Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“He’s on-shift, perfect opportunity for me to plow through.”

As I got out of the unmarked, the front door opened and Robin stepped out onto the terrace. She waved and danced down the stairs, hair loose, face scrubbed and gorgeous.

“That’s a vision,” said Milo. “Ergo your nice life.”

“Hi, guys. Long day?”

Milo said, “Fun and games. I brought Romeo back in workable shape.”

She kissed me. “He doesn’t require much work. I threw together some pasta with a bunch of random leftovers. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

“Ouch,” he said. “That’s the sound of my arm being twisted.”

“Random leftovers” meant veal roast, Genoa salami, artichoke hearts, cherry peppers, mushrooms, onions, fennel, chicken. Accompanied by a bottle of Barolo, and Blanche begging at Milo’s feet.

Robin said, “No chicken for her, please, Big Guy. Her tummy doesn’t like it.”

“The rest is okay?”

“Not onions, either.”

Blanche reacted to that with a head-cock. Milo fed her a piece of veal, ate, wiped his mouth. “This is fantastic. What do you call it?”

Robin said, “Use it or lose it. Thanks for helping.”

He beat his chest. “Public service. Along those lines, pass the bowl, please.”

Robin went to take a bath, I washed the dishes, Milo dried.

When we finished, I said, “Go get the file and we’ll divvy it up.”

“I told you: homework.”

“This is a home.”

Milo split the massive three-ring binder into two approximate halves, gave me the top, and took the rest for himself. Most of what I ended up with was decades of monthly brokerage statements recording Thalia’s wealth, and February 1 reminders from Ricki Sylvester to provide state and federal tax information so she could file in April on Thalia’s behalf.

Between Thalia’s training as a CPA and the bulk of her money coming from tax-free bonds, the short form had been a cinch. The only other income since Sylvester began handling the estate were two county pensions that had risen to around fifty thousand a year, plus eighteen K from Social Security, with deductions for Medicare.

A note from Sylvester every March 1 confirmed Thalia’s continuing intention to donate every cent of her taxable income to charity, “per your goal of obviating the need for burdensome accounting.”

Everything had been CC’d to Joseph A. Manucci, Certified Financial Planner, at Morgan-Smith’s Encino office. No personal correspondence from Manucci but the statements bore his name on top, as did stacks of boilerplate stock-market analyses from the brokerage house’s home office in New York.

Given the size of Thalia’s account, he’d probably sent holiday cards and calendars, too. She’d probably tossed them.

No records from the time when Sylvester’s grandfather had been in charge. Probably in Milo’s batch.

I kept going, came upon pages of photocopied pension and Social Security checks along with letters from Sylvester confirming direct transfer of yearly donations to Western Pediatric Medical Center of Los Angeles and the Shriners Hospital for Children. Subsequent letters listed smaller donations to St. Jude’s Children’s Research Hospital in Memphis and other pediatric institutions in Orange County, San Diego, Boston, Houston, and Philadelphia.

On the last page, a blank, white business-sized envelope resting in a plastic pouch. When I pulled it out the paper felt starchy and stiff.

Inside was a letter dated December 14, 1950, typed on the embossed stationery of

John E. McCandless, Esq., Attorney at Law.

McCandless had run a one-man operation out of an office on Green Street in Pasadena. No address listed for the recipient.

Dear Thalia,

Enclosed is the contract with Grammar. I trust you find the terms agreeable.

Betty sends her best.

Yours, as always,

Jack

JEM: tg

Paper-clipped to the letter was a plain white sheet specifying a rental agreement between Miss Thalia Mars and The Conrad Aventura Grande Deluxe, to take effect January 1, 1951. The hotel’s parent company was Conrad G. Grammar, Inc., St. Louis, Missouri, doing business in California and Arizona as Conrad Hotels and Banquet Services, Ltd.

Ricki Sylvester had told us Thalia was from Missouri. Had a personal link between tenant and hotelier enabled the sweetheart deal bemoaned by Kurtis DeGraw?

The terms of the contract blew that guess to bits.

Occupancy fees for “Deluxe Bungalow VIII” had been set at one thousand dollars a month, with service charges added to create a yearly rent of $12,667.67, plus a three percent escalator every anniversary to be applied “at the discretion of the property owner.”

Twelve grand had to be huge money in ’51, far beyond the reach of an unmarried municipal clerk.

I logged onto the Internet and confirmed it: U.S. median family income that year had been thirty-seven hundred dollars.

Somehow Thalia had come up with nearly four times that amount for the privilege of living in two rooms on a property recently cleared of vagrants.

Perhaps she’d already stockpiled cash from real estate deals. Maybe those records were also in Milo’s share of the file.

I told him what I’d found.

He said, “Yeah, all the property transfers are here, but if this is all of ’em, she didn’t start wheeling and dealing until ’53. Her last transaction was in the seventies. She sold six hundred acres of desert near Palmdale to a film ranch. Paid five grand and raked in six hundred twenty-five K. Not bad, huh? It’s all like that, huge profits for years.”

“But not in ’51,” I said. “Did Jack McCandless handle the deals?”

“Yup.”

“Ricki Sylvester reminds her to file taxes. Same for him?”

He said, “Nope. You’re thinking she wasn’t paying taxes back then?”

“Or someone was handling them for her. Handling more than taxes.”

“A kept woman,” he said. “Fronting someone else’s dough.”

“How else could she come up with twelve grand a year? No need for a front if you’re legal. Maybe that book inscription’s important. Monark financed Midget, put her up in a secluded hotel bungalow because she was his fun on the side.”

“Little Miss Moll,” he said. “Sure, why not. But it’s a big leap from that to murder seventy years later.”

“Unless Midget and Monark got together and made a little Monark or two who didn’t turn out so well. Thalia never acknowledged any descendants. But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Maybe as she neared the end of her life, she decided to make sure they didn’t get a cut. Is the will in there?”

“Not yet.” He pawed through the rest of his pile, did a lot of head shaking, finally drew out another white envelope. The single page inside this one was dated earlier this year and printed on Ricki Sylvester’s letterhead.

Brief document, as uncomplicated as Thalia’s approach to taxes. Half of her estate was bequeathed to the Western Pediatric Medical Center, specifically to the Outpatient Division run by Ruben Eagle, M.D.

“Your buddy makes out like a bandit,” said Milo. “Hey, maybe I should look into your buddy.”

I said, “Feel free but on the morality scale he’s somewhere between Mother Teresa and the Dalai Lama.”

The rest of the will listed another twenty percent going to the Shriners Hospital, the remaining thirty to be divided up equally among the remaining institutions she’d long supported.

Milo said, “She had a soft spot for kids.”

“And left nothing for any relative.”

“So, what, a bunch of reprobate descendants sneak in, suffocate her, and make off with some loose cash? Another stash, not the three G I found?”

“They got a bigger stash, were in a hurry, missed the three.”