Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

No further sightings until the end of my third shift at five A.M.

Milo said, “Tomorrow, you go last, so take your time getting here, say seven thirty.”

I drove home, tried to empty my head and catch some sleep. When I got to the conference room the following evening at six thirty, Reed and Binchy were out driving and the rookies sat at the far end of the table, watching videos on their phones.

My greeting was met by slow, dispirited nods. Monchen and Burgoyne looked like they were about to take a test.

Milo pulled me aside. “They’re bored. It keeps going this way, they’ll probably switch careers.”

“Find something more exciting,” I said. “Like sitting in a tollbooth.”

He switched on his radio. Moe Reed’s calm voice did nothing to attract the rookies’ attention.

“Sean and I both saw him for a full hour but he went back inside, the van’s still there.”

Milo clicked off.

I said, “Out gardening?”

“Seems to be his favorite thing. Maybe this is a waste of time and the worst thing he does is overwater.”

I spent the next hour and a half polishing evaluation reports on my iPad, picked up my new ride, a nice black Camaro, just before eight, waited until Milo returned in a barely breathing Datsun at eight thirty.

Circuit one, nothing. Same for two.

By the time I began three, at nine thirty-five, I was wondering if having a scotch or two when I got home would help or hinder sleep.

A full-sized van driving slowly up Phil Duke’s street caught my attention. Lettering on the back said Rapid-Rooter was available 24/7 for plumbing emergencies. Toll-free number, cartoon of a beaming, bow-tied man who could’ve been Ward Cleaver’s cleaner-cut brother.

The van stopped and started.

I notified Milo.

He said, “Sounds like something we’d do. God help me if there’s some other agency involved and we’re crossing wires.”

The van stopped again. I held back. Suddenly, it sped up, lurched forward several houses past Duke’s, and pulled into a driveway. A man carrying a tool case walked up to one of Phil Duke’s neighbors. A pretty young woman in a T-shirt and shorts greeted him.

Genuine emergency.

I told Milo.

He said, “Or someone’s shooting a porn movie.”

I laughed. “No cameras in sight — okay, I’m coming up on Duke’s place.”

“Yawn yawn.”

I drove past the lovely lawn, ready for a whole lot of nothing.

Instead, I got something. The front door was open. Two figures stood in the doorway, one partially hid by the jamb, the other totally visible and backlit.

Female contours. Big mop of hair. One leg crooked. Languid wrist.

Sparks tumbled. Flicking her cigarette.

Taken by surprise, I pulled an amateur move and lifted my foot off the gas. The figures in the doorway didn’t seem to notice. Standing close to each other. Facing each other.

I drove on, passed the plumbing van. Lights on inside the house with the clogged drain. At the end of the block, I radioed in.

Milo said, “Really,” and broke his own rules, gunning a battered Dodge Ram and arriving sooner than scheduled.

“Got it! Shapely blonde.”

I said, “I’ll go back, make an extra circuit.”

“No, hold on — who’s up, guys?”

Moe Reed said, “Sean and me, the toddlers were yawning so we sent them to get coffee. I can take the next one.”

“Do it, Moses.”

By the time Reed drove by, the door was closed.

The next morning, the team reconvened at seven A.M.

Milo and the young D’s were in fresh clothes and had shaved. The rookies arrived slightly late, wearing backpacks and looking bleary.

Milo said, “Everyone knows about last night. Can I prove the female’s the lovely Deandra? Not yet and the male was partially hidden, no idea if he’s Bakstrom or Duke, they’re about the same size. But I’m declaring success and trying for warrants. Any thoughts?”

I said, “As far as we can tell, she never left the house. That sounds more like hiding out than just bunking there.”

“Or,” said Moe Reed, “she attends to her business during the day and we missed her.”

Milo said, “It’s possible, Moses, though I don’t see why she’d do that when nighttime would give her better cover. Either way, we’re shifting gears and switching to a daylight routine, with you two kicking it off.”

Indicating the rookies.

Eric Monchen said, “Same drill, sir?”

“A little different,” said Milo. “It’ll be drive-time, so you go with whatever the flow is but obviously don’t call attention to yourselves — gawking, doing anything a commuter wouldn’t do. Part of my warrant application is gonna include sticking a GPS on the bottom of Duke’s van, with installation tonight. You ready?”

Monchen: “Always, sir.”

Ashley Burgoyne: “Yes, sir. Who goes first, me or him?”

“Flip a coin.”

The two of them looked at each other and headed for the door. Burgoyne stopped. “Sir, do you foresee eventually breaching the premises?”

“Are you asking if you’ll finally get to do something exciting?”

“No, sir—” Slow smile. “Actually, yes, sir.”

“Breaching would be the goal, Officer Burgoyne. In the meantime, stay safe while you’re doing the uninteresting stuff.”

At nine twenty-three A.M., Phil Duke left his house, got into his minivan, and backed out of his driveway. Reed and Binchy were on by then and Milo told Binchy to follow, Reed to keep circling.

The rookies had just returned from their shift looking eroded.

Eric Monchen said, “Damn, just missed it.”

Ashley Burgoyne said, “Maybe next time we’ll see the bitch.”

Milo had put together a stash of trail mix, donuts, and bottled water. “Nutrition, kids.”

Monchen said, “Um, sir, is there time for a healthy kinda protein breakfast?”

“Sugar and oil doesn’t work for you?”

Monchen’s up-and-down appraisal of Milo’s physique was rapid but telling. “I’d prefer something protein, sir.”

“Big T-bone.”

“Too fatty, sir, I was thinking an omelet, there’s a place up the block.”

“I know the place,” said Milo. “Sure, if you can ingest and digest and be back in forty-five minutes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Ashley Burgoyne said, “I’m totally okay with what you got here, sir.” She picked up a bear claw, took a big bite, wiped her mouth.

I’m the good kid.

Monchen shot her a nervous look, glanced at the trail mix. “I guess I could stick with nuts and get protein.”

Milo said, “Have your omelet, Officer.”

“Sir—”

“They make a humongous Denver over there, son. Just about the size of Denver. Also, a thing with chili con carne. Think of me when you’re eating.”

“Sir—”

“Vaya con huevos, kiddo.”

Monchen screwed up his mouth and left.

When he was gone, Burgoyne said, “He’ll probably do egg whites.”

Binchy followed the van to a Ralph’s on Olympic. Phil Duke got out with three empty fabric shopping bags, went into the supermarket, and emerged twenty-four minutes later. Three full bags went into the rear of the vehicle. Nothing else inside.

Milo said, “His own bags, eco-sensitive. Touching. What’s his demeanor, Sean?”

“Normal.”

I said, “At least we know there’s no body in there.”

“Three bags,” said Milo. “He could be shopping for one or two or who the hell knows how many. Stay on him. How about you, Moses?”

“Driving by the second time,” said Reed. “Nothing. Plants are nice in the sunlight.”

Ten minutes later, Reed radioed in, again. Duke’s second stop was a nursery on Sawtelle where he purchased three large yellow plastic sacks of what appeared to be topsoil. Those ended up on the van’s rear seat.