Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

He went out to the hall, paced up and down, came back. “Now I’m visualizing Cutie Pie all by herself on that Gulfstream to Arabia. Hell, she could have her sights on some emir — oh, man, the owners of the hotel. You think the plan could include them? Who better to buy a rock like that?”

I thought about it. “Doubt it. There’d be no reason for them to risk murdering an old lady for a gemstone when they could just buy one. That doesn’t eliminate an under-the-table sale. But DeGraw’s behavior — sneaking around, preparing to leave the country — says he was going behind his bosses’ backs. He knew he’d be out of a job soon, was trying to augment his severance pay.”

“Hope you’re right, amigo. The case expands to potentates, I’m cooked. Unlike Duchess, who’d like to think she’s a poobah but is eminently arrestable.”

That made my head throb. “Who goes with a Duchess?”

“A male poobah—”

“A Duke.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Waters’s landlord, Phil Duke. An older guy. Maybe I’m reaching but—”

He swiveled so fast his chair tipped and he fought to keep it stable. Pounding the keyboard with big, white-knuckled hands, he said, “Oh, my.”

Philip Demarest Duke fancied himself an actor.

That, despite no film credits and only a scatter of community playhouse roles, none more recent than ten years ago. In the eighties, he had appeared on episodic TV but, again, the crop was thin: a few cameos in pilots that never went to series, one walk-on in a forgettable police drama.

“He does have the voice,” I said.

Milo said, “Does he?”

“Stentorian.”

“I’ll pay closer attention when I’ve got him in a small, windowless room.”

The résumé Duke included on his Facebook page listed a birthdate that made him sixty-four years old. DMV records added two years, Social Security, six.

Social Security also provided his employment record. For the past forty-five years, he’d worked in long-distance trucking, insurance sales, unspecified retail sales, real estate management, swimming pool maintenance, construction, landscaping. All that topped off by stints at big-box nurseries and building supplies emporia.

For two years, he’d been living on Social Security and disability. One piece of real estate, the house in West L.A. where we’d met him. Where we’d had no reason to doubt his account of Gerard Waters’s movements.

His registered vehicle, a 2003 gray Ford Windstar minivan.

Milo said, “Gotcha! Think he’s DeeDee’s daddy?”

I said, “The age fits and he did mention his daughter was moving back in.”

We returned to Phil Duke’s social network. More like asocial: no friends, followers, or family.

A headshot atop the anemic acting history showed Duke looking around forty and dressed in costume. The production, King Lear, a nonprofit playhouse in La Habra. Duke had played “a Knight of Lear’s Train.”

He’d chosen a shot that made him look like a comical send-up of the bard, himself: puffy red velvet tunic, oversized ruff that appeared fashioned from cardboard, glued-on handlebar over what looked like a real Vandyke, atop his head a goofy skin cap simulating baldness and fringed with shoulder-length scraggle.

Milo said, “A star is born. This is the best he could do?”

I said, “Living in the past. And now he’s expecting wealth and eternal bliss.”

He logged on to the assessor’s page and found the record of purchase of Duke’s house. Initial purchase, thirty years ago. A quartet of near-foreclosures, all forestalled at the last minute.

Milo sniffed the air. “What’s that wafting? Oh, yeah, Eau de Loser.”

I said, “The cologne or the handy-dandy aftershave?”

“More like toilet water. Okay, let’s firm up the I.D. on this prince — scratch that, duke.”

He phoned High Steaks. Arturo wasn’t working but the manager gave up the waiter’s full name and number.

“None of that do-you-have-a-warrant crap,” said Milo, “I must be getting good at this.” He punched buttons. “Mr. De La Cruz? Lieutenant Sturgis. We talked the other day in the restaurant about the lady who tips five percent.”

“You got her for something?”

“I was wondering if I could show you a photo, see if it matched the man you saw with her.”

“Sure, c’mon over.”

“Where do you live?”

“Reseda,” said De La Cruz. “Traffic’s going to be brutal but I’m not leaving.”

Milo said, “How about I email it to you?”

“I don’t have one of those phones gets emails.”

“Do you have a computer?”

“My wife does but she’s out.”

“How about I lead you through it?”

“Hmm, I guess,” said Arturo De La Cruz. “Second most exciting thing happened all month.”

“What’s the first?”

“Last week some guy was choking, I got to do the Heimlich.”

“Good for you.”

“Better for him. Okay, I’m walking over to her sewing desk, that’s where she keeps it, no more sewing since she got into the yoga.”

Guiding De La Cruz through the finer points of electronic transmission took a while. Once the image arrived, the waiter’s verdict was instantaneous. “Yup, that’s him.”

“No doubt at all, sir?”

“Never forget a face, Lieutenant. Actually, that’s a lie, I forget plenty of faces and a lot of other stuff, to boot. Like names, places, why I come into a room. But him I remember. ’Cause he was the only person I ever saw with her. ”

“Got it,” said Milo. “Really appreciate it.”

De La Cruz said, “So what’d the two of them pull off? Some kind of lawyer scam?”

“Don’t have the whole picture yet.”

“But they did pull off something. I knew something was off with her. You ever feel like telling me, I won’t argue. Who knows, it could knock the choking guy down to number two.”

Milo reached Sean Binchy at home in Long Beach. Kids’ voices in the background.

“Still doing daddy stuff?”

“The party’s finished but the girls are having fun, Loot. I was just about to shoot a few holes, but not important if you need me.”

“How long will it take you to get here?”

“I’ll try for an hour.”

Binchy arrived in forty-three minutes.

Milo said, “Hello, Lead-foot.”

The young detective grinned. He’d gelled and spiked his rusty hair, put on his usual work clothes: dark suit, blue shirt, and tie. Spit-polished Doc Martens, the sole reminder of his pre-cop days as a ska-punk bassist.

Milo said, “We’re in the big room, downstairs, let’s go meet the others.”

“Not just Moe, a team?” said Binchy.

“This one calls for it.”

During Binchy’s drive-time, Milo had talked personnel with his captain, his case made easy by the possibility of a mountain of victims. The three of us walked downstairs to a conference room he’d commandeered, complete with a long, impressive table and a whiteboard. On the table, a pointer, a case folder, and half a dozen two-way radios.

No one else in the room. Binchy examined the photos taped to the board. Grimaced when he came to Ricki Sylvester.

“Loot, it still bugs me—”

He cut himself off, realizing Milo was back on the phone.

First call: Moe Reed’s desk in the big D-room. Two additionals: a couple of rookies released by the captain and waiting on stand-by.

Patrol officers Eric Monchen and Ashley Burgoyne arrived together, wearing black rock-concert tees, jeans, and sneakers, and looking nervous. He was twenty-two, she a year older. Both of them were cute enough to be models for a wholesome product. Both had requested plainclothes assignments, despite skimpy and fruitless experience with stings. Monchen’s, a dope surveillance near the U. that went nowhere; Burgoyne’s, a Pico-Robertson prostitution sting, equally futile. They didn’t know each other but looked as if they belonged together.