Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

Virtual burial. Sign of the times.

When I got past all that and found myself facing acres of bona fide markers, the truth of Pedro’s reservations hit me hard. Hundreds of grave sites. Unless I happened upon a Mars, what could I hope to achieve?

Even with that, all I’d have was the ancestor of a hundred-year-old woman.

I was about to leave when I spotted a man carrying a rake and an oversized dust-bin toward the rear of the cemetery. Same work clothes as Pedro but his headgear was a pith helmet. Younger than Pedro but not by much.

I caught up with him.

Florid, heavyset guy with a Boston terrier nose and massive forearms. “Yeah?”

I said, “My great-aunt used to come here and I’m trying to find out who she visited.” I showed him the photo.

He said, “Nice lady, she always went to the same section. She tipped me for nothing. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She passed away last week.”

“Oh,” he said. “Sorry to hear it. She dressed nice, could walk okay for her age. Let me show you.”

He looked at the twenty I offered. “This is more than she gave. You got a nice family.”

He pocketed the bill, guided me to a single row toward the center of the cemetery, and left.

Well-weathered headstones, death dates ranging from the forties to the early sixties.

The tallest marker caught my eye. A good foot above the others, three plots from the end, black granite speckled with gold and topped by an exquisitely carved red granite crown.

The gangster who’d purchased the Aventura in the thirties and turned it into a haven for gamblers, adulterers, and other seekers of entertainment before being busted for tax evasion.

I phone-googled. Hoke’s name showed up in a list of pre — Bill Parker thugs. Convicted and sentenced in 1941.

Deceased thirteen years later, no mention if in custody or after release.

Four years prior to Hoke’s death, the hotel had been bought by Conrad Grammar. Soon after, Thalia was a full-time resident, paying far more than a civil servant could afford.

Buying up real estate using mystery funds.

My Kingdom.

A self-styled monarch. Misspelled Monark?

Had moving Hoke’s girlfriend in been part of the arrangement with Grammar? A sweetheart deal for a sweetheart?

In 1941, Thalia was twenty-three, Leroy Hoke, nearing fifty.

Money and power gravitating, as it always does, to youth and beauty?

Hoke’s year of death reminded me of something else. I looked up the leather-bound gift book in Thalia’s library.

Something Smithee... Robber’s Destiny.

Published in 1953, just prior to Hoke’s passing.

This guy got it. A man dying behind bars reminiscing?

Or sending a warning to his youthful paramour?

Hoke’s gravestone was dusty. No flowers, no sign of a recent visit but the crown atop the grave said it all. So did the inscription inverting Jesus’s declaration.

Self-proclaimed royalty.

Monark loves Midget.

Milo said, “Our sweet old lady really was a gun moll?”

I said, “Or at least a gangster’s love interest.”

“This from a gravestone.”

“A grave she visited regularly until she grew feeble. The chronology fits. So does Hoke’s prior ownership of the hotel and Thalia’s being able to afford staying there after it was sold. He went to San Quentin but that doesn’t mean he stopped doing business, and Thalia being his outside agent explains her real estate buys. Her early knowledge about foreclosures and other bargains would’ve been perfect synergy. And when Hoke died ten years later, she could’ve inherited everything, off the books.”

“Hoke ever get out of Q?”

“Haven’t checked, yet. Wanted to call you first.”

“A gangster’s gal... even if it’s true, you see it connecting to her death seventy years later?”

“Maybe she wasn’t worried about a psychopath in her family. What if Hoke’s descendants paid her a visit and nosed around the topic of Great-Grandpa’s dough?”

“That sounds like a scary visit,” he said. “You didn’t describe her as frightened.”

“True, but if she was able to conceal a long romance with Hoke, she was an expert at hiding her feelings.”

“Hundred-year-old siren worried about Bad Seed’s bad seed,” he said. “Mr. Waters and/or Mr. Bakstrom.”

“Or the woman they’re apparently sharing.”

“Okay, it’s somewhere to go, thanks. Let’s see if San Quentin keeps decent records, talk to you later.”

Back home, I got on the computer. Nothing on Leroy Hoke beyond a mention in a list of old-time L.A. gangsters published in an academic article on policing in L.A.’s pre- and post-Parker days. The author, a history professor at the U. named Maxine Driver.

I reached her at her office.

She said, “Hoke? No one’s ever asked me about him, he was pretty obscure. Usually, they want to know about Bugsy Siegel or Mickey Cohen.”

“Hoke didn’t make the big time?”

“From what I can gather he was up there in terms of criminality. But unlike Bugsy and Mickey, he avoided the limelight. Who exactly are you and why’re you asking about him?”

“I’m a psychologist working with LAPD. It’s a long story.”

“I’m a historian, we’re used to that. Can someone vouch for you at the police?”

“You bet.”

She called Milo, phoned me back.

“I’m free in an hour. For an hour. Pizza Maniac in the Village.”

The restaurant was a brick-walled beer joint for students, with pizza as an afterthought. I got there first, and per Maxine Driver’s instructions ordered a small white pie with mushrooms and a pitcher of Bud. The beer I got to carry to a table. The pizza was served by a distracted-looking kid just as a woman’s voice said, “Perfect timing.”

Maxine Driver was in her late thirties, tall, lithe, Asian, with a short glossy do that evoked the Flapper Era. Clinging black slacks and a matching sweater emphasized the sparseness of her frame. She toted a huge black purse. A big diamond glinted from her left ring finger.

“Dr. Delaware? Maxine.” Her handshake was strong, dry, business-like.

“Thanks for meeting me.”

She peeled off a crescent of pizza and nibbled a corner. “Good timing for dinner. My husband practices gastro at Santa Monica Hospital. Colonoscopies until eight P.M.”

She smiled. “Hope that doesn’t ruin your appetite.”

Mentioning her marital status to set boundaries? The rock on her finger would’ve sufficed. Then again, attention to detail would serve her well in her profession.

I said, “Worked at a hospital for years, no problem.”

“Which one?”

“Western Peds.”

“Kids,” she said. “I couldn’t handle seeing them sick.” She incised another millimeter. “You’re not indulging?”

“Small pie,” I said. “All for you.”

Maxine Driver laughed. “I have to remember about male appetites. David — my husband — could snarf three of these and claim he was dieting. Anyway, Leroy Hoke: I looked up my records, didn’t find much but made you a copy of what I have.”

Out of the purse came a manila envelope. Neat black lettering on the flap. HOKE, LL.

I thanked her, offered to pour her a beer.

She said, “Only if you’re having. Food’s one thing, drinking alone has a weird alkie feel to it.”

I filled two mugs. She kept working at the slice of pizza, daintily but steadily. A surgical scalpel versus Milo’s buzz saw.