Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

Ricki Sylvester lived in a mustard-colored two-story house on the eastern edge of Santa Monica, south of Wilshire. The block housed a couple of original structures like hers, the rest McMansion replacements.

Flaking stucco blemished the walls, windowsills were in need of paint, the brown composite roof sported patches of missing shingles, landscaping was a scraggly lemon tree devoid of fruit and a lawn reduced to gray fuzz.

Shabbiest address on the block. The place neighbors whisper about.

Milo said, “Maybe she’s planning to cash in, figures it’ll be torn down, anyway, no need to keep it up. I’m thinking a bunch of cats and maybe a hoard of crap, inside.”

We got out and walked to the front door. A bell-push was followed by silence. So was Milo’s steadily intensifying cop-knock. We walked around, peering through windows. Most were covered by shades. Those that weren’t revealed no hoarding, just the opposite.

Minimal furniture, a monastic simplicity.

No cats aroused by the presence of a stranger, inside or out. An untrimmed eugenia hedge walled more gray earth. Where a garage should’ve stood, a patch of cracked cement bore oil-stains.

I said, “Not much estate for an estate lawyer.”

“A piece of that ruby could change everything.”

I said nothing.

We returned to the car. He said, “I’m wrong?”

“She’s practiced law for years, could live a lot better than she does so I’m not sure the issue is economic.”

“What, then?”

“There’s a depressive element to her. A man shows up, takes the time to woo her, she’d be vulnerable. Someone like Bakstrom would be perfect for the assignment but he doesn’t fit the description the waiter gave.”

“Another member of the team we don’t know about.”

“Or more than one other person,” I said. “Like we’ve been saying, this could be a family project.”

“The clan strikes back.” He glanced at Sylvester’s house. “Think something bad happened to her? More culling?”

“They do have that track record.”

He put a BOLO on Sylvester and the Buick. “Now what?”

I said, “The prison in Colorado has to be key. Bakstrom and Waters were cellies and Duchess had some sort of relationship with one or both of them. Maybe one of those pen-pal things or she has a criminal record of her own.”

“She murders, she rapes,” he said. “Unlikely this is her virgin outing. But without a name, what am I supposed to do? Fly to Colorado and beg? Even if they wanted to help, their system’s totally screwed up.”

I said, “Why not work from the bottom up? Forget wardens and data managers, find a guard who’ll talk.”

“Power to the people,” he muttered. “How the hell do I do that?”

“The old-fashioned way.”

“Aw, Jesus.”

The two of us sat in the Seville as he began the call-fest, bypassing prison administration and beginning with the lowest-ranked person listed on the website, a guard captain named Potrero. He was out but his secretary obliged with Potrero’s nearest subordinate. And so on.

The closer prison staffers were to hands-on, the more cooperative they were. Even with that, Milo contended with numerous delays and being kept on hold.

All that frustration and the weather kicked up the heat in the car. As he fumed, I got out and strolled up the block.

Three properties north of Ricki Sylvester’s house, a young, long-haired man in snug charcoal velvet sweats picked leaves out of a boxwood hedge. Fronting the hedge were fragrant gardenia bushes. Then, a velvety lawn, a matched pair of red-leaf plum trees, and half a dozen massive sago palms that cost hundreds of dollars each.

The structure behind all that was a peach-colored Spanish retro-hacienda that tried to look authentic but didn’t come close. Too many architectural tweaks applied too exuberantly. What you see when young girls put on makeup for the first time.

As I passed, the plucker stopped and watched me with suspicion. That level of vigilance plus the landscaping and the meticulous abode said potential busybody. I backtracked, he tensed up.

I showed him the out-of-date LAPD consultant badge.

He said, “There’s a problem?” Mediterranean accent.

“We’re looking for one of your neighbors as a possible witness.”

“Which neighbor?”

“Ms. Sylvester. The mustard-colored house.”

“Her. Bleh. She up to something?”

“You’ve had problems with her?”

“The house is the problem. She has no money? Fine, sell and let someone make it nice.”

“She has money. She’s an attorney.”

“No way.”

I nodded.

“Crazy,” he said. “My husband’s an attorney. Why would she live like this?”

“Who knows? Anything else I should know about her, Mr. — ?”

“Massimo Bari.”

“Where in Italy are you from?”

“I’m from Malta,” he said.

“Ah — so is there anything about—”

“Her? Nothing. She doesn’t talk.”

“Not friendly.”

“I say hello, nothing, Robert says hello, nothing. She gets in that dump-car and drives away. Robert and I wondered where she went all day. An attorney? We figured she sits in the park.”

“She’s got an office.”

“Unbelievable.”

“She have any social life?”

“Who’s going to want to be social with that?”

“How about visitors?”

“Nothing — oh, yeah, one time, long time — months — there was another car, Robert and I said, maybe we get lucky and she’s moving out.”

“A car in her driveway.”

“In back of hers, she parks all the way in,” said Massimo Bari. “Then it happened again, few nights later. Robert and I are so happy, finally. But then it’s gone, never comes back, nothing changes, she’s still here ruining the block.”

“How long was the other car there?”

“Don’t know, all I can tell you is in the morning it was gone. “There is something to worry about? More than an ugly house?”

“Absolutely not. What kind of car?”

“Minivan, they all look the same.”

“Color?”

“Darkish.” He grimaced. “I’m into color, but it’s at night, I’m not paying attention. Darkish.”

“Did you notice who was driving it?”

“Never saw no one, just a minivan, Robert and I were hoping for a nice family moving in. Is there something you’re not telling me, sir? She did something criminal?”

“There’s nothing to worry about, Mr. Bari. It’s just what I told you.”

“She’s a witness. To what?”

“Nothing you should worry about.”

He studied my face. “You look honest, I hope you are. It’s a great neighborhood, that’s why we put the money in. Robert and I were thinking. Maybe we should start a Neighborhood Watch. Like we had when we lived in the Valley. What do you think?”

“Can’t hurt.”

“You could help with that, no?”

“I can refer you to someone.”

“Great! Have your people call me.” He reached into a pocket of his sweatpants, fished out a billfold, extracted a business card from a wad of cash and credit cards. Stiff cardboard, matte black, peach-colored lettering.

Design by Massimo

Fashion and Lifestyle Consulting

Gmail, no phone or street address.

He said, “I build gorgeous formal and business casual menswear. Are you married?”

I shook my head.

He appraised me head-to-toe. “You have decent taste, easy to fit, okay, I give you a discount.”

“Appreciate the offer.”

“I mean it, sir. Get married, I fix you up gorgeous. Dressing up’s a good way to start a relationship.” Another glance at the mustard-colored box. “You want me to keep an eye on her?”