Jonathan Kellerman: Heartbreak Hotel

I fought laughter and lost.

“Aha! I’ve amused you!” she said. “And just to show what a nice gal I am, I won’t even ask for a discount.”

I drove home knowing I’d been played by a tiny, wizened person. Why didn’t it bother me?

Because I found the hints she dropped interesting? Guilt, criminal patterns, victim selection, incorrigibility.

The universe as a jewel, not junk.

Despite what she’d said, people don’t see psychologists for theoretical discussion. So the past half hour had been all about self-defense and possibly denial.

Something personal she wasn’t ready to discuss?

A woman with a past? Nearing the end of her years and seeking atonement?

Putting all that aside, she was eons out of my patient range. Did open ears and an open mind constitute valid use of my professional time? Was any sort of payment justified, let alone a six-grand retainer?

I’d give her another session, take it from there.

Meanwhile, I’d hold off cashing the check.

Robin knows better than to ask me about patients. But when I got home and found her in the kitchen feeding Blanche supper, she said, “Have fun with your new girlfriend?”

“It was different.”

“After you left, I did a little cybering. Did you know that a third of centenarians live independently? Superior protoplasm, I guess.”

I poured myself coffee, offered her some, but she said, “No, thanks, there’s enough caffeine in me to go rock-climbing blindfolded.”

She portioned out the last bit of canine cuisine and sat down across from me. “I asked about fun because you looked kind of chipper when you came in.”

I smiled and shrugged.

She ran a finger over her lip. “No more nosy-girl. But anything that lifts your spirits is okay with me.”

The next day’s morning call ended at nine thirty-five. At five to ten, I pulled into the Aventura parking lot. A valet sat smoking in a golf cart. Two black-suited drivers chatted near their Town Cars.

I headed for The Green. The path was blocked by a mass of red.

Red L.A. Fire Department paramedic truck. A couple of hotel maids and one of the ponytails from the front desk stood watching but no one said a thing as I made my way around the vehicle and hurried up the walkway.

Nothing at Ocho, Siete, Seis.

Maybe at Cinco, Cuatro, Tres. I could hope.

Ninety-nine years old; hope seemed absurd.

Just outside the steps to the screened porch of Uno stood the young maid who’d served tea yesterday — Refugia. A wadded tissue was pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were wet and her chest heaved.

When she saw me, she shook her head violently.

I said, “How long ago?”

“I found her just now. Brought breakfast at nine like always but her bedroom door was closed and she didn’t answer. I thought maybe she wants more sleep. Then I thought, she’s always up early but I still didn’t want to wake her.”

She gulped air. “I left and delivered to Cinco and they asked me also for a paper so I went to get that, then I came back here. Nine thirty-four, I looked at my watch, figured I should maybe check. She was in bed, looking so peaceful. But then I couldn’t wake her.”

A rush of tears. “I know she’s old but there was a lot of life in her. It’s stupid to be surprised. But I was. I called 911.”

A blue-uniformed paramedic appeared in the bungalow doorway. Tall, muscular, young with a shaved head and narrow eyes. As I approached, he said, “Sir, you can’t go in there.”

R. Barker on his tag.

“I’m Dr. Delaware. Ms. Mars and I had an appointment.”

“You’re her doctor?” he said. “Sorry, too late.”

“What happened?”

“She passed, probably in her sleep. She looks pretty elderly.”

“In three weeks, she’d have been a hundred.”

“Really?”

Refugia sniffed and Barker glanced at her. “Too bad, that would’ve been a milestone. Anyway, Doc, we’re finishing up.”

He descended the porch steps. “I’m heading to the john over in the hotel. My partner’s in there keeping watch till the coroner’s van arrives.”

After he left, I climbed the stairs to the porch. Heard murmurs and glanced back.

Just within vision, Barker and Refugia stood on the pathway, talking. Call of the bladder notwithstanding, he looked mellow. She stared up at him, a rapt pupil. He patted her shoulder. She’d stopped crying.

I went inside.

A breakfast tray sat on the Chinese table, coffee cup and orange juice glass roofed by paper doilies, plates concealed by silver domes, toast in a rack. The door to the rear of the bungalow was ajar.

Ten feet of gold plush squelched my footsteps. Floral prints on the wall; shutter closet doors to the right, then an old white-tile bathroom.

The bedroom door was wedged open. A portable defibrillator and an emergency kit sat on the floor. A second paramedic stood at the foot of a canopy bed, wide enough to block most of the view.

I said, “I’m Dr. Delaware,” and he swiveled. Tall as Barker, half again as broad, with the moon-face of a well-nourished toddler. His eyes were black. Spiky hair was peroxided yellow. C. Guzman.

“Hotel called for a doctor? Nothing you can do anymore, sorry.”

“I had an appointment with the deceased. I’m a psychologist.”

“Huh,” said Guzman. “She had mental problems?”

“I met her yesterday, don’t know much about her.”

“What did you say your name was, sir?”

“Alex Delaware.”

“No offense, but would you mind showing me some I.D.?”

I fished for my wallet, sidestepping so I could see around him. He was a wall of flesh but a few details registered.

Mahogany bed, oversized for the room, the canopy’s underside pleats of gold silk. Barely enough space for a night table. A black silk duvet was patterned with tiny Asian figures. Black satin pillows created a berm against the headboard.

Thalia’s body remained out of view.

I gave Guzman my state license card and my LAPD consultant clip-on. As he read the card, he shifted a bit and I took in more of the room. South wall: floor-to-ceiling books; nothing on the north wall but a plain maple dresser. Atop the dresser, a mirrored tray, an onyx-handled manicure set, lotions, powders, perfumes.

Big bottle of Chanel No. 5. Corresponding aroma mixed with something sour.

The TV that Thalia Mars had described proudly was off in a corner, resting on an old Vuitton trunk.

Guzman switched to the clip-on, shifted his weight again, exposed the center of the room.

Thalia lay on her back, her body so small it barely tented the duvet. The covers shielded her to mid-torso. Her eyes were shut, her mouth half open. Piano-key-colored hair spread atop a black pillow. Twig-fingers rested atop her abdomen. The digits looked rigid. Maybe rigor; dead for a while.

No obvious disruption. The amethyst ring was in place and glints of jewelry radiated from the nightstand. I thought I saw some pinkish mottling around her nose but otherwise death’s hue — that green-gray that marks the retreat of cells — had taken ownership of her skin.

Guzman said, “You’re with the cops? Someone suspects something?”

“I consult to the cops but mostly I work privately. Thalia was a private patient.”

“Starting yesterday.”

“That’s right.”

“Huh.” Guzman tapped a foot. The floorboards vibrated. “Listen, Doc, I’m not sure what’s going on, so I have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry if that’s offensive but I need to amend my first call-in.”

“How?”

“Sir, really, I can’t discuss. I’m calling the cops — real cops, no offense, sir, but procedure has to be followed.”