Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“You have something to tell me?”

“More like another question.”

Silence. “I see.”

“Once the case is resolved, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“You remind me of a guy I dated in grad school. Very earnest, lots of promises.”

“He keep any of them?”

“A few.”

“I’ll do better.”

“Ha. What now?”

“I’d like to email you a photo of Hoke with a man, see if you can identify him.”

I pushed a button. She said, “Where’d you get this?”

“Web article on Perino’s.”

“Darn, wish I’d thought of that. Is the girl your centenarian victim?”

“Maybe. Any idea who the bruiser is?”

“Nope, sorry. Looks like a bodyguard.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who’d know more about Hoke?”

“Doubtful, gangster-research isn’t exactly a hot topic for historians,” she said. “The grant money goes to gender inequality and colonialism — wait a sec, there might be someone. Janet Pitcairn at Princeton, I see her at conferences. She’s into the East Coast mob, gets foundation dough by framing it as research on ethnic immigration patterns. Maybe she knows someone, I’ll give her a call.”

“Ask her about Fred Drancy — Count LaPlante’s real name. He was originally from Boston but moved to New York after the robbery and got into big-time trouble.”

I told her about the art theft.

She said, “Same M.O., different commodity. Maybe Drancy was a co-conspirator in the jewel thing, not a victim?”

“I hadn’t thought about that but sure, why not? With the consignors cut out, his share would’ve been larger than if he’d operated legitimately. Excellent idea, Professor. Thanks.”

“Maxine’s fine and you know how to thank me — yes, I’m a tape loop.”

“Persistence,” I said. “Perfect for research.”

“A heckuva lot more productive than spending all afternoon arranging one’s shoes so they face precisely the same way. Which is not to say I wasn’t an ideal child.”

“I really appreciate the time, Maxine.”

“I probably shouldn’t admit it,” she said, “but this is turning out to be fun. My parents wanted me to be an orthodontist. They still have no clue why I do what I do.”

I left messages for Milo. He called in shortly after two P.M.

I told him Driver’s conjecture about Drancy. “If it’s true, add his offspring to the bad seed list.”

“I like it,” he said. “His being in on it woulda made the job a cinch. Alarm’s off, safe door’s unlocked. What I don’t like is an expanded suspect pool but yeah, it’s definitely worth considering. Meanwhile, I’ve got a few more facts on Hoke. He was sentenced to eleven years, came down with cancer a few months before his release date and died in the prison infirmary. Prison historian only found one visitors log, covers the last three years. One person for Hoke, Christmas, Easter, July Fourth, Labor Day. Woman who signed in as Thelma Myers, no other details. She also shows up after Hoke’s death as custodian of his body. Without her, he’d have ended up in an unmarked grave on the prison grounds.”

“Thelma, Thalia.”

“Myers, Mars. Everyone reinvents themselves, Alex. No records that I can find, for all we know her real name’s Lola Montez.”

I said, “Limiting her visits to four times a year fits with keeping a low profile. So does showing up on holidays when she could get lost in a flood of visitors and wouldn’t be missed at her job.”

“I called Vollmer — the archive — to get Hoke’s arrest file and anything on the jewel thing. Gonna take a while, only one guy handles all the requests, some wild-child who managed to slide from homicide to traffic to eating dust and mold. He said he’d search manually, maybe he even will. No luck on the dump-site contractor, either, can’t get a response from the owners, property’s under dispute in a divorce.”

“Send me Bakstrom’s photo, I’ll go back and see if anyone recognizes him working there.”

“Don’t waste your time, Alex, we already canvassed the neighborhood.”

“Let me try, anyway.”

“Persistent.”

“Better than arranging toy soldiers so they face the same way.”

“What?”

“Send the picture. Anything on the bullet in Waters’s head?”

“Too messed up for ballistics, all they can say is it’s a .22. Which is kind of like saying a hit-and-run victim encountered a car. The pathologist did say she found the decomp impressive, given the date we know Waters cut out on his landlord, so he probably was stored somewhere hot and humid.”

I said, “Waters being killed so soon after Thalia’s murder could mean he was a pawn from the beginning.”

“Mr. and Ms. Adorable are anything but? Maybe one of them should be worrying. Why slice the pie at all?”

“Waters and Bakstrom were cellies. If Bakstrom already knew the woman, she could be on his visitors log.”

“So she could... that mind of yours, who says there’s no perpetual motion machine — all right, the photo’s coming your way. A better one actually, I had a tech guy Photoshop the Mohawk into oblivion. Went back to the hotel, now Refugia says probably and Bogomil says for sure. I put a BOLO out on him.”

The image came through.

I said, “Perfect.”

He said, “There you go, back to boosting my self-esteem.”

Too late that day but the following afternoon, equipped with Henry Bakstrom’s cleaned-up visage, I drove to Pacific Palisades.

Blue skies and golden sun can prettify anything but the unfinished construction fared poorly in the daylight, wood turned ashy and ragged by glare, fissures on blocks wound-like, the gouged earth soupy and arid in equal proportions.

No entry, the damaged section of fence had been replaced. But the spot where Waters had been tossed was obvious: a barren rectangle of dirt. I turned, ready to begin my door-to-door, when I spotted a woman descending the crest and heading my way. Fast pace, dictated by the small dog walking her.

She saw me and crossed the street. My waiting around made her glance at me nervously. Forties, brunette, tight body in a jean jacket, black leggings, yellow running shoes.

As she passed, I smiled and said, “Excuse me.”

She kept going but the dog skidded to a halt and studied me. She tugged; grimaced as her canine boss stood its ground. Stocky brown-and-white mutt, probably heavier than its size would imply. Staffordshire terrier mixed with something low-rise like corgi or dachshund.

The woman said, “Shit, Petey! Go! ”

Petey planted his legs and kept appraising me.

I said, “He’s cute.”

The woman finally made eye contact. Yanking the now taut leash and cursing silently. Her glare said it was all my fault.

No sense pushing it. I began walking.

“Hold on, there!” I looked behind me. She’d recrossed the street and was charging toward me. Whipped out her phone and began jabbing buttons while in motion. Made a mistake and cursed and tried again and dropped the phone.

Petey looked amused. I retrieved it and handed it to her. She snatched it. Petey assumed an obedient sit.

“Now you behave?” Scowling and sun-creased, but not a bad face. Maybe even capable of pretty when not compressed in anger.

I said, “Is something the matter?” I flashed my LAPD consultant badge.

“What’s that?”

“I work with the police.”

“With? What does that mean?”

“My name is Alex Delaware. Feel free to call Lieutenant Sturgis at the West L.A. station.” I recited the number.

She said, “Why should I believe you?”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Call and verify.” I smiled at Petey. He produced a noise that began as a low growl but ended up as a friendly purr.