Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“Culver City detective. The manager at Thalia’s hotel got murdered there the same way she did.”

“Someone has a grudge against the hotel?”

“I wish I could tell you — sorry about the barbecue.”

“Let me make you a sandwich.”

He hugged her. “You’re the perfect human being.”

“So Alex claims.” She turned to me. “Here’s where I say you go with him and you pretend to not want to. I’ll make you both sandwiches.”

Kurt DeGraw had rented a small, flat-faced house on a jacaranda-shaded street off Palms Boulevard. A Honda Accord leased by DeGraw was backed by an Impala that could’ve been the sib of Milo’s unmarked. Crime scene tape blocked the doorway but the door was ajar.

Milo called in, “Detective? Milo Sturgis.”

A voice from the back said, “Hold on.” Moments later a lanky gray-haired man in a precise blue suit, white shirt, and red tie appeared. A pad like Milo’s protruded from a jacket pocket. Half-lens reading glasses perched on a narrow nose.

“Lieutenant? Len Gottlieb.”

At first glance, Gottlieb looked more CEO than cop. Up close, a haircut slightly past its prime, flecks of stubble at the jawline, and a nasty-looking scar running down the side of his right cheek rubbed out some of the polish.

We shook hands. Milo introduced me.

Len Gottlieb said, “One of my daughters is a school psychologist. Can’t say I’ve ever had the privilege of working with one of you.”

Milo said, “You should try it.”

“Like we have the budget — anyway, this is a weird one if that cute little pathologist is right about the under-the-chin deal.”

Milo said, “She’s definitely right, Len. Your vic knew our vic. My working hypothesis is he helped kill her.”

“That so? Fill me in?”

Milo talked, Gottlieb listened.

“Almost a hundred, huh? That’s a shame. So maybe to hell with my vic for being a bad guy and I should move on to someone who deserves being spoken for. Problem is, try to find someone like that. My last two were gang scum no one’s going to miss.”

Gottlieb pushed back a tongue of white hair. “With you guys, I don’t have to pretend everyone’s the same.”

He looked at me.

I nodded.

Gottlieb smiled. “I didn’t offend you?”

Milo said, “He’s way past the point of being offended.”

“You’ve been corrupted, Doc? Congratulations. So where do we go with this, Milo?”

“How about we share info and communicate regularly.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Gottlieb. “If I go over to that hotel, am I going to learn something you don’t already know?”

“Probably not, Len.”

“So, no sense duplicating. Your innocent vic — and that other villain... Waters — you clear all that up, it’s going to clear up my vic, too. Meantime, I have to look into another case, not a homicide, a missing. A good-person missing, nineteen-year-old girl goes to a club on Washington, hasn’t been seen since, no activity on her cellphone, no contact with her parents. Who happen to be friends of my boss.”

“See what you mean.”

“The boss agrees that’s the one I should prioritize,” said Gottlieb. “I listen to her because she’s my wife and also she outranks me — lieutenant like you. We both agree the girl’s unlikely to be found alive but the parents will go nuts if they never get at least some kind of closure.”

“Makes sense, Len.”

“In terms of communication, all I can give you now is what I’ve seen. Indications are my vic lived here alone. Kind of a neat freak, which made it easier to snoop around. No security system, alarm, or cameras. Even the smoke alarms are inoperative due to dead batteries. I can see him thinking it’s a safe neighborhood ’cause basically it is until it isn’t. No forced entry at the front but the back door was unlocked. Whether or not he left it that way or let someone in, no idea. Entry via the backyard would be a cinch. Crappy gate, just a latch you can reach over and undo. We dusted for prints, found nothing. Same in here, nothing but the vic’s. I’m sure Robaire told you — she’s a looker, no? The crypt could use some dressing up — her theory. Two killers, sometime during the night, they burked him.”

“You knew the term?”

“Not until Robaire told it to me. She went to Harvard, brains plus those looks?” He whistled. “My mind, someone ticking boxes like that should be married to a really rich guy, maybe she is.”

Milo said, “She’s married to a doctor.”

“Not as good,” said Gottlieb, “but not bad. Anyway, yesterday we canvassed the neighbors, no one heard or saw a thing. Some neighborhoods, they’d be pulling your leg. Here, they’re probably telling the truth. This isn’t Washington Boulevard, all those clubs they’ve got now. This part of Culver, after dark the sidewalks get rolled up.”

“No local gossip on DeGraw.”

“I wish, gossip’s our raw material, right? Naw, he went to work, would say hello if you said it first. Couple of people said he wore some kind of a uniform jacket — we found three in the closet, this weird kind-of-maroon color, each one hung with a pair of gray pants. One lady figured him for a waiter or someone working on a cruise ship. No one ever saw him return home so maybe he worked late or he stopped for a shot somewhere. If he did, that could be a lead, I’ll try to find out.”

“What was he wearing when he was found?”

“His baby suit,” said Gottlieb. “There is evidence of burglary — no money in his wallet, no computer, no cellphone, and something’s gone that used to sit on a stand in the bedroom, has to be a TV. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

The house was six small rooms: living/dining area, circa-twenties kitchen, bedroom, bath, a tiny vacant space at the rear. To the left of the unused room was a laundry area but no appliances. A flimsy paneled door with a simple turn-bolt led to the back.

Gottlieb said, “This was open,” and demonstrated. Outside was scant, dark space hemmed by block walls, nothing organic but patchy grass.

We returned inside and had another walk-around. Not much furniture and what was there looked rented. The bed where Kurt DeGraw had died was a double with no headboard. Crumpled linens were piled like meringue. A gray polyester duvet had fallen to the worn hardwood floor.

“Looks like a struggle but there wasn’t,” said Len Gottlieb. “EMTs said they found him lying there, sheet was military-tight. What you’re seeing is from when they tried to work on him. I’d show you the bag around his head and the twine but obviously they’re at the lab. Tech I spoke to said both are generic, no prints or DNA, so far. Bottom line: nothing evidentiary. You weren’t involved, I’d probably never close it.”

Milo’s mouth twisted.

I put words in his mouth. Maybe same here, amigo.

I said, “DeGraw’s housekeeper found him.”

“Found him and freaked out, Doctor. Nice lady but speaks no English, she came in once a week, when DeGraw was gone, so she doesn’t really know him. I had a Spanish cop talk to her to be careful. No problems with DeGraw, basically she’d do a couple of hours and leave, he left her cash. He was always neat, she said it was like no one lived here.”

We moved to the kitchen. Cheap utensils and crockery for one, a few pots and pans, most unused, some still with tags. A gold-beige fridge held bottles of Stella Artois and Fiji Water. Wilted vegetables smelling of a grocery dumpster occupied the so-called crisper. In the freezer, stacks of Lean Cuisine shared space with cans of orange juice concentrate.

Less home than stopover.

I said, “Any idea how long he’s been living here?”