Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

I said, “The part of your turf where estates are managed. How close to where Zelda died?”

A cherry-sized lump formed along his sagging jawline. His eyes drifted upward, then down. “Walkable. From here, drivable.”

He gulped two cups of coffee and we left, taking an unmarked Chevy Impala I hadn’t seen before, paint the color of an old scab, the interior smelling of ten thousand pine trees.

As he rolled south on Beverly Glen, I opened the attaché case. Inside were a page of handwritten notes and an enlarged color photo of Imelda Soriano.

The missing woman was white-haired, round-faced, bespectacled, and devoid of criminal record or any other complicating factors. For ten weeks, she’d worked as a four-day-a-week cleaner at a property deeded to a limited liability corporation registered to a family named Aziz. The manager was Jason Clegg, a thirty-eight-year-old white male with several traffic violations and one DUI to his credit.

Milo had written the address in bold block capitals: 1 ST. DENIS WAY.

Narrow, hilly strip branching west off St. Denis Lane. I’d run past three days in a row.

I said, “That’s closer than walkable. A baby could crawl there.”

He rubbed his face. “Yeah, it’s weird and so is the time frame — two days after Zelda. But I can’t see any connection and if I didn’t owe Lorrie it never woulda come to my attention.”

“What did she do for you?”

“Last year I picked up an idiot gang shooting, I.D.’d the bad guy immediately, had an address in Echo Park but couldn’t find him. Neither could the marshals, which tells you it was a serious rabbit. Lorrie doesn’t only work in Rampart, she was born there. Turns out she knew the asshole from high school. Located him at a second cousin’s and helped set up an arrest with, as they say, ‘no incident.’ ”

“Cooperative policing. It’s so nice when the kids get along.”

“Hey,” he said. “We’re one city. Or pretend to be.”

—

St. Denis Way (the sign said Not a Through Street ) intersected St. Denis Lane a hundred yards above Enid DePauw’s property. Low-hanging trees arched over the anorexic strip of roadway. Steeper than it appeared — pitched at twenty percent grade — and hosting only two properties.

On the south side, an old Tudor, topped by a collection of hand-carved stone chimneys, luxuriated atop a mossy-green, flower-bordered hillock. Set far back from the road but rendered visible by open iron fencing and gate; throwback to an era when bragging trumped anxiety.

The Aziz estate filled the north side of the road as well as its spoon-shaped termination. Nothing visible here; dense fifteen-foot ficus abutted the curb and a gate of the same height was recessed two car lengths in, exposing a broad drive paved in black, hexagonal stone. The gate and the posts flanking it were black, as well. Shiny as patent leather, probably some sort of high-tech plastic.

Black camera on the left-hand post. Black call box on a black post, the only spot of color a red button. Atop the box, a carved falcon perched. What looked to be black onyx.

Milo murmured “Warm and welcoming” and jabbed the call button three times. The phone rang eight times before a male voice said, “Yes?”

“Police.”

Silence.

Milo repeated himself.

The voice said, “Seriously?”

“Couldn’t be more serious.”

“Right. There’s no soliciting, my friend.”

“Only thing I’m selling is justice for all. Open up.”

“Seriously?”

Extending his arm, Milo flashed his badge at the lens. “Use your camera.”

A moment passed. The voice said, “No worries.”

The gate slid open.

We drove up a black stone drive bisected by a strip of flawless grass and ended a quarter mile later at a motor court. Parking for thirty vehicles but only two in sight, a black Range Rover and a battered brown four-door pickup with gardening gear in the bed.

Behind the court was a vast assemblage of white, flat-topped cubes. The kind of architecture that makes the covers of L.A. magazines.

This house dwarfed the manor across the street. Place it downtown and you’d have the latest concert venue.

Milo parked next to the gardeners’ truck and we got out. Lawnmower buzz filtered from somewhere behind all the stucco. Before us was already mowed rolling green, acres of it. Four-story trees formed the borders, not a blossom in sight.

He said, “What’s that say, psychologically?”

“Maybe ‘We don’t like flowers.’ ”

He cracked up. “Please remind me why I brought you.”

We headed for the front door. It opened before we arrived.

A man in his thirties stood illuminated by a skylight. His hair was a cap of pale stubble, his beard downy and a shade lighter. Beneath him was white marble. Floor-to-ceiling glass formed a rear wall. Every other surface was white, as were the furniture, the abstract sculpture on pedestals, the huge unframed paintings. The theme continued with the man’s white shirt, skinny jeans, and loafers. Ditto the band and face of his Rolex.

His hair and bronze face broke it up, as did gray eyes.

Small guy but toned. “Guess you really are the police.”

Milo said, “We are, Mr. Clegg—”

“Man.”

“Pardon—”

“I’m not Mr. Clegg, I’m Mr. Stoeller. Manfred, they call me Man.” Smiling at what had to be an oft-used line.

“You work with Mr. Clegg.”

“I’m Jason’s assistant. I’d ask you to come inside but I’m under strict orders. What’s your interest?”

“A woman who worked here has gone missing.”

“Oh, dear,” said Stoeller. “Who would that be?”

“Imelda Soriano. She was employed for nearly three months, came to you from the Madeleine Agency.”

“I’m sure she did,” said Stoeller. “We’ve used them for years. But that’s the thing with agencies: They vet the staff and we don’t have to get up close and personal.”

“No fraternizing with the help.”

“I know that sounds snobby, guys, but given the complexity...”

“Would Jason Clegg be more familiar with the staff?”

Stoeller stepped outside. Sunlight dimmed him; he’d been livened by some sort of gizmo in the skylight. “Technically, Jason manages this property, but in reality, he’s all over the place and I’m the one who handles day-to-day.”

“All over the place meaning...”

“He travels to and from the family’s other residences. There’s an assistant at each but Jason oversees everyone.”

“How many residences are we talking about?”

“Seven.”

“Where?”

Stoeller ticked a finger. “Besides here, we’ve got Aspen, Kona, Manhattan, London, Lake Como, and Singapore.”

He smiled. Not sheepish, smug. “I know it sounds insane, guys, but we’re talking a different world. Three G5s — private planes — hangared on three continents and a pair of Oceanco yachts, one for the Northern Hemisphere, one for the Southern.”

“Time for a third boat,” said Milo. “Keeping it synchronous.”

Manfred Stoeller said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if that has been discussed.”

“The Azizes have edged past middle-class.”

Stoeller laughed. “You could say that. Don’t ask me how, I’m not at liberty to get into details. Let’s just say they’ve invested wisely.”

I said, “Everything on a need-to-know basis.”

“And what I need to know is how to keep this place humming in case the family wants to use it on short notice.”

“When’s the last time that happened?”

“Six, seven months ago. Lately, they’ve been preferring Europe.”

Movement coursed on the other side of the glass wall. Three men in khaki driving mowers across an area that looked larger than the front acreage. Pool, tennis court, the same austere layout of lawn and trees.