Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“Maybe, if you can even get to her, who knows where she’s at psychologically? Any suggestions, Doctor?”

I said, “No harm trying.”

Milo said, “That’s what I like about him, practical.”

Howe said, “If you think it would help, I’m happy to go with you. But I think it could hurt, she associates me with real bad memories and the second interview didn’t go well. Not that I pushed her but she got really hostile, like I was the enemy.”

“After she went AWOL, how’d you find her?”

“She let slip the boyfriend’s first name, Charlie, and figuring he’d been a regular at the club in Commerce, I talked to the owner. Guy didn’t come in anymore, so he was happy to oblige. Charles Ruffalo. DMV shows a face like a spaniel but he drives an Aston Martin and has a house in the hills, the address is in here. Whether or not Vicki’s still with him, I can’t say. If she is, I’d be careful about ruining her relationship, so you might want to make sure the Aston’s not there. So do you want me to tag along?”

Milo said, “I see your point, think I’ll try by myself.”

“Either way,” said Howe. But she sounded relieved. She pulled out a pack of Winstons, bounced it on her thigh.

Milo said, “Thanks, Mel. Maybe it’ll work out for both of us.”

“Appreciate the thought, Milo, but I’m out of it. Vicki’s lack of cooperation, the passage of time, any bruises are healed. Even if I did have my suspects, defense could always claim it was a consensual party. Especially given her occupation and level of intoxication.”

I said, “Even with being dumped on the street?”

“That’s her story. They’ll say they dropped her off and she was fine, wandered into the alley and got mugged.”

“She drove from work to the bar. What happened to her car?”

“Nowhere to be found. If it ever got that far, a prosecutor could threaten to add GTA to the charges but no way that would happen. Defense counsel would say no car, no evidence of theft, plus, losing jurisdiction of her own wheels just proves how intoxicated she was. And guess who the judge would agree with? She really was hammered, guys. Blew a .24 at the hospital with no evidence of any other drug in her system, including Rohypnol. If they roofied her, it could’ve worn off but her vulnerability could’ve come purely from way too much booze.”

I said, “She met them in a bar. Bartender have anything to say?”

“Busy night, loud, crowded, he maybe remembered seeing Vasquez but not the other three. I don’t doubt her, I’m sure it happened, poor thing. And I don’t hold anything against her, it’s her life.”

She studied the mugshots. “Murder suspects. She doesn’t know how lucky she is. So now you get to look for three really bad people.”

“Two,” said Milo. “Found the ugly one.” He described Waters’s crime scene.

Howe said, “The Palisades? Where they dumped Vicki isn’t super close to there but it’s not that far, either. The fact that they picked her up on the Eastside and dumped all the way west was interesting. Now I’m finding it fascinating.”

Milo said, “Their crib is in our jurisdiction.”

“Lucky us,” said Melanie Howe. “Good luck. I’d say give my regards to Vicki but that’s not going to help you.”

We left her staring at a second cigarette, walked back inside the station and up the stairs. When we reached the corridor leading to Milo’s office, he said, “Gottlieb distances himself, she does the same. I’m starting to feel like a leper.”

“Take it as a vote of confidence,” I said. “With you in charge, why bother?”

He groaned. “Oh, man, there’s friendship and then there’s pathological enabling.”

“What am I enabling?”

He shook his head, unlocked his door, settled in his chair hard enough to threaten its integrity. Placing his palms together, he gave a small bow. “Please, Dr. Therapist Sir, no more questions, my head’s gonna explode.”

Leafing through the Vasquez file, he said, “What’s the chance Vicki will supply any relevant info?”

I kept silent.

“I said no questions, amigo. Answers are fine.”

I smiled.

“Monty Lisa,” he said. “Just what I need.”

A call to Smooth Operator Gentleman’s Club in City of Commerce confirmed Vicki Vasquez no longer danced there. A call to Brave Losers Cocktail Lounge west of downtown elicited stuporous ignorance of her patronage from three separate employees.

Milo phoned Charles Ruffalo’s residence on Credo Lane. Out of service. Same result with Vasquez’s cellphone.

“For all we know he moved her up to Silicon Valley.” He stood. “Only one way to find out.”

GPS’ing Credo Lane, he studied the map.

“High up. At least we can catch a view.”

I said, “There you go,” but the street-grid on the screen meant more to me than a random attempt to find a witness.

Little more than a jog from the home of an actress whose shattered mind had led me on a search for a missing child last year.

Milo saw me staring. “What?”

“Zelda.”

“Oh, yeah, that. Something about Hollywood, the hills, huh?”

“People think they can hide up there.”

“We know better.”

Charles Ruffalo, “an independent IT Consultant and Data Manager,” according to his LinkedIn page, lived at the apex of an axle-tormenting road that skinnied as it unraveled north of Sunset.

We zipped past the Chateau Marmont as if the hotel was an afterthought. Celebrities had partied and died there. Ordinary people, too, but who’d know or care?

The hospitality industry was based on a strange concept when you thought about it. Foster homes for adults that were seldom homey. Pledges of comfort and security impossible to guarantee.

I was still turning that over when Milo parked near the house. Charles Ruffalo’s chrome address numerals were placed just off center on an eight-foot wall of gray stucco. Stress cracks sprouted from the bottom and spidered upward. The low flat roofline of a house barely cleared the barrier. Off to the left was a wide gate made of plastic trying to pass as glass.

Chrome for the front door, same finish for the keypad.

Milo said, “Tight little fortress, can’t even check if the Aston’s there.”

“I had one of those, I’d garage it.”

“If she’s in there with or without Geeko, and I say who I am, what’s the chance she’ll open up?”

Noise from behind saved me from the sad, truthful answer. Big mass of brown, chugging up the hill.

UPS truck. It rumbled just past us, motor idling as the driver jumped out with a package, laid it down in front of the door, pushed the button, and dashed back behind the wheel. After effecting a jerky three-point turn that maimed part of a neighbor’s shrubbery, he sped off.

Before the sound of the truck engine had wiffled to silence, the chrome door opened and a woman came out, rubbing her eyes. Young, pale, and chesty, wearing a black top with a hood that flopped on her back and hot-pink yoga pants striped with silver. Hair a half foot below her waist was curled at the ends like a pageant queen’s do. White-blond on top, mahogany in the center, black on the bottom. A cosmetic parfait.

She bent and picked up the package. By the time she’d finished reading the label, we were there.

Even with dual smiles and Milo’s softest, “Ms. Vasquez? L.A. police, nothing to worry about, we’d just like to touch base,” Vicki Vasquez reacted with the purest terror I’d seen in a long time.

Tight-throat wheeze followed by a gasp. Electric eyes bouncing as her already wan complexion lost color.

She backed away from us, trembling hands letting go of the package. I caught it. Something addressed to C. Ruffalo from Net-a-Porter. From the size and the rattle, probably shoes.