Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

Creech picked up the almond, looked at it, popped it in his mouth and chewed rapidly. His eyes were watery and brown, his brow pale and surprisingly unlined. “I deposited the money. It didn’t feel exactly right but she wasn’t open to argument.”

I said, “Did she make large gifts to anyone else?”

“I wouldn’t know, sir. Only thing I did see her do regularly was come back with desserts for the hotel people. She’d usually bring me a burger or a sandwich. The only other person took care of my stomach like that was my wife and she passed twenty-one years ago.”

“Nice person.”

“The best.”

“But no other money gifts you ever saw.”

“You’re thinking she put herself in a situation by flashing cash?” said Creech. “If she did, I never saw it.”

Milo said, “She eat by herself or with company?”

“Always by herself. Always in Beverly Hills. Cheesecake Factory, La Scala Boutique, Spago, E Baldi.”

“And then she stopped going out, period.”

“People get tired, sir. I’m seventy-two and there’s days I don’t want to do a thing.”

“Know the feeling, Mr. Creech. In two years of driving her, what did you learn about her background?”

“Nothing. She never got personal. A lot of times she slept. Which was fine with me, I like to concentrate on the road.”

I said, “So no mention of family or other people in her life?”

“No, sir.”

“We’re asking, because as you know from your MP experience, the most important thing is to understand the victim.”

“The victim,” said Creech. “It feels terrible using that word for her. I know she was real old but she was also real alive. I knew I’d never live close to as long as her, fact is with my family genes, I’m doing great making seventy-two. But however much I lasted, I said to myself, Learn from her. Enjoy each minute. Tell you one thing, I enjoyed driving her. This city, a stranger gets into your car, they want you to be a psychiatrist.”

He shook his head. “Fifty bucks an hour don’t cover that.”

“Speaking of strangers,” said Milo. “We hear you were at the Aventura a couple of days ago.”

“Got restless, so I figured what the heck?”

“Did you happen to drive people called the Birkenhaars?”

Creech’s jaws clenched. “You saying they had something to do with—”

“Not at all, Mr. Creech. They were the only people staying near Miss Mars’s bungalow so we’d like to ask them if they saw anything. So far we haven’t been able to locate them.”

“Them. That’s exactly the type I was talking about.”

I said, “Wanting psychotherapy.”

“With them it was more like sex therapy,” said Creech. “Disgusting. I came this close to pulling over and telling them to call Uber or something.” He shifted in his chair. “I was raised Mennonite. Don’t practice anymore but it sticks with you.”

I said, “A moral code.”

“You bet, right and wrong. And those people were just wrong. ” He looked down at his lap, tugged up his trousers.

I said, “They got sexual in the back of your car?”

“Not actually... doing it. More like playing around?” Sallow edges had turned pink. “Laughing, like it was a joke. She pulls out her you-know-whats and they’re both... disgusting.” Head shake. “It’s not like I was out to watch, when I’m driving, I’m driving.”

“But that kind of thing is hard to ignore.”

“Exactly, sir. Someone’s making those noises you’re going to check the rearview to make sure it’s not getting crazy back there. Which it was, I came this close.”

He created a slit of space between thumb and forefinger. “Maybe they figured out they needed to behave because they stopped. But they kept laughing and every so often one of them would sneak in a touch of her.”

Milo said, “They talk to each other in a foreign language?”

“Why would they, they were Americans.”

“They told the desk they were Austrians.”

“Then they lied.”

“What names did they use for each other?”

“Never heard any names, everything was whispers. Didn’t take them long to... do what they did. Like wanting to be in a limo so they could show off. Even the other guy, I got to admit, that surprised me.”

“The other guy.”

“The good-looking ones I pegged as a couple. They looked like they went together. Slick, you know? Like actor-types. The other guy was shorter and heavier and had a face like a warthog. Him I figured for the guy who tags along. But then she — he also got — I really don’t want to talk about it, it’s the kind of thing I forgot when I stopped working for the big companies, crazy proms, kids acting crazy.”

“No prob,” said Milo. “Where’d you take them?”

“House of Blues on Sunset,” said Creech. “What I hear is there’s no seats, you have to stand up, talk about getting a backache.”

“Who was playing?”

“Search me, sir. I didn’t look. I just wanted to drop them off and go home.”

“They didn’t need return transportation.”

“Not from me. I’d have said no if they did. On top of everything else, no tip.”

“How’d they pay?”

“Cash,” said Creech. “But just the fifty minimum. No class, whatsoever.”

Back in the car, Milo said, “Backseat threesome, some personal assistant.”

“Americans,” I said. “They lied about everything.”

“And now they get hunted. ” He placed a second call to the crime lab, said the need for a print tech in Bungalow Five was urgent. That moved the ETA to early tomorrow morning.

I said, “We could try the House of Blues, maybe someone remembers them. If not, there are the restaurants Thalia frequented.”

“Creech said she ate alone.”

“He’s out in the car, could miss something.”

“Thalia had dinner with them?”

“Long-lost relatives get in touch, she’s curious, agrees to meet up, but something bugs her so she doesn’t invite them to her home.”

“But they got there, anyway. Okay, let’s find out.”

The House of Blues had been reserved for a private party that night. Small VIP gathering, record-business honchos and their significant others. The manager was absolutely certain no one matching the frisky trio had been there.

At the Cheesecake Factory, La Scala Boutique, Spago, and E Baldi, we found hosts and servers who knew and adored Thalia. A regular. Not weekly but maybe once a month. So nice. The word “classy” kept coming up. Her preferences ran to white wine or a Sapphire Martini on the rocks with a twist, olives on the side, followed by some kind of salad and a seafood entrée that she barely touched. Never dessert for her, but always to-go packages of sweets for her “friends.”

Seeing the hotel staff as her social circle. Living in an increasingly narrowing world, two rooms her universe.

Doing fine with that until the worst aspects of humanity oozed over her threshold.

Discouraged by no sightings of the Birkenhaars with Thalia, Milo dropped me back home at seven twenty P.M.

I said, “Thalia was big on retainers.”

“Probably just what she said, keeping it simple. Thanks for your time, enjoy your nice life.”

I said, “Come in for a bite.”

“No, thanks, too much homework.” He glanced at the backseat where Ricki Sylvester’s file on Thalia sat.

“Happy to split the job with you.”

“Against regulations.”

I laughed.

He said, “True, but like I said, it’s homework, ergo I’m taking it home.” He revved the engine. “Something comes up from the print tech, I’ll let you know.”

“Regards to Rick.”