Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

My first thought was, not likely. The lack of charge suggested it hadn’t been important to DeGraw. Or even in working condition.

No cellphone on the premises said the premises didn’t matter much to DeGraw, anything of interest had been stashed at his off-site pad and taken by his killers.

Bad choice. He’d made a lot of them.

I kept all that to myself, and thought about the rumors of the hotel’s closure. The staff had picked up on it recently but DeGraw had likely known for a while.

I said so to Milo.

He said, “Guy’s job is ending so he’s got an additional motive to press for his share of the take.”

“That could also explain why he let them in. The meeting was expected. He thought they’d be paying him off.”

I pointed to the passport. “Everything he’d need for a smooth exit is here.”

Milo said, “Score the dough, come back here, pack your good duds, and split for Yodel-land. Yeah, makes sense. But their agreeing so readily wouldn’t make him suspicious?”

“Big money breeds optimism,” I said. “Think of the lottery.”

He paced a bit, rechecked drawers and the closet, shook his head. “Idiot’s banking on serious moolah and instead he gets burked. Nice verb, that. Has that hard-edged feel... okay if that’s what happened, why no sign of a struggle when they jumped him? Like Robaire said, there were no downers in DeGraw’s system, the normal reflex would be to fight for his life.”

“Maybe there was some kind of struggle and they smoothed it over. Not a brawl, just some mussed bedcovers. Two able-bodied men using the element of surprise could’ve overpowered him quickly. Especially if he was being distracted. As in a vamp by Ms. Cutie. The porn says he was pedestrian and hetero. She’d be an excellent lure. Maybe she came in alone to deliver the payment, DeGraw didn’t expect the others.”

“Waters and Bakstrom dangle her as bait, then crash the party.”

“Money and hot sex? It would’ve lowered his guard way below rationality. He was probably thinking he’d died and gone to heaven. Unfortunately, he was only half correct.”

He paced some more. Tucked the computer under his arm, lifted the passport, wedged it between two fingers, and headed for the door.

As we passed through DeGraw’s office, he said, “She’s the appetizer, big money’s the entrée, you’re right, he’d open the door. Wide.”

Back at the station we headed for the evidence room, where Milo filled out forms, registered the computer and the passport as evidence but didn’t deposit them.

The evidence clerk said, “You’re not leaving them here?”

“This you can have.” Handing her the passport.

She said, “Swiss? Kind of pretty.”

He said, “Be sure to ask for priority boarding.”

We climbed upstairs to the hallway leading to his office. A man walked a few yards ahead of us, past the interview rooms, carrying something blue. Nowhere to go except Milo’s office and a utility closet.

The man stopped at Milo’s door and knocked.

“Over here, friend.”

The visitor turned.

Early thirties, tall, dark wavy hair, a few days of beard stubble. He wore a long-sleeved black tee, blue jeans, and brown ventilated shoes with crepe soles, scuffed at the toes.

Good-looking despite old eyes. The vaguely dissolute air of one of those bruised artiste types you see hunching over laptops in coffee joints, pretending to write screenplays.

The badge and the holster on his belt said otherwise.

Detective badge, Level II.

He smiled but the effort seemed painful. “Lieutenant Sturgis?”

“That’s me.”

“Jacob Lev. I brought you the copy of the file you requested.”

“Door-to-door service?” said Milo, taking the blue binder. “Thought you were gonna fax it.”

“Fax machine broke down,” said Lev. Soft voice, boyish yet deep.

“Appreciate the effort, Detective.” Milo shook his hand.

Lev said, “Sorry I couldn’t come up with more. You know how it is.”

“Bad record keeping at the archives.”

“General attitude,” said Lev. “Contempt for the past.”

Forcing his smile a millimeter wider, he turned and left.

Milo said, “There’s a guy could use your services. D II landing in a crap job like that must’ve done something serious.”

He unlocked his office, sat down, inspected the binder.

Blue, hardback cloth boards blemished with mold spots and rodent nips. Despite the sturdy exterior, only two sheets of paper inside, each protected by a plastic sleeve that looked brand-new.

Jacob Lev going the extra mile. When stuck in a crap job, pleasing a superior isn’t a bad idea.

Milo removed both sheets and laid them on his desk. He never minds me reading over his shoulder so I hovered.

Legal-sized paper, once-white, had aged to caramel and grown shaggy at the edges. The uneven pressure points of a manual typewriter produced letters that protruded like Braille. Lots of typos, each one X’d out by the author.

His name at the top: LAPD Commander R. G. Demarest, no division cited.

The date: May 1939.

The title, off center:

The LaPlante Jewelers Jewelry Theft

of 1938: Possible Ramifications.

What followed were paragraphs of excessively worded cop prose. It’s a language of its own, taught by no one and serving no function, but enduring across generations.

The choice of topic puzzled me. Why had a Beverly Hills crime been documented by LAPD? As I read on, the reason became clear.

Commander R. G. Demarest’s concern wasn’t the year-old burglary, itself. The department was interested in “prime suspect Hoke in a general and optimally probative manner regarding, in particular, a prior and pending SI investigation undertaken in cooperation with and with implications for communication with Federal Entities.”

The tax evasion case had been set in motion well before the theft of the Oscar bling from Frederick LaPlante’s safe.

Demarest repeated himself a few times, let’s hear it for Roget and synonyms, but eventually, his emphasis became clear.

Theorizing about “what effect, positive or negative, would Prm. Susp. Hoke’s ultimately proven suspected complicity in this high-level jewelry covert burglarly [ sic ] replete with allegations of nocturnal tunneling and safe-cracking of a serious ‘yegg-type’ level, pertain to the aforementioned investigation?”

His conclusion at the bottom of page one: “A definitive answer is unavailable, thus risks are both high, serious, and unpredictable.”

His advice: “Minimize engagement in the collaboration and intelligence data requested by Beverly Hills Police Department in re: LaPlante, Hoke, etc, so as to avoid adding undue overt prosecutorial emphasis to the LaPlante case so that Prm. Susp. Hoke will not be unduly alarmed and flee to jurisdictions unknown id est Tia Juana where he has been known to frequent or parts south below.”

Milo looked up. “The department screwed B.H. in order to continue working with the feds on the tax case.”

I said, “Politics as usual and it succeeded. Who got the credit for putting Hoke away? Not B.H.”

He flipped the paper, found nothing on the back, turned to the second page.

A list, also poorly centered.

Prm. Sus.s Hoke’ sKnown Associates

or Individuals Suspected of

Such.’

1. John J. ‘Jack’ McCandless, attorney at law and so-called mob mouthpiece.

2. William P. Wojik, CPA, certified public accountant and so-called mob ‘money man.’

3. Thalia Mars nee Thelma Meyer, reputed girlfriend of Prm. Sus. Hoke(‘moll’) and additionally, reputed mob courier and bookkeeper, the latter supposition being evidenced by a regiment of comprehensive accounting classes enrolled in by said subject at Los Angeles City College, 855 North Vermont Avenue Campus. Furthermore, subsequent taking of the Certified Public Accountancy exam and passed.