Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“Our girl did the starlet thing before switching to accounting? Talk about shifting gears.”

“My initial search on her pulled up nothing along those lines. Nothing, period. But if her work predated the Internet by decades and she never starred in anything, that could explain it.”

“She seem the type? Beyond being flirty.”

“She did have a presence,” I said. “Meet her and you wouldn’t think ‘municipal clerk.’ ”

“Guess I should talk to Dr. Wojik.”

“I left a message with her receptionist.”

“Thanks,” he said. “How about you start with her, she has anything juicy to say, let me know. I’m gonna try the prison again, someone’s gotta know who Waters’s K.A.’s were. All of Thalia’s stuff was packed and carted a few hours ago. When the place was empty, I had a third go. No hidden cubbies, trapdoors, or buried treasure. Only thing I figure was worth much were those few pieces of jewelry and the Tiffany lamps, if they’re real.”

“I only saw one Tiffany, blue with dragonflies.”

“There was a standing one, too, kinda red, pretty.”

Bubbled shade, to my eye, crude compared with the dragonfly lamp. Not the time for a discussion on decorative arts.

I said, “When can she be buried?”

“Ricki Sylvester just called to ask the same thing. I said it would have to wait. So would finalizing the estate. She accepted it but I was b.s.’ing, can only delay up to a point. So eventually, Dr. Big Bird and all those other charities are gonna get a windfall. Too bad he didn’t twang your antenna.”

By end of day, I’d heard nothing from Dr. Belinda Wojik.

I’d used the time to research her, found an active medical license in the state of California, no complaints or violations, and four-and-a-half-star patient evaluations on two rating sites. The only carp: Dr. Wojik was always busy and sometimes waiting time was prolonged.

No trace of an Industry link or anything Wojik had done other than practice medicine.

Milo phoned at three thirty P.M. “Found another jail deputy who remembers Waters, says he was a crafty bastard. When I asked him about violence, he said, ‘Naw, weasel not a wolf.’ ”

The federal penitentiary in Colorado had finally served up Waters’s most recent cellmate but no additional information.

I said, “Good fit with the guy sharing the bungalow with Waters?”

“Judge for yourself. I’m sending you the info right now.”

Seconds later, prison photos came wafting through the cloud. Henry Adam Bakstrom, thirty-eight, six-one, a hundred seventy-six pounds, sported a chiseled face blessed by crisp, symmetrical features. Strong chin, straight nose. A long, substantial neck sprang from muscular shoulders.

Life is biased in favor of good-looking people and I could see a cleaned-up Bakstrom passing at a nice hotel. Once you got past the bristly black Mohawk, the arrow-shaped soul patch bottoming moist vaguely ravenous lips, the icy blue eyes trying to stare down the camera.

Not much could be done about the eyes but they’d attract a certain type of woman as well as corporate buyers of edgy men’s fashion. Pour on the grooming and he’d be ready for GQ.

I said, “Decent-looking guy, he’d fit.”

“So would his priors. This one knows how to be aggressive.”

Bakstrom’s criminal history was more impressive than Gerard Waters’s, with three serious prison sentences taking up the bulk of his twenties and thirties.

Assault, extortion with violence, an eight-year stretch for accessory after the fact in an armed Boulder bank robbery. The last had landed Bakstrom in the same facility privileged to house Gerard Waters.

“Years before Waters’s arrival,” said Milo.

“When did he get out?”

“Four months before Waters, early parole due to good behavior. Which from what I can tell from the prison website was something like going to church and classes in ‘insight training,’ maybe fashioning cute little plywood birdhouses for the prison gift shop.”

“At least he had a P.O.”

“You’d think that would help. Unfortunately, the Denver parole office is understaffed to the point where Bakstrom wasn’t even assigned an officer for six weeks. He got room and board in a halfway house, courtesy of the taxpayers, but the P.O. had no idea who I was talking about and I had to bug her to pull up his file. He showed up for two visits then never again. Of course, she’d followed up, meaning going to the halfway house, confirming he’d absconded, and making note of it in the file. I called there, hoping for something. Guy who runs it said, ‘They come and go, it’s all we can do to stop them from stealing the furniture.’ ”

I said, “Where does Bakstrom hail from?”

“No ties to L.A., if that’s what you mean. Born in Louisiana, spent time in Georgia and Maryland, then, from what I can tell, he drifted westward. We’ve got nothing on him locally but Colorado to California is a logical trajectory if he reunited with Waters.”

“Go West, Young Felon.”

Milo said, “Everyone wants to reinvent once they get a whiff of smog, right? My next step is trying to find out if Bakstrom filed for public assistance locally, got himself a credit card, a driver’s license, a phone, or, God forbid, a legit job. Want to take bets on any of that?”

“Waters got a license.”

“And nothing else that’s on the records.” Clicks on his end. “Hold for a sec.”

Dead air, then: “That was Creech, the limo driver. He remembered something. In addition to taking Thalia out to dinner, he also took her to a cemetery in Hollywood. Couple of times a year but not for the past year. He has no idea who she visited because she always had him wait outside.”

I said, “Only place I know of there is Hollywood Legends. I used to pass it driving to the hospital. Lots of Industry folk are buried there.”

“Back to our girl Thalia’s entertainment days?” he said.

“I’ll drop by and try to find out. I’ve got patients tomorrow afternoon but a free morning. How about e-mailing Thalia’s most recent DMV photo so I have something to show them.”

“You think it’s worth your time?”

“Know thy victim.”

“Maybe she just visited Rudolph Valentino or some other squeeze from her era, but sure, appreciate it. In return, I can walk your pooch, clean your oven, or supply you with pricey distilled spirits.”

“Chivas will do nicely,” I said. “Once we make some progress, we’ll toast.”

“Love that optimism,” he said. “Blue Label in a fancy box work for you?”

“Plain is fine.”

“You ain’t plain.”

Know thy cemetery.

What began as Hollywood Memorial Park and Spiritual Gardens sits on fifty urban acres a couple of blocks east of the Paramount lot. Back when Hollywood was Hollywood, several studios made their home in the neighborhood, surrounding the cemetery and making it the butt of jokes.

Where do old actors go to die?

Forest Lawn if they’ve got cab fare, Hollywood Memorial if they don’t.

Or:

The place is a drag.

How so?

Agents drag useless clients in. Then they dig extra holes for themselves and jump in.

Like the Aventura, the place had fallen into disrepair until a fire-sale purchase ten years ago. Unlike the Aventura, full up, no more rooms in the inn.

The new owner’s history of developing amusement parks, and the rechristening to Hollywood Legends, fueled rumors that a “morbid Disneyland” was in the works. That sparked the expected preservationist outrage along with panic in families whose loved ones were interred in the ornate crypts, mausoleums, and granite-marked grave sites crowding the crumbling facility.