Jonathan Kellerman: Heartbreak Hotel

I said, “All that trouble for nothing.”

“Exactly, Doc. Though I guess she got what she wanted, which was obviously to be dead. You see something like that, you start to doubt your own reality. But I guess that’s not what happened here, right? You’re not saying Ms. Mars was seriously depressed or disturbed.”

“I’m not saying much of anything, Chris.”

“I know, I know, sorry,” said Guzman. “But if she was depressed and afraid or too weak to take her own life, she could’ve had someone else do it for her in a painless way.”

“Forcing her mouth and nose shut?”

“Okay, yeah, maybe it’s ridiculous, why not just swallow some pills?” He shrugged. “That’s the way I am. Too curious.”

“That’s how you learn, Chris.”

“Maybe I should tell Rob, ’cause I don’t think lunch is on the schedule, anymore.” He took a couple of steps toward Barker, changed his mind, returned to my side. “Nah, he’ll just rag on me. If he gets antsy, let him come here. ”

He cracked his knuckles. “You like working with the cops?”

“I do.”

“I’ve been thinking about applying, myself. Maybe, end up a detective one day.”

“Curiosity’s a good trait for a detective.”

“That’s what I figure. Problem is the fire department pays great and my wife doesn’t want me carrying a gun. Plus I like what I do. Sometimes I even get to do a little psychology — seeing people in all kinds of stress.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Like last week — oh, man, look at that dog. ”

Barker had fished out his phone and was taking a selfie of himself and Refugia. Then another. A whole series of shots ensued, his arm snaking around her shoulder, hers circling his waist.

Guzman said, “You wouldn’t believe the stuff he’s got on his phone. One day, Tonya, that’s his girl, she’ll get suspicious and check it out. When that happens...” He ran a finger across his throat.

Same gesture Thalia had made yesterday.

Guzman rubbed his wedding band. Gold, etched with two hearts. “How long do you think it’ll take for Lieutenant Sturgis to get here?”

“He’s usually prompt.”

“I’m asking ’cause if we get another call it’ll be tricky, we’ll have to explain to the dispatcher... so you treat mostly older folk.”

“Actually, I specialize in children.”

His brow knitted. “Are you saying she was in some kind of second childhood?”

“Do you have kids of your own, Chris?”

“One. Anabella, eight months old, she’s crawling like crazy.”

“Got a picture?”

“Long as you asked.” Big grin. “ My phone’s G-rated.”

He’d scrolled through the first two dozen shots of a chubby blond baby when movement up the road drew us away from the tiny screen.

Barker and Refugia had shifted closer to each other, no air between them. They moved apart as a big, wide figure in a gray suit headed their way.

The man’s stork legs appearing too flimsy for the watermelon-shaped trunk they supported. Long arms swung loosely with each rapid step.

Barker and Refugia moved to opposite edges of the stone path. The convex belly that was Milo’s opening act asserted itself as he loped toward them. His big, black-haired head was carried low and thrust forward, as if battling a headwind.

The same stance you see in rodeo bulls itching to inflict pain.

Drawing himself up to his full six-three, Milo looked at each of them, flashed his badge, and began talking. Refugia had the tissue pushed up against her mouth, again. Barker looked stunned. Milo said something that made Barker turn toward Guzman and me. He gave his partner a palms-up what’s-the-story signal.

Guzman ignored him.

Milo continued his march.

“That’s him?” said Guzman. “Is he kinda ticked off or something?”

“That’s his thing.”

“Being ticked off?”

“Making people wonder.”

Milo’s greeting was a nod-grunt combo followed by taking out his little notepad. Daylight enhanced the acne scars and lumps decorating his face. Up close, the gray suit was unpleasantly silvery. Pretending to be sharkskin but ending up closer to mullet-belly. The collar of his white wash-’n’-wear shirt rode up on one side and curled on the other. A skinny strip of olive-green polyester necktie ended well above his belt. At the bottom of the stilt legs were the ritual desert boots, this pair, tan soiled to brown, with red rubber soles.

Barker and Refugia were watching us. He cocked a head at Guzman and held his hands out, again. Guzman pretended not to notice.

Milo said, “Good morning, Firefighter Guzman. What does ‘C’ stand for?”

“Christopher.”

“So, Christopher. You’re the one who first suspected something out of the ordinary.”

“Yes, sir.”

“So how come your partner over there is clueless? Downright surprised to see me.”

“Paramedic Barker and I haven’t conferred yet, sir.”

“Because...”

Guzman flushed.

Milo said, “You’re all business, he’s monkey business, huh? He seems real eager to get out of here. Any particular reason for that?”

“Sir, Paramedic Barker’s probably a little hungry because we’ve been on since five, it’s coming up on our lunch hour. If we don’t get another call.”

“Hungry? Yeah, that’s not a fun feeling. All right, let’s see if we can get you out of here in time for a burrito or something.” Out came a pen. “What exactly tipped you off this might not be a natural death, Christopher?”

“Like I told the doctor, the first thing was ocular petechial hemorrhaging, sir. That got me looking for other signs of asphyxia and I found suspicious facial bruising around the nose and under the chin. Dr. Delaware agrees it’s suspicious.”

“Clamping the airways shut.”

“That’s what it seemed to me, sir. Want me to show you?”

“I’ll see for myself. Who’s the victim?”

“Name’s Theda Mars, sir. Hundred-year-old white female.”

Milo stared at him.

I said, “Thalia Mars.”

“Oops,” said Guzman. “Sorry, yeah, Thalia.”

Milo’s bright-green eyes shifted to me. “A hundred?”

I said, “She would’ve been, in three weeks.”

“And she was your patient?”

Guzman studied my response. Back in Mr. Curious mode.

I said, “I saw her once, yesterday. Got here for a second appointment just before ten A.M. and found Paramedic Guzman with the body.”

Guzman frowned. I hadn’t answered the question. But Milo said, “Ah,” as if that explained it. “That maid over there said she discovered the body. Either of you pick up anything iffy about her?”

I shook my head.

Guzman said, “Me neither, but I guess anything’s possible.”

“Want to make a guess as to time of death, Christopher?”

“That’s not my expertise, sir—”

“That’s why I said ‘guess.’ ”

“Well, sir, rigor’s set in and the room’s not particularly cold.”

“So probably three to eight hours,” said Milo. “Makes sense, if I was up to nasty, I’d do it in the dark. I didn’t notice any cameras on the path. You see any security in the bungalow, itself?”

“No, sir. But I wasn’t looking.”

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and the hotel conceals them.” The notepad tapped his thigh. “All right, Christopher, if there’s nothing else you want to tell me, I’ll take it from here, go get some nutrition.”

“Thank you, sir.” Guzman lifted the case and the defibrillator and headed toward Barker. Barker greeted his arrival with a rapidly moving mouth. Rudimentary lip reading clarified the greeting: “What the fuck?”