Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“That would be great.” I patted my pockets. “Don’t have a card of my own, could you spare another of yours?”

“You bet.”

I wrote Milo’s name, title, and number on the back, returned it to him.

He read. “Lieutenant.” Sly smile. “For you, I could design something with a little bit of the uniform vibe, you know?”

“Keeping it official,” I said.

“Fun, Lieutenant. It’s all about fun.”

Milo had exited the car, too, but he hadn’t strayed from the passenger door.

From the look on his face, no fun had transpired.

I said, “More stonewall?”

“North Korea’s got nothing on these guys but some progress.”

He got back in. I started up the engine.

He said, “I finally got the name of a guard who worked that particular visitors area for the past few years. Of course, they can’t promise he knows anything. Of course, he’s on vacation. I called, left a message. Let’s get back to the office, maybe I can find some more info on him and interrupt his recreation. What were you doing?”

“Impersonating a police officer.”

I drove past Massimo. He waved.

“I leave you alone for a minute and you make a new friend?”

“Maybe a useful friend. The Maltese Mynah.” I told him about the van in Sylvester’s driveway. “Months ago fits the waiter’s time line.”

“The old guy’s wheels. Okay, one baby step closer. If it means anything. Thanks.”

A block later, he said, “Mini but still a van. You know what I’m thinking.”

“Ideal for transporting bodies.”

“But let’s not be morbid.” A beat. “On the other hand, let’s.”

The guard’s name was Herman Montoya. His Facebook page advertised eighteen pals, all family members. Thirteen of whom were vacationing with him in Sedona, Arizona, in celebration of the eighty-fifth birthday of the matriarch, Montoya’s grandmother, Estrella.

Details of the trip were courteously laid out.

Milo said, “Now everyone on the planet knows their houses are vacant. He works with scumbags all day and gets this careless?”

Everyone also knew the Montoya family’s mode of transportation from Colorado to Arizona: a caravan of rented RVs, scenic stops along the way.

Arrival date, yesterday. One of Montoya’s daughters was kind enough to list the mobile home park hosting the caravan as well as the creature comforts it provided.

Milo said, “If the information age keeps growing, detectives will be redundant.”

“You’ll always be needed,” I said. “Personal charm and all that.”

He grunted and phoned the desk at Red Rock RV Lodge.

The manager was an agreeable woman, had no problem walking over to check Herman Montoya’s patch of asphalt. After being reassured by Milo that none of the clan was suspected of anything.

“Salt of the earth,” he said. “He’s in law enforcement.”

“Awesome,” she said. “We love law enforcement. Okay, shouldn’t take long, I’ll get back to you.”

Five minutes later, Milo’s cell played a Sousa march.

A soft, wary voice said, “Herman Montoya. This really LAPD?”

Milo repeated his name and rank and Montoya said, “Okay, what’s up?”

“Thanks for calling back. Sorry to interrupt your vacation.”

“Vacation,” said Montoya. “How much red rock can I look at? Also, the jewelry’s outrageous but of course they all have to have some. You got me curious. What can I do for LAPD?”

Milo told him.

He said, “Sure I remember her. Name was DeeDee, last year or so she was there every couple months to see Bakstrom.”

“Not Waters.”

“Just Bakstrom.”

“DeeDee what?”

“Hmm... those were her initials, Dee something, Dee something... sorry, that’s what I remember, she called herself by the initials. Hi, I’m DeeDee. Cheerful, like that. She’d get all wiggly, the hips, you know? Had a pair of boobs on her, whoa. But like I care. What I care, honey, is you don’t slip him something that’s going to hurt me.”

“Bakstrom was violent?”

“No,” said Herman Montoya. “Just talking generally, every visitor’s a potential problem. But she was okay, except for too friendly with the staff. I don’t like ’em too friendly, usually means they’re hiding something.”

“Friendly and wiggly.”

“God gave her a bod and she sure used it,” said Montoya. “Premium bod. Face, too. Good -looking chick. Not what we usually get.” He laughed. “By that I mean she had all her teeth. Dee... what the heck was her name...?”

“Something with a ‘D,’ ” said Milo. “How about Drancy?”

“Nope.”

Too-quick answer. Milo sagged. His lips formed a silent obscenity.

Herman Montoya said, “Dee... I’m having a senior moment... maybe Diane, maybe Deena... Debbie. Something with a darn ‘D.’ ”

Milo said, “Duchess?”

“Ha,” said Montoya. “Now you’re kidding me. It was a while back, sorry.”

I said, “Demarest?”

Milo stared at me.

Herman Montoya said, “Who was that?”

Milo said, “My colleague, you’re on speaker.”

“Oh. Didn’t hear what he said.”

“Could the last name be Demarest?”

“There you go ! Demarest. Now I remember. Damn I’m losing it. I used to make a joke to myself when she’d flip the hair, wink and wiggle and tell me I didn’t need to bring a female guard to search her. I’d tell myself, ‘Give it a rest, Dem arest. I don’t care how cute you are, honey. My deal is getting out by end of shift not on a gurney.”

Noise piled up in the background. Montoya said, “Hold one sec.”

A few seconds of dead air before he returned. “Wife and sister and daughters and granddaughter have jewelry to show me. Anything else I can help you with?”

“Did DeeDee visit anyone else but Bakstrom?”

“Just him. His cellie, Waters, no one came to see him. The two of them were always discussing something. Bakstrom and Waters.”

“Any idea about what they talked about?”

“You know cons,” said Montoya, “too much spare time. For all I know they were setting up a political party and planning to run for office.”

“Any discipline issues for either of them?”

“Nope,” said Montoya. “They did their time and piled up the behavior points and now you guys have to deal with them — Deandra! That’s her first name, it just hit me.”

“Deandra Demarest.”

“Yup, D and D.”

“Terrific, Officer Montoya. Thanks a ton.”

Montoya said, “So what’d these jokers do in L.A.?”

“Killed a bunch of people.”

“Killed? A bunch? Geez,” said Montoya. “Killed...” Soft whistle. “Nothing like that with us, like I said, no problems with either of them. But we’re like a separate society, the smart ones figure out the rules and adapt. Then they get out and break your rules.”

Deandra Katrine Demarest, thirty-nine, had two arrests that showed up in NCIC.

Age nineteen, armed robbery, in Louisville, Kentucky.

Age twenty-nine, writing bad checks in Ossining, New York.

I said, “Every ten years. She was due.”

“Those are the two she got caught for,” said Milo. He looked up the details, read, printed, passed over the info.

The robbery, of a jewelry store, had been committed by two ex-cons. One, Demarest’s boyfriend, had done the gun-waving and the looting, the other drove the getaway car. Deandra, sitting in the backseat, claimed she’d known nothing about the vehicle being stolen or plans to rob. She’d pled down to accessory before the fact, got a year in prison, most of which was consumed by time served.