Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

The logical question: Which criminals?

Ricki Sylvester said, “I didn’t inherit his criminal practice. He’d already switched to estate work.”

Milo said, “You know about Thalia’s criminal associations.”

Eyeblink. Shift to the right. “I haven’t the faintest what you’re talking about.”

“She was the girlfriend of a man named Leroy Hoke.”

“Don’t know him.”

“He was a mobster in the thirties and forties. Mr. McCandless represented him in a tax evasion trial back in ’41 that ended up with Hoke going to prison.”

“No one wins every case.”

“The point is, Thalia’s criminal connections, even though they go back a long time, need to be explored.”

“Everything I know about Thalia was in the file I gave you. To me she was a sweet old lady — what, you think she was some kind of moll? Decades ago? How can that possibly be relevant?”

She headed for the door. “Am I being defensive? You bet. Because some things deserve a good defense. Let’s go.”

Milo said, “Bear with us for a few moments, please.” He rummaged in his attaché case.

Ricki Sylvester said, “When you do that you look like one of those loser lawyers who hang around the courthouse.”

He showed her Gerard Waters’s mugshot.

“And this is...”

Instead of answering, he produced Henry Bakstrom’s prison headshot.

“ He looks like an over-the-hill musician. Why are you showing me these?”

“They’re known criminals who may have had contact with Thalia.”

“You think they killed her?”

“We’re not saying that—”

“Whatever you are saying, I can’t help you. Now if you’ll be so kind and allow me to have my dinner.”

“Sure. Sorry.”

She switched off the lights and the three of us left. As she locked up, Milo said, “Does the name William Wojik mean anything to you?”

“Of course it does. He managed Thalia’s money before Joe Manucci, his name was also in that file. What, he’s got criminal associations, too?”

Milo said, “Just groping, ma’am.”

“Good luck with that.”

An uncomfortably silent elevator ride ended when Sylvester got out a level above us.

When she was gone, Milo said, “Not even a ‘bye-bye’? I’m feeling micro-aggressed.”

His pace to the unmarked was a near-jog that I matched. Speeding out of the parking lot, he positioned himself on a dark stretch of block with a clear view of the exit.

He said, “My layman’s view is that was an incredible overreaction. What does a behavioral pro say?”

“An incredible overreaction.”

“All traumatized about something that happened back in law school? Did you see her eyes shifting? She knows more than she’s letting on and our asking about the past freaked her out.”

“More important,” I said, “Wojik’s name wasn’t in the file. And there was another broker between him and Manucci — Guidon.”

“She knew Wojik personally, wants to keep herself out of something. Think Dr. Belinda was using all that spectrum weirdness to bullshit us?”

“My gut says no but I’ll ask Ruben about her.” I texted. A few questions about Belinda W.

His return message: Crazy clinic. Can we talk tomorrow?

Milo said, “Tell you one thing, getting that emotional wasn’t a smart move on ol’ Ricki’s part. If she’d stayed cool, I’d probably have forgotten about her. You’d think a lawyer would know better.”

“Her specialty doesn’t demand being cool under pressure. She sits in an office, shuffles paper.”

“Unlike McCandless, before he became a shuffler.”

I said, “McCandless could’ve switched because an important client wanted it that way. Hoke had amassed tremendous wealth and knew he wouldn’t be getting out of prison. So his emphasis shifted from criminal defense to wealth preservation.”

“Aka laundering,” he said.

“With Thalia controlling the detergent.”

“Looky here, our touchy gal shows herself.”

A ten-year-old, pale-blue Buick LeSabre nosed out of the lot, Ricki Sylvester at the wheel. She drove to Olympic and turned right. We followed.

By Sepulveda, she’d crossed several lanes and entered a left-turn-only slot. Three cars between her and the unmarked.

Humming “Call Me Irresponsible,” Milo turned after the amber arrow had died. He tailed the Buick to Wilshire, where it drove a block, hooked left onto a side street, then left again and returned. A right took Sylvester west on Wilshire and under the odd metal arch that marks the border with Santa Monica.

Quiet section of Wilshire, most stores closed for the evening. One exception was a brick-faced bar and grill called High Steaks. Extended happy hour, prime beef, surf-and-turf special.

Ricki Sylvester scored a parking space in front of the restaurant, clicked her alarm fob, and entered.

Milo drove two blocks up and we backtracked on foot. At the eatery’s front door, he said, “Wait here, let me scope it out.” Moments later, the door cracked and he gave a thumbs-up.

In front was a busy bar with three TVs tuned to ESPN, separated from the dining area by a freestanding partition wall. Everything nicely dim, not much conversation from the resident drinkers. When the bartender wasn’t pouring, he was washing glasses. We took stools at the far right end. He ordered a Boilermaker, I asked for Chivas on the rocks. While the drinks were being made, he got up and snuck a look around the partition. Sat back down and said, “Go for it.”

Scotch in hand, I hazarded a peek.

No need to be that careful. Ricki Sylvester had positioned herself in a far booth that put the rear of her head in our view. Her attention was fixed on something green and milky in an oversized Martini glass, and a folded newspaper.

For the next twenty minutes, Milo and I alternated between drinking, pretending to watch a soccer game somewhere in Chile, and taking turns checking on Sylvester.

“Still by her lonesome,” he reported. “Second glass of foamy mouthwash.”

“Any food other than the shrimp salad?”

“Nope but she ate all of it so maybe she’s waiting for someone before having her entrée. Let’s make a pool. I say something chicken or a small steak.”

I said, “Sounds reasonable.”

“Don’t be agreeable. You have to bet.”

“I hear you and raise one specificity. Roast chicken.”

He sneered. “You’re not fun.”

Next turn to look was mine.

I said, “We both lost, she just paid. The good news is the waiter’s face. Not a happy camper.”

We rotated, keeping our backs to anyone approaching from the restaurant.

The soccer match was tied at scoreless. The camera panned an arena full of bored faces. The clock said nearly an hour of nothing. Maybe that’s why the game inspired riots.

Milo quarter turned. “There she goes. A coupla minutes and we chat up a disgruntled gentleman in a red jacket.”

He gave paper money to the barkeep.

The guy said, “Come back anytime.”

The waiter was in his seventies, squarely built, with a face shaved so impressively it glowed and a head of wavy white hair. A busboy was clearing another table and Clean-Shave had taken on Ricki Sylvester’s scant leavings.

We waited until he’d left the dining room and headed to a nook that led to a glass-walled kitchen. Two men in toques and one woman sautéed away. Off to the side, several carts were piled with crockery and flatware. The waiter added to the collection. As he turned, we approached.

“Sir,” said Milo, offering his best public-servant smile and his badge.

The waiter said, “Yes?” Brass name tag. Arturo.

“Could you spare a moment, please?”