Jonathan Kellerman - Breakdown

The trust deed to the house on St. Denis Lane was dated the same year Enid had been certified legal to drive. The property had been purchased from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios, Inc., and titled to the Averell D. and Enid L. DePauw Family Trust. Eleven years ago a new trust had been established in Enid’s name only. A death certificate for Averell Dunham DePauw five months earlier provided the explanation. It also clarified lapsed papers on the Rolls.

The deceased had been seventy-one, twelve years older than his widow, when he’d succumbed to “atherosclerotic coronary artery disease.”

Milo kept probing, limited to city and county data in the public domain because he lacked grounds for a peek at Social Security or income tax records.

The DePauws’ wedding license was dated thirty-seven years ago, five years prior to purchase of the estate. Their address at the time, a rental in the Malibu Colony.

No record of children born to the couple, no co-beneficiaries, charitable foundation, or obvious source of income for Enid. When Milo logged onto a directory of old business listings, he found several dating back to the sixties for Averell DePauw and Associates, Ltd., first on South Beverly Drive in Beverly Hills and later on North Canon Drive in that same city. Stockbrokers, asset managers, financial advisors.

He said, “Guy bought the house from a studio. Maybe moneyman to the stars?”

I said, “Some kind of inside track. Enid told us ‘interesting people’ had lived there, including Jean Harlow. Back then the studios kept luxury properties as crash pads for A-list actors. The kind of asset that got kicked loose when money was tight. If MGM was having cash-flow issues, they might not want it publicized. A private sale to an insider would benefit all concerned.”

“You follow that world?”

“I’ve had patients in the business.”

“Ah.” He searched for foreclosures and forfeitures, found none. “Looks like ol’ Av managed his own money well. Let’s see if he got sued for anything.”

Moments later, he was shaking his head. “Not a single day in court for Mr. D. so that didn’t turn Enid gun-shy. Next stop: Palm Springs. We get lucky and someone verifies her time line at the condo, we’ll put her fib down to being flustered and get back to conjuring up an ignoble savage slavering in the shrubbery.”

He typed, made several calls, pushed away from the desk.

No listing of any property deeded to Enid DePauw or her trust in Palm Springs. Same for the neighboring desert communities — Palm Desert, Rancho Mirage, La Quinta, Indian Wells.

“Too bad. I was hoping to forget about her.”

I said, “She might rent. Or keep a unit in a development or a time share in a hotel where the deed’s registered to a corporation.”

“Gated paradise with a Greg Norman course? She said, ‘My condo.’ That doesn’t sound like renting.”

“Pay enough monthlies and you start feeling like an owner.”

“If that’s the case, I’m screwed.”

I said, “On the positive side, a resort or hotel might have detailed documentation of comings and goings.”

“Optimism at this time of day is unseemly, lad.”

“Late afternoon should be gloomy?”

“Anytime’s the right time for gloomy. I’ve got my homework assignment, leave me to it and enjoy a normal life. I come across something, I’ll let you know.”

“How about I stay and we divide it up. You take developments, I try hotels. My end shouldn’t take long, I don’t see her bunking in a Motel 6. Or you could call that assistant at the law firm and see if she’s still talkative.”

“That would be nice... nah, don’t wanna push it with her. Just in case ol’ Enid has been bad and her lawyer finds out I’m snooping and battens the hatches tighter.”

He turned back to his keyboard.

I sat there.

“Fine,” he said, “you twisted my arm.”

We went downstairs and he asked to borrow a civilian laptop from a clerk named Kanesha.

“The doctor here won’t screw it up, I promise. I’ll repay you with a humongous lunch, you choose the place.”

She said, “You like vegetarian?”

“I could pretend.”

“Secret of a happy life, Lieutenant. Like when we tell guys they’re perfect.” To me: “You’ll be careful? I’m out of here in two hours, need to take it with me. And no downloads of monkeys who look like Hitler, please. Got enough of that with my kids.”

Milo worked at his desk and I sat on a chair in the hallway outside his door, typing away and calling on his personal cell.

Lots of luxury lodging in the desert communities. An hour later, both of us had come up empty.

He said, “Never worked so hard trying to verify an alibi. Maybe I will try that assistant but I want to sleep on it, see if there’s some other way to go. You up for a drink? Or two or three? Either way, I’m indulging. Or as you guys call it, self-reinforcing.”

I phoned Robin. Her voice competed with background machine noise. “Oh, hi, hon, just started working, had to fix some jigs and got held up. I could use an hour or two, if you don’t mind.”

“Perfect timing. I’ll be hanging out with you-know-who.”

Milo said, “That’s the best I get?”

Robin said, “I hear him back there. Hanging out as in distilled spirits? I was hoping we could share a bottle of wine out by the pond.”

“I’ll have a beer.”

“There you go, a guy thing.”

During the last case we worked together, Milo took me to a bar a few blocks from the station, a place I’d never been. He was greeted by name. I thought I knew all his haunts. Live and learn.

I figured we’d head to the same place but he pocketed his car keys and said, “Separate vehicles, save you some time,” and scrawled an address on south Westwood Boulevard. “Right on your way home. Call me responsible.”

I arrived first; a restaurant named Bosco’s just north of Pico. The tricolor neon sign above the door roughly approximated a map of Italy. One of the few pre-mall holdovers on Westwood. Happy Hour lasted until three.

I was checking out the posted menu when Milo drove up and said, “ Buena sera, Alessandro.”

We entered a world based on nitrogen, oxygen, and marinara. Snug, dim, too warm, an oppressively low ceiling. A warped lattice partition divided the space into red Naugahyde booths for eating and red Naugahyde stools lined up at a scarred wooden bar. Every stool was occupied, mostly by older men who looked as if they were waiting for a casting call on the next mob movie. No one in the booths until we took one at the back.

An ancient waitress wearing a too-short dress and intense red hair ambled over. Her mouth moved as if she were chewing gum but she wasn’t. If you called her a “server” she’d probably slap you.

“Hiya, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Mary.” Milo ordered a double shot of whiskey, iced tea, and a large pizza with everything on it.

Mary said, “The usual. And you?”

My Grolsch order elicited a wink and a shimmy. “I figured you weren’t a Bud guy. We might even have that.” To Milo: “Class act, your friend.”

“Doing my best to improve the neighborhood.”

“Taxpayers deserve it from you.”

When she left, I said, “How many of your hidey-holes don’t I know about?”

“What — oh, this? A stopover.”

“To where?”

“Like I said, right on the way to your place.”

“You need to fuel up before you visit?”

“Don’t get touchy. On certain days it helps to settle my system a bit so I can be civil to Robin and the pooch. You, I don’t care.”

The drinks came. My beer tasted like Bud.

I sat there as Milo drank and loosened his tie and plucked at an X of duct tape patching the arm of the booth.