjoy the fist-in-the-face syntax, overwrought plots evoking the late-late-night TV movies my father watched when his own booze addiction got in the way of sleep.

But I’d never seen this one or heard of the author. I ran my gloved finger over the leather. Robust and pebbly, bordered in still-bright gold. Someone taking the time to give a dime novel a fancy re-bind.

I began paging through the tough, urgent prose and the anything-but-subtle story line took shape: jewel heist gone bad, the usual noir combo of seduction, betrayal, and violent death.

Did the inscription have anything to do with Thalia? For all I knew, she’d picked the book up in a secondhand store.

I had a third go at every other book in her collection. No additional leather or inscriptions.

Midget. Easy to see someone her size acquiring the moniker.

If so, who was Monark?

I showed the message to Milo, who was rubbing his back and looking ready to spit.

He said, “A king who can’t spell? When was it published?”

I turned to the copyright page. “ ’Fifty-three. Probably not long after she moved here.”

“Yeah, well, I was hoping for something more recent. Let’s try to find that driver, Creech.”

As we neared The Can, Alicia Bogomil hurried toward us waving a bright-green Post-it. “No address on Leon but here’s his number, he’s listed.”

Milo gave her a quick hug that made both of them blush.

DMV gave up Leon Creech’s address on Wooster Street just south of Olympic, and when Milo phoned, Creech answered.

“Alicia told me. I was wondering if you folks would call. Seeing as I knew Miss Thalia pretty darn well.”

“We’d appreciate talking to you, Mr. Creech. Could we drop by your home right now?”

“Why not? I’m not going anywhere. You over at the hotel?”

“We are.”

“Twenty-three minutes on a good day,” said Leon Creech. “Longer if people are driving like idjuts.”

Only a few idiots; we made it in twenty-nine minutes.

Leon Creech’s mint-green stucco traditional was one of the few remaining single homes on a block of duplexes and apartment buildings. Most of the front yard was concrete. A car covered by a custom-fitted, all-weather navy-blue cover luxuriated in two parking spaces.

Milo lifted the cover. Waxed navy-blue paint, chrome polished to mirror-brightness, the rounded butt of a Lincoln Town Car. A blue-and-gold plate from the late seventies read I DRYV U.

The front door opened. A tall stooped man in his seventies wearing a brown cardigan over a red golf shirt said, “That’s my baby. Ford had a lock on the market and stopped making them, corporate idjuts.”

“Mr. Creech. Milo Sturgis and Alex Delaware.”

“Sirs. Come on in.”

The living room was crammed with cut-glass lamps, souvenir plates, fleecy throws, and overstuffed seating. Mementos from Disney World, Graceland, Carlsbad Caverns, Mount Rushmore. Calendar landscapes favored Bambi-deer in autumn-red forests. A black-and-white photo showed a young couple on their wedding day.

Like Thalia’s bungalow, unmodified in decades. Lower-budget than Thalia, but just as meticulously maintained.

Creech’s complexion was pale with sallow borders. Same color scheme for hair thin enough to fly away on a low-breeze day. He motioned us to sit, settled with care on the other side of a hexagonal coffee table. The table hosted a bowl of mixed nuts, a pitcher of water, and three drinking glasses. Slices of lemon floated in the water.

“Unsalted, hope you don’t mind. The blood pressure.”

Milo said, “Probably a good idea for me, too.”

Creech appraised him. “Can’t hurt to be careful.”

Milo picked out a Brazil nut, molared it to dust, and crossed his legs. Creech crossed his, too. Brown-and-tan argyle socks, black New Balance walking shoes.

“Thanks for taking the time, Mr. Creech.”

“Got plenty of it, sir. It’s hard to believe someone would do that to Miss Thalia. If anyone was class, it was her. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Afraid not.”

“I get that. Used to work criminal apprehension in the army.”

“CID?”

“No, just plain MP in Seoul, South Korea. The base was huge, right in the middle of the city. Twenty thousand young bucks, always someone in trouble. Anyway, I understand about keeping it close to the vest. But you definitely think someone killed her?”

“We do, Mr. Creech.”

“Damn,” said Leon Creech. “That’s just obscene.”

“How long did you drive her?”

“Approximately two years, sir. Started a career of driving eight years before that when I retired from the unified school district — used to supervise maintenance in some tough neighborhoods. I began with the big companies — CLS, Music Express — decided to reduce my hours and work for myself. The Aventura was perfect, I knew I’d be taking it easy.”

“Not much business, there.”

“Place is always struggling. You know what they mostly do now, right?”

“Surgical aftercare.”

“The fancy hotels didn’t want to deal with it. Too much liability and I imagine there’d be all kinds of unpleasant stains on the upholstery and whatnot. The fancy surgeons want to keep all the money to themselves so they mostly handle transport but sometimes they don’t or can’t. Perfect for me, I wanted part-time. I bring my lunch, listen to big bands on the Sirius, somebody needs a lift, I take them. They don’t, I don’t, who cares, I got my pension.”

“How often did Ms. Mars want to be driven?”

“Not often,” said Creech, reaching for an almond. He studied it for a moment before nipping off a corner and chewing slowly. “Less as time went on and then it stopped.”

“When?” said Milo.

“Two or so months ago. Out of the clear blue she came out to the parking lot and said, ‘Leon, I’m sorry. No more excursions for me, I’ve seen everything I want to see in this world.’ She was walking real slowly, I guess I hadn’t noticed because she always seemed like she was okay. Then she shook my hand and handed me an envelope and left.”

Creech’s sunken cheeks vibrated. “I figured a nice tip, hundred bucks if I was lucky.”

He placed the partially eaten almond on the table. “It was a five-thousand-dollar check.”

Milo whistled.

“I wondered if she’d made a mistake, so I walked back to her bungalow. She was out on the porch in that big chair she liked. Smiling like she expected me. Before I could say anything, she said, ‘Leon, don’t argue. It’s a retainer in case I change my mind and want to resume excursions.’ I said did she realize how long it would take to chew down five grand with fifty bucks per hour of driving? She said, ‘Leave the accounting to me, Leon.’ Then she said she was tired and went inside. Never saw her after that.”