Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“Did you file a police report?”

Phil Duke’s lips did something that made the croquet wicket compress on both sides. “Lawyer said it was a waste of time unless he’d taken something valuable. The dishes were twenty, fifty bucks. Why’re you asking about him? He scam someone else?”

“His name came up in an investigation.”

“That doesn’t exactly tell me anything.”

“Sorry, sir. We can’t divulge. When did Waters begin renting and when did he leave?”

“All hush-hush, huh? Figures,” said Duke. “Let’s see... begin was five — no, six months ago, leave was three weeks ago. Daughter’s coming back, anyway, so it worked out.” Another compression. “Divorce, never liked the guy.”

“What kind of work did Waters say he did?”

“Sales and marketing. Don’t know what he sold or marketed, didn’t ask. Didn’t even get a last-month or a damage deposit, that shows you how stupid I was.”

“It could happen to anyone,” said Milo.

“It could if they’re stupid,” said Phil Duke. “I should’ve listened to myself.”

“Is there anything you can tell us about Waters that might help us find him?”

“Love to help you, respect what you do, a few cops in my family. But nah.” He rubbed his bare head. “Honestly, not a bad guy when you first meet him. Friendly, agreeable, talked softly. No bad habits that I could see. Smoking, drinking, he didn’t do neither.”

“What kind of hours did he keep?”

“Normal. Out by eight, back by six or seven. Like a normal job.”

“He ever entertain anyone?”

“Nah, kept to himself. Which I guess is strange, him being so friendly, you’d expect some kind of friend. But you never know with people. That’s why I like plants.”

He jiggled the hose. “If there’s nothing else, I’m going to watch my grass grow.”

Driving back to the station, I said, “Superficial charm, poor impulse control, criminal history. Waters might be the reason Thalia called me. And/or his bungalow-mates.”

“They show up on her doorstep, ‘Hi, Auntie’?” he said. “Talk about a family reunion.”

I said, “In my head it’s shaping up calculated. Chapter One’s a friendly drop-in. Two is returning to the hotel and checking in, asking for a nearby bungalow so they can stalk her and pick their moment. If they are kin, no mystery about motive. Like you said, they banked on being in the will. Or resented being excluded and were either taking revenge or looking for loose cash. Either way, the effort was minimal, the payout potentially high.”

“For someone to expect they’d inherit, there had to be some kind of relationship.”

“Maybe there was and we haven’t found it.”

“Or we’re totally off and Waters and his pals were staying there for another reason. Like being able to three-way in privacy. The big problem is we still don’t know a damn thing about Thalia. When are you gonna talk to your pediatrician buddy, whatsisname — Eagle?”

“Just did. One of Ruben’s former residents mentioned his work to Thalia in passing, she walked into his clinic with a check for ten grand.”

He whistled.

I said, “The following year she gave him fifty. That’s been her annual donation, since.”

We traveled a block. He said, “You know Eagle well.”

“I do.”

“Above reproach and wears a halo.”

I stared at him. “Oh, c’mon.”

“Hey,” he said, “follow the money, gotta ask.”

“What connection could Ruben have to Waters and the other two?”

“Solid citizen hires out? Like that never happens?”

“Not in this case.”

“Fine, he’s a saint but I still gotta ask.”

“Fair enough.”

“Would it be agonizing for you to do a face-to-face with him? Check out the nonverbals then maybe talk to the resident, see if Eagle’s story holds up? If I’m putting you in a bad position, do a Nancy R. and just say no. And if you feel like washing your hands of the whole damn mess, no problem.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

He smiled.

As we neared the station, I said, “While I’m studying Ruben’s nonverbals, what will you be doing?”

“Calling cops who busted Gerard Waters and jailers who gave him room and board, try to find out who his pals were. Maybe I’ll get lucky and I.D. the cute-looking couple.”

“Bravely into the past,” I said.

“Where else?” he said. “When you get down to it, we’re both historians.”

I drove to the hospital, parked in the staff lot, clipped on my faculty badge, and walked to the outpatient clinic on the ground floor of the main building.

Poor people often use emergency rooms as general practitioners. It ties up the E.R., makes triage a challenge, and saps hospital budgets. But doctors and nurses don’t ask for financial reports when it comes to sick kids.

Ruben Eagle was Western Pediatric Medical Center’s attempt to solve the problem, with nurse practitioners serving as first-line screeners and interns and residents doing much of the diagnosis and treatment. But demand always outstrips supply and at Western Peds, the result can be a human logjam.

Ruben’s waiting room was filled with small humans and those entrusted to care for them. No clear pathway to the reception window but I squeezed through sniffles, coughs, and cries and finally got there. The harried-looking woman was someone I’d never met but my badge caused her to nod.

“Dr. Eagle, please.”

“He’s with a patient. What shall I say it’s about, Doctor?”

“Follow-up on Thalia Mars.”

“Miss Mars,” she said, peering at the badge. “Psychology. She was your donor, too? We’re all going to miss her.” She pushed a button, talked, listened, turned back to me. “I was wrong, he’s actually rounding on Four West. He says for you to meet him in the doctors’ dining room in five minutes, he’s due for breakfast.”

The clock behind her read one P.M.

She laughed. “He likes breakfast food and never has time for it so they save him oatmeal.”

The doctor’s dining room is a pocket of oak-paneled calm tucked into a corner of the hospital basement. The rest of the floor reeks of chemicals and the morgue is steps away. No one’s appetite seems affected.

The only vacant table was near the silverware bins. I helped myself to turbo-boosted coffee and sat. Ruben’s five minutes turned into fifteen and I was on my second cup when the door opened and he charged in, white coat flapping, Coke-bottle eyeglasses slipping low on an aristocratic nose. He looked around, saw me, mouthed, Sorry, and hurried over.

Ruben’s a slim, finely boned man with a wiry gray beard. His parents escaped from communist Hungary in ’56. Ruben was born in L.A. but a couple of older sisters were smuggled out of Budapest in packing crates. One of them was mentally disabled from birth, and during the journey they put her on chloral hydrate.

Ruben tells the story with wonderment but no bitterness. His parents are gone and he’s been Magda’s primary emotional and financial support for as long as I’ve known him. She lives with him and his wife, a Chilean-born dentist, and the youngest two of their five children, in a far-too-small Sherman Oaks ranch house. Ruben drives a dented old Toyota and manages to look well groomed despite no interest in clothing. He runs marathons to raise money for his clinic, lifts weights on off days, and never works less than a hundred hours a week, divided between treating the poor and training student doctors. He wins teaching awards regularly. Everyone likes him. You can’t not like him.

Let’s see what his nonverbals had to say this afternoon.

He pumped my hand and sat down. “Alex, great to see you. Considering the circumstances, that is.”