Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

Milo and I gave Duke’s house another go-round, searching for the ruby with no luck.

“Like you said, Ricki’s got a safe. For all we know, she’s the big winner, took it and split.”

I said, “You see her as the mastermind?”

“I don’t know what I see, other than that... thing in the mulch has to be Bakstrom. Meaning everyone else is dead and she might not be.”

We went outside where he smoked a cigar and I let my thoughts settle.

I said, “I’m still seeing Deandra as the boss. The ruby was important to her. She might’ve kept it close.”

“Meaning?”

Moroni had shut the front door. I pointed at it.

“What?” said Milo.

“On her person.”

He puffed hard. Walked to Moroni who stepped away and let him open the door. Staring inside, he returned, got on the phone to the night desk at the crypt. “Pedro? Milo. What’s your investigator’s ETA? Can you see if they can snap it up a bit... I know, but what’re you talking about, coupla gang thingies, mine’s way more interesting... we’ve all been doing it a long time, Pedro. It can still happen, something you never saw before, trust me.”

Twenty minutes later, the white, blue-striped crypt van rolled up with two drivers, ready to do the usual sit-by until the C.I.’s okayed transport. A few minutes later, a larger van, the mobile crime lab.

Last to arrive was a blue sedan bearing two investigators, one I knew as Gloria, a former nurse, one I learned was Tish, a former respiratory therapist.

Both wore knit tops, jeans, and sneakers. Gloria said, “Where’s the decomp situation?”

Milo said, “Out back, a greenhouse. First do the one in the house, she’s clean.”

He told them what he needed.

Tish said, “Pedro said it could be interesting. I might start thinking he’s credible.”

They approached the body the way experienced C.I.’s do. Gloving up and taking time to observe, then recording the scene orally and visually, Tish using her cellphone to snap pictures, capturing every wound, Gloria speaking into a mini-recorder.

She counted the shell casings from Burgoyne’s service gun, said, “That’ll be fun for the techies.”

Back to the wounds. “Not much mystery about cause.”

Down to the shorts. “Not much by way of clothing and I don’t see any bulges in the pockets but let’s give it a go.”

She patted the garments as Tish continued to film.

Nothing in the four pockets of the short-shorts, same for the cups of the top, which turned out to be a bra from Trashy Lingerie.

“Nope, sorry,” said Tish. “Any reason we shouldn’t tell the guys to transport?”

I said, “Is it okay to take off the shorts, right here?”

Everyone looked at me.

I reiterated the logic I’d given Milo.

He said, “Oh.”

Tish said, “You think it could be up her? Yick.”

“Just a thought.”

Gloria said, “Protocol is to disrobe them back at the crypt.” A beat. “Why not, better than something falling out and we don’t see it.”

Tish said, “Hey, we’re all grown-ups.”

Down came the shorts, sliding fluidly after an initial tug.

No panties.

A thin gold chain belted the widest part of Deandra Demarest’s lovely, flaring hips. Tugged down at the center by a bit of weight.

A red stone the size of a large cocktail olive dangled at the precise center of a vertical strip of dyed-blond pubic hair. Partially concealed by the hair but the harsh overhead light zeroed in on the ruby and set off sparkles.

“Whoa,” said Tish. “We’d have seen that back at the crypt, we’d figure fake, one of those stripper deals, we’d probably stash it in some locker.”

She looked at me. “You’re a smart man. Or you understand women.” Crooked smile. “Both possibilities scare me.”

The ruby was photo’d, logged, placed in an evidence envelope, and handed over to the crime scene techs. After a call to Noreen Sharp from Milo, delineating precisely.

She said, “Over to us, huh?”

“Safest route.”

“Only route, Milo. I’m driving over there now, find the right place for it.”

It didn’t take long for Deandra Demarest’s body to be bagged, gurneyed, and wheeled to the blue-striped van.

The C.I.’s left.

One of the techs said, “Now what?”

Milo said, “The dirty work. Sorry.”

“We do plenty of hazmat.”

“I asked for two extra masks.”

“Got them, too.”

“God bless you.”

“We hear that all the time,” said the tech.

“You do?”

“Not.”

He and his partner laughed.

Whatever helped.

The airtight greenhouse had prevented the entrance of flies and the compression of the soil heap had partially preserved the body. But you can’t stop nature, and bacteria and tiny mites migrating from the plants did their thing, albeit at a far slower pace than blowfly maggots.

Decomp had spread downward, concentrating on the exposed head, leaving the legs below the knees and the feet pristine. The arms and hands were somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, with all ten fingers still able to serve up decent prints.

ID was verified, along with the route the male victim had taken to eternity.

Two bullets had entered the occiput of Henry Bakstrom’s brain. Later that day, a ballistics match was obtained at the crime lab: The same weapon had killed Gerard Waters. Never to be located.

Milo came by the house and filled me in. “Dirty end for a dirty guy.”

I said, “How long was Bakstrom in there?”

“Best guess, a week or so.”

“He was also expendable from the beginning.”

He nodded. “DeeDee and Phil’s mulch pile. Not that Duke’s admitting anything. Lawyered up after I asked him a few questions. I did learn his relationship to her. Distant cousins, third or fourth, he wasn’t really sure. He barely knew her when she showed up and told him a story.”

I said, “Before or after seducing him?”

“Who knows? Not that going mute is gonna help him, stick a body in your greenhouse and let it molder, even an L.A. jury will get it. The other news is no news on Ricki Sylvester. Not at home or in her office, so she’s either another stashed corpse or flown the coop.”

I said, “That about sums it up.”

But we were wrong.

Shortly after ten P.M. a call came into the West L.A. station. Milo was off-service but the desk sergeant was smart enough to remember and phone him.

He reached me at home and we arrived at the Aventura simultaneously. Chain-link fencing blocked the drive but a car-wide gate hung with a condemnation sign had swung open.

The hotel had its own odor: an arid, musty aura of desertion. Like a sauna gone bad.

One vehicle in the lot, a Saturn bearing the signage of a private security firm. Two black-and-whites parked near the mouth of the loggia leading to The Green. The windows of The Can were black, the landscaping spots as inoperative as those in Phil Duke’s backyard. But the lobby was brightly lit and exposed by glass walls.

A uniformed rent-a-cop sat behind the counter, middle-aged, paunchy, playing with his phone.

Milo said, “Wait here,” went in, and talked to the guard.

Brief chat. “He’s the one found it, routine patrol.”

I said, “He seems unscathed.”

“Twenty years on the job in Pittsburgh, says he’s seen it all. He’s looking at nudes on his phone, couldn’t care less.”

Both cop cars were unoccupied. Their roof bars strobed the pathway red and blue.

After the first turn, we came upon four uniforms.

One said, “All the way at the end.”

“Thanks for preserving the scene.”

“Sure, sir. Nothing out here except bugs.”