Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

I said, “Hey, there, little guy.”

No aggression but no smile; Blanche is the only dog I’ve known who can strikingly simulate human joy.

The woman tugged the leash for no apparent reason. Petey bared his teeth. Big teeth for a small pooch. He raised a leg and let out an impressive fart. Shook himself off with pride. I laughed.

The woman said, “I don’t see what’s funny. Especially not here. This is a terrible place.”

“The murder. I was called to the scene.”

“Hmm... give me your name again.”

“Alex Delaware.”

She stared at her phone but did nothing with it. “No one’s telling us a thing and we don’t feel safe. Let me see that thingie again.”

She squinted at the badge. In need of glasses but not wearing them. “Behavioral science?”

“I’m a psychological consultant—”

“Oh, shit,” she said. “You’re profiling? There’s a crazed serial killer here?”

“Definitely not. I’m here to do follow-up—”

“About what?”

“I’m talking to people who live here and might be able—”

“The police already came door-to-door. Not very polite, considering they wanted my help. Now they send a psychologist? To do what? Shrink our heads.”

I sighed.

She said, “Am I causing you stress?”

I pocketed the badge, walked to the Seville.

“What?” she said. “This happens and I have to be nice about it? What’s nice about someone being killed? About that piece of shit. ” Pointing to the construction.

“The project?”

“Piece of absolute shit. They tear down a perfectly nice Spanish and plan a ten-thousand-square-foot piece of I-don’t-know, everything’s lovey-dovey according to her, meanwhile everyone knows he’s bringing bimbos home while she’s traveling. And when he’s gone, she’s going off with the contractor. They’re lowlifes. From Europe!”

“Where in Europe?”

“Sweden, Denmark, someplace like that. Don’t ask me how they made their money, what I do know is they brought bad karma here when they tore the Spanish down. Then someone gets murdered? Un-be-liev-able. Who was the victim?”

“No one from here,” I said.

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Sorry, Ms.—”

“Like I’m going to give you my name? Last time I gave my name I got served with papers. By the rat-bastard.”

“Your ex.”

“Don’t call him that. He’s nothing to me.”

Petey looked up at her and let loose more wind.

She said, “Look at this, you’ve delayed his bowels, now his schedule’s going to be all screwed up.”

“Could I take a sec to show you a photo?” Before she could answer, I flashed Bakstrom’s image.

“Shit! He did it?”

“You know him.”

“He was one of them, pretending to work here, mostly they’re standing around the roach coach a million times a day, we have to listen to ‘La Cucaracha’ over and over.”

I said, “What was his trade?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Was he a framer, a mason, a—”

“How would I know? I never saw him doing anything. He sure wasn’t doing anything when he hit on me.”

She waited.

I said, “Really.”

“What, you think I’m making it up? I walk by, not with Petey, just power-walking for the burn, he’s on the sidewalk drinking some sugar drink. Smoking.” She stuck out her tongue. “Like I’d give him the time of day. He tried it the next day, also. Hello, ma’am. Moving his hips. Yeah, right, I’m supposed to be impressed by a sleeveless shirt? Filthy nails?”

She took another look at the image. “Lowlife.”

I said, “Did he look like this?”

“It’s your picture. Don’t you know what he looks like? That’s exactly him, thinks he’s God’s gift. Why’re you asking about him?”

“He knew the victim, so the cops want to talk—”

“God, that creeps me out. Was it a sex crime — they won’t even tell us if it was a woman or a man, everyone’s betting on a woman, women always get victimized.”

“It wasn’t a sex crime.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Another lowlife from the job or someone innocent?”

“Sorry, I can’t—”

“Blah blah blah. Psychologist. All questions, no answers, just like Dr. Montag and you know what we think of him, Petey?”

The dog was noncommittal.

She said, “Why do I bother with you?” and walked away.

Milo said, “Sounds like a fun chat. Got a name for this harridan?”

“Nope, but she was certain and I’m sure someone in the neighborhood can I.D. her.”

“Agreed. So you got Bakstrom at the scene, muchas gracias. My next step is Manucci, Thalia’s moneyman. I was going over my notes, realized he never called back, and when I try him by phone I get corporate voicemail. So I’m figuring a drop-in’s called for. Care to participate? I’m thinking Monday morning.”

“I’m clear.”

“More like lucid.”

Joseph A. Manucci, CPA, CFP, was one of twenty-three brokers operating out of the Morgan-Smith Financial Services office in Encino. Senior position, his name near the top of the list in the lobby.

The building was two stories of white marble Greek Revival sandwiched between a Jaguar dealership and a private hospital.

Milo said, “Stocks do well, buy yourself hot wheels. They tank, check into the cardiac ward.”

The security guard in front of the door raised an eyebrow but kept staring straight ahead. Milo flashed the badge and asked for Manucci.

The guard made a call. Said, “Okay,” to the apparatus, and “First floor, that way,” to us.

A man was waiting in a warmly lit, marble-floored hallway. Late forties to early fifties, short and slight, tightly curled hair an improbable ecru. A white-on-white shirt rolled to the elbows was tucked into navy trousers. Brown loafers, pale-yellow suspenders, bright-yellow tie patterned with fat little ducks.

“Joe Manucci, sorry for not getting back to you, on the road, got a desk full of messages. Please. C’mon in.”

Hard shake, soft skin, downcast expression.

He said, “Ricki Sylvester just called and told me. Unbelievable. Please come in.”

He backed into a corner suite. Three windows looked out to a clutch of rubber trees, shiny green leaves nearly masking the parking lot. On the wall were a bachelor’s from Cal State Northridge, Manucci’s certification as a financial planner, his public accountant credentials.

A bookcase was stocked with volumes by financial savants. A sofa was heaped high with paper. No wood visible on the desktop; the space was taken up by quarterly reports, a collection of paperweights, two pairs of eyeglasses, and an alp of loose papers.

Among all that, pink message slips flashed like discarded rose petals. That made me willing to consider Manucci’s sincerity.

“Sorry for the mess, guys. I like to think of it as controlled chaos.”

He put on a pair of eyeglasses, blinked, switched to another pair, blinked some more. “Just got into bifocals, the optometrist gave me two options, can’t stand either. I’ll eventually adjust, what’s the choice, no one’s getting younger.”

Milo said, “Thalia Mars knew about that.”

“Poor Thalia.” Manucci chewed his lower lip. Same expression inept dancers wear when they’re trying to fake cool. “What exactly happened to her, guys?”

“Someone killed her, sir.”

“I know that. Was it robbery?”

“Is there a reason it might have been?”

“I just can’t see anyone wanting to hurt Thalia for hurt’s sake. Do you have any suspects?”

“We were going to ask you the same thing, sir.”