Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

He laughed. “All this because you happened to see a van. Your mind’s a scary place, Dr. Delaware.”

“A call to DePauw could clarify easily. Extra help versus no-show.”

“Last thing I need is freaking out the locals. These people have clout and their complaints get heard. Besides, how am I supposed to explain my sudden interest in her personnel issues? Transfer from Homicide to Labor Relations?”

“Good question,” I said. “I’ll give it some thought.”

“You always do.”

An hour later, I’d come up with a feasible approach to Enid DePauw: Milo following up, post-Zelda, just to ask how she was doing, had she or anyone on her staff noticed anything in the neighborhood they wanted to discuss.

All in the name of diligent public service.

But instead of telling Milo, I made an uneducated guess about when White Glove Cleaning would be finishing their St. Denis Lane chores, drove back to lower Bel Air at three forty-five p.m., and parked south of the DePauw estate.

Uneducated because I had no idea how many cleaners were in the van or the details of the assignment.

I endured thirty-five minutes without spotting another human being and began to wonder if I’d missed a brief drop-in to polish furniture or something along those lines. I decided to leave at five p.m., was about to start up the Seville when the gates to the DePauw estate opened and the van’s blocky white nose edged toward the street.

I jumped out and went over, smiling and waving and making myself conspicuous.

The van stopped. The driver’s window was down. Young Latina at the wheel, an even younger Latina in the passenger seat, both drinking bottled water. They wore pink button-down shirts with White Glove and a broom logo sewn in black on the breast pocket. The driver had wrapped a bandanna around long black hair.

Pretty girl. Both of them were. A tattoo on the driver’s neck read Tonio.

She said, “Hi!”

“Hi. I live around here and I’m looking for someone to clean.”

“That’s what we do.” Wink. “We’re good. ”

“How long have you been working here?”

“Two weeks?” She turned to her companion.

The other girl thought. “Yeah, around.”

I said, “It’s a big house.”

“We’re used to that,” said the driver.

“Will Mrs. DePauw give you a reference?”

Puzzled looks.

“Who?” said the passenger.

“The woman who owns the place.”

“I dunno her.”

The driver reached behind, lifted a purse, searched, handed me a stiff white business card.

The address, a Seventh Street penthouse, downtown.

I said, “This man owns the house?”

“He let us in, gave the key.”

“Mrs. DePauw’s not home?”

“No one’s home. We’re bonded, that’s why we get trusted.” Sunny smile. “ You can trust us.”

A senior partner at a white-shoe firm gofering for an important client.

I said, “Okay, I’ll talk to him.”

“Take our card — here.”

Cheap stock, beige. White Glove’s West L.A. office on Pico near Centinela. As I took it, her fingers brushed mine and her neck stretched, elongating Tonio’s imprimatur.

Lashes fluttered. “Call, we’ll help you real good.”

As the van drove away, I got on my cell phone.

Milo said, “I can only imagine.”

“I’m back on St. Denis, please hold off commenting until I finish. I just spoke to the cleaners from White Glove. They’ve been working here around two weeks, meaning no more than two days after Imelda went missing. And Enid’s not here. Her lawyer’s managing the place.”

He said, “May I comment now?”

“Go.”

“Maybe the maid didn’t want to work at a place where a body showed up. Or she’d been thinking about quitting for a while and the body was the last straw. Or she’s on vacation. Or, since we’re being comprehensive, perhaps Enid decided she needed some R and R and took the maid with her. Like to the desert, again. Those types don’t carry their own suitcases.”

“The lawyer could confirm that.”

A beat. “What’s this barrister’s name?”

“J. Yarmuth Loach.”

“Sounds like a buddy of T. S. Eliot, do I dare eat a peach... hold on... yeah, here he is. Well-groomed fellow, very CEO... big downtown firm, he... specializes in... estates and trusts. Which could mean being a rich woman’s errand boy. Now the same question I raised about ol’ Enid: What’s my reason for calling?”

“I came up with an entrée to Mrs. D. but dealing with her surrogate would be even simpler,” I told him.

“Empathic follow-up because I’m such a caring cop?”

“You’re looking after the gentry. Rich people are accustomed to being catered to.”

“I’ll probably find out the maid’s sweeping sand out of Mrs. D.’s condo, but sure. Then I can move on to more profitable ventures.”

“There’s profit in law enforcement?”

“I was thinking spiritually.”

Two hours later, he called me.

“Mr. Loach was unavailable but I reached a rather talkative assistant. She had no idea who Mrs. D. was but when I told her I was looking for Mrs. D.’s maid on police business she was duly impressed, went into Mrs. D.’s file and pulled up the maid’s name along with an address. Alicia Santos was terminated after two years of employment the day after Zelda’s death, no reason listed. No driver’s license but I got a phone number. Another woman answered, Spanish only, so I got one of my sergeants, Jack Comfortes, to talk to her. Name’s Maria Garcia, she’s Alicia Santos’s roommate, and she hasn’t seen Santos since she left for work the day she was fired. She claimed she’d reported it to the police but couldn’t say which station. The home address is near Alvarado, Rampart, again, so I called Lorrie Mendez and there’s no record of any report. Did the roommate do something bad to Alicia and is trying cover up? Maybe, but Lorrie and Jack think an immigration issue is just as likely. I’m hoping she’s still around when Lorrie and I drop in.”

“When, not if.”

“Three women gone in less than three weeks? Yeah, the grammar says it all.”

Detective Il Lorena Macias Mendez had cinnamon skin, honey-blond hair, black eyes, and a face that brought to mind Aztec carvings. We met up with her on Sixth Street, near MacArthur Park. A few grizzled men lolled hear the border of the park. Our presence cleared the area quickly.

Milo said, “Urban renewal.”

Mendez said, “New strategy for the city council. So fill me in.”

As Milo and I talked, she gazed at the lake, focusing on one spot for several seconds, then shifting suddenly and zeroing in on a new target.

Purposeful as a remote-operated camera. But she never lost the conversational thread.

Finally, Milo said, “Something in the park, Lorrie?”

“Pardon — oh, sorry, guys. Looking for junkies, used to patrol here.” She shook her head. “It could be so beautiful but it’s just a total dump.”

“Spot anything iffy?”

“Plenty of iffy, but not our problem right now.” Midthirties, five three, firm and stocky, Mendez wore a gray tweed jacket over black slacks and red flats and carried a black leather handbag. Nice tailoring on the jacket but you could still spot the gun. Maybe that was the idea.

Milo finished up and Mendez said, “Who knew a missing would turn out this way? I don’t normally do ’em but Imelda’s cousin knows a friend of a cousin of my great-aunt, et cetera. Moment I heard about it, I got a bad feeling. We’re talking a lady who rarely left home when she wasn’t working, had no vices or boyfriends. Obviously, I took a first look at the son and the daughter-in-law, interviewed them and picked up on grapevine stuff. If they’re faking grief they deserve Oscars, and no one ever saw anything but affection between them and Imelda. So I’d love to give them some sort of answer. But Mama being part of a twisted thing in Bel Air? You really think so?”