Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

Manucci poked his own chest. “Like I’d know? I did investments and filed her taxes and that makes it sound more complicated than it was.”

I said, “Simple account.”

“Large account but by the time I began with Thalia, she’d put most of her portfolio into munis — tax-free bonds, it’s a typical investment for those wishing to conserve wealth. The only other products she owned were a few blue-chip stocks, mostly preferred, which is actually closer to a bond than a stock, we’re not talking lots of trades. Occasionally she’d sell something for a profit and either balance the gain against a loss or donate it to charity. What I’m getting at is there wasn’t much work to speak of.”

He removed the second pair of glasses. “I filed her taxes for her, as well. Gratis, no reason not to, it was basic.”

Milo said, “Not much movement in her account.”

“Her account was close to inert,” said Manucci. “Sometimes a bond gets called and needs to be replaced but even that was simple. Thalia authorized me to buy lots up to a certain amount without consulting her.”

“What amount was that?”

“Fifty thousand. That basically covered everything because she avoided owning larger issues of any single product. Eggs in one basket and all that.”

“So you had carte blanche.”

“I didn’t view it that way,” said Manucci. “I always think of the client as the boss. I got her the best product available, she never complained. Recently, she’d begun donating mature bonds to charity rather than replenishing.”

“How recently?”

“Three or four years. She had no heirs, why wait until she was gone and give a massive chunk of inheritance tax to Uncle Sam?”

I said, “So she was a low-maintenance client.”

“Dream client,” said Manucci. “When I first began working with her, I’d visit her at home at the end of every year and give her a progress report. After a few years of that, I showed up and she said, ‘Today will be the last time, Joe.’ That threw me, I thought I was being fired. She patted me on the hand and said, ‘I don’t need a dog-and-pony show, just keep me solvent.’ Then she winked and said, ‘I’ll know if you don’t.’ That sounds like a threat but it wasn’t, she was referring to a previous conversation we’d had. When I started out managing her, she told me she was a CPA herself, used to do her own taxes, found it tedious.”

“An informed client.”

“She read prospectuses, sometimes had ideas. ‘Look for airport issues, Joe, airports never go out of business.’ It was a pleasure dealing with her. She had... an aura, I guess you’d call it. Of elegance, like from another era.”

He frowned. “I guess she was from another era. In amazing shape for someone that old, I never imagined she’d be... what a terrible thing. Are you asking about her finances because money was involved?”

Milo said, “Being thorough. Any idea who’d want to kill her?”

“Of course not.”

“How long was she your client?”

“Eighteen years. I’d just started here, was happy to get her.”

“Because of the size of her account.”

“Of course that,” said Manucci. “But also because she came recommended. Intelligent, easy to work with.”

“Recommended by who?”

“My boss at the time. I inherited Thalia from him after he got sick. Heart attack, right here in the office. Everyone was stunned. Fifty-seven, great shape.”

“What was his name?”

“Frank Guidon.”

Out came Milo’s pad. “Please spell that.”

“G-U-I-D-on.”

“How long did Mr. Guidon work with Miss Mars?”

“All I can tell you is she was his client when I was hired.”

“Your name’s on all her documents.”

“It would be,” said Manucci. “After the companies merged — New Bank with Allegiant then Allegiant with Morgan-Smith, all the paperwork was adapted.”

“Fifty-seven,” said Milo. “So he probably inherited from someone else. Would anyone here know who?”

“I doubt it. At this point, I’m one of the old-timers.”

Milo said, “Those house calls you used to do. After you stopped, how often did you see her?”

“If a lot of paper built up, I’d sometimes hand-deliver documents to her rather than use the mail. I live in West L.A., she’s right on the way.”

“What did you think about Miss Mars’s living circumstances?”

“Meaning?”

“Living in a hotel.”

“The place seemed a little tired but Thalia seemed happy.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Manucci pulled an iPad out of a desk drawer, scrolled, knitted his forehead. “Bear with me... nope... nope... okay, here we go.”

He showed us the screen. Calendar page from nine months ago. TM in a Monday box. Three P.M. A BQR notation.

“A reminder to myself,” said Manucci. “Bring quarterly reports. The home office likes documentation.”

Milo said, “Maybe the home office can tell us the name of Mr. Guidon’s predecessor, how about trying to find out.”

Manucci put on glasses, dialed a number, got someone named Rod, stated his request and waited.

Moments later: “Really? Wow.”

Jotting on a pad, he said, “Go know.”

By the time we left Manucci’s office, it was nearly five and Ventura Boulevard had clotted.

Milo said, “Wojik. The doc who sent Thalia to Eagle. Another grandpa?”

Nosing into the fuming mass without apparent care, he laughed at a chorus of honks. “Be thankful I don’t put on the siren and freeze your asses in place.”

Continuing to weave in and out blissfully, he said, “Sylvester, Wojik, it’s like Thalia was an asset, passed down to the younger generation.”

I said, “Sylvester inherited a client. I don’t see a pediatrician benefiting from knowing an old woman.”

“She sent a donor to the boss and earned brownie points.”

“Ruben’s not her boss.”

“Whatever, Alex, it made her look good to the hospital. She’s on staff there, right?”

He hit a clear patch, put on speed. “I’m not saying she’s dirty for anything but maybe she can tell us something about Thalia’s past. Where’s her office?”

“Bedford Drive.”

“The Gold Coast,” he said. “Puts us against traffic, excellent.”

Belinda Wojik, M.D.’s second-floor suite offered two waiting rooms, Healthy and Sick.

Milo said, “Bit of a stretch but I’m gonna claim Healthy.”

Beverly Hills practice but a Spartan waiting room. White walls, washable vinyl floor, eight blue plastic chairs. A wall rack held back issues of Jack and Jill, Scholastic, Sesame Street Magazine, and Dr. Seuss books. A table stand housed brochures on the wisdom of vaccination.

Empty waiting room. Other than a weird mixture of zwieback and soiled diaper in the air, no evidence of a pediatric presence.

A cough sounded through the wall separating us from Sick, followed by a muffled female voice and more hacking.

Milo muttered, “Health’s in short supply, today,” and rapped on the glass doors shielding the receptionist from germs. The partition slid open and a woman said, “How could I help you?”

The Russian accent I’d encountered on the phone belonged to a woman in her thirties with cheekbones sharp enough to slice cheese and more hair than I’d ever seen on a human head. Brown-black except for magenta bangs. Tight white uniform. Tatiana on her tag.