Jonathan Kellerman - Heartbreak Hotel

“You getting to a scene first.”

I waited by the bedroom door as he gloved up and entered. He scanned the space, inspected Thalia’s eyes, then the bruises around her nose and chin.

“Yeah, this is wrong. Gold star for ol’ Chris. Though any C.I. would’ve spotted it — Jesus, she’s a twig. ”

Lumps the size of cherries formed along his jaw. “Anything out of place from yesterday?”

“I wasn’t in here yesterday. Talked to her on the porch and in the living room.”

“Ramos said she had trouble moving around. I don’t see any cane or walker.”

“She managed,” I said. “Halting but mobile. Lost her balance a few times and I helped her.”

“A hundred years old in three goddamn weeks,” he said. “And some asshole decides to ruin her birthday.”

“Guzman wondered about assisted suicide.”

He looked at me. “Do you?”

“Not from what I saw. She was in good spirits.”

“But now you’re wondering because...”

“Just being thorough.”

He gave the room a second scan. “Neat and clean, everything in place. Makes it creepier... maybe she did pay someone to off her painlessly. Let’s see what comes up after the C.I. clears the body and the techies toss the room. Meanwhile, let’s get some fresh air and you can give me the details of your one and only session with my victim.”

Out in front of the porch, Milo assaulted fresh air with a cheap panatela. He does that when bodies reek, but no serious odor had polluted Thalia’s bedroom other than the slight sourness backing up French perfume.

I told him everything I could remember, wondered out loud if Thalia had a specific psychopath in mind.

He dropped the cigar to the dirt, ground it out. “Her not being ready to spill everything at once could mean someone she cared about. Like a relative. But if we are right about it happening in the middle of the night or early morning, you see her opening the door for anyone? Particularly if she couldn’t move well.”

I said, “Someone with a key?”

“Ergo my interest in Ms. Refugia and everyone else who works here.”

“Or someone Thalia gave a key to because there was a closer relationship.”

He said, “As in potential heir with an obvious motive.”

“Maybe that’s why she called me. At her age, the issue of inheritance wasn’t theoretical. She was concerned about leaving assets to a lowlife.”

“Maybe serious assets, Alex. We’re talking someone able to live full-time in a fancy hotel. First thing I’m going to look for is a will.”

We stood in silence for a while.

I said, “Any time my name appears in the paper, you get ink. If she was worried about criminal kin, I could’ve been just her stalking horse and her real goal was making contact with you.”

“Why not contact me directly?”

“A centenarian phones and tells you she’s worried about a nasty psychopathic heir? What would you have done?”

“Suggested she hire security... Okay, if there is some reprobate behind this, it gives me somewhere to look... at her age, a son or a daughter would be in their seventies, late sixties at the youngest. Why wait that long and then snuff Mommy?”

“Circumstances change,” I said. “Seventy-year-old son marries a younger woman, she wants bangles. But sure, we could be looking for a middle-aged grandkid.”

“Hell, Alex, we could be talking about an evil great- grandbaby. Go all the way: great- great. ” He frowned. “Or just a sweet little maid who’s been cleaning up after her for four years and knows where the goodies are stashed.”

His eyes swung past me. “Here’s our manager, why do they wear that stupid color, reminds me of old blood.”

A man in a liver-red blazer and gray slacks walked our way, hands laced in front of him, as if stretching sore wrists. Middle height, thin and pigeon-toed with a limp, sandy hair and a goatee, he had the round-shouldered posture of someone laden with too much responsibility.

That made me think about Thalia, hunched by a century of responsibility. What had her good cheer concealed?

The sandy-haired man reached us. “Officers? Kurt DeGraw.” Slight accent, hard-edged, Teutonic. The beard was neatly trimmed, shaped to a point.

Milo handed him a card, introduced me as “Alex Delaware,” with no explanation.

DeGraw didn’t crave one. Corporate-savvy, he kept his attention on the boss.

“Lieutenant, may I assume Miss Mars is deceased?”

“You may.”

“The maid who came to get me told me something bad happened, the police had been called, but when I asked her for details, she ran out, crying.” DeGraw looked at the bungalow. “Sad but not surprising. Are you aware she was a hundred years old?”

“In three weeks,” said Milo.

“We’d have baked her a cake,” said Kurt DeGraw. “As we always do. Now, if you could tell me when we’ll be able to clean the unit—”

“Not for a while, Mr. DeGraw.”

“Oh? Is there a problem?”

“There’s reason to believe Miss Mars’s death wasn’t natural.”

DeGraw stared. Plucked at his necktie, stamped a foot. “Unnatural in terms of...”

“Possible homicide.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Nothing but serious, sir.”

“She was a hundred years old, Lieutenant. Why would anyone bo— Why would they do that?”

Why would anyone bother?

Milo said, “Why, indeed?”

“For what reason do you believe it wasn’t natural?”

“Can’t discuss that, sir, and I imagine you don’t want rumors to circulate.”

“No, no, of course not.” DeGraw glanced at the bungalow again. “All right, do what you need to, but if you could give me a fairly accurate estimate as to when we’ll be able to begin—”

“How long did Miss Mars live here?”

“A long time, Lieutenant.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Well,” said DeGraw, “I’ve been here two years and she was well established by then. My predecessor told me about her. The unique situation.”

“Permanent residency.”

“Exactly, Lieutenant. We don’t normally allow it.”

“Why’d you do it for Miss Mars?”

“She had a contract.”

“Stating?”

“I’m not familiar with the details,” said DeGraw.

“You don’t keep records?”

“With regard to current data we keep excellent computerized records, but there have been informational changes.”

“Meaning?”

“Updated systems. Information gets deleted.”

“No old ledgers in a storage room?” said Milo.

DeGraw’s expression said Milo had suggested he pierce his own scrotum. “Dust, mold, insects? I can’t imagine we’d want anything like that.”

Milo flipped a notepad page. “Who owns the hotel?”

“The Aventura is in transition.”

“From what to what?”

DeGraw sighed. “I’m not at liberty to discuss but a sale is currently being considered.”

“Who’s selling?”

“The parent company is Altima Hospitality.”

“Where’s corporate headquarters?”

“Dubai.”

“Who owned it before Altima?”

“Another corporation,” said DeGraw.

“Which one?”

“Franco-Swiss Château Limited.”

“And before that?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“How much did Miss Mars pay to live here?”

“She got a bargain,” said Kurt DeGraw. “Whoever agreed to it originally must’ve been—” DeGraw shook his head. “She was flat-rated with cost-of-living increases but she still got a bargain. One hundred ninety-six dollars and some change per day. With tax added, she paid a little over seven thousand dollars a month and that includes full board and maid service.”