Breakdown

Chapter 23

He walked in toting his battered green not-even-close-to-leather attaché case and dressed for a day off in a gray golf shirt, brown poly slacks worn low to give his gut breathing room, and the eternal desert boots, this pair tan eroded to gray. A loose bit of sole flapped at one toe-end.

He saw me looking at it. “Hey, Rick says they’re a fashion statement, now.”

“Sole-ful, huh?”

He grumbled and loped to the kitchen and began the mandatory fridge-grope.

I said, “Off duty?”

“On duty but a slow day, no need to meet the public. Too damn many slow days recently.”

“Bored?”

“Near-comatose. The citizens of West L.A. are failing to fulfill their homicidal obligations.” He straightened, brushed hair off his forehead, turned toward me. “Rumors are circulating. Not enough crime, too many detectives, time to streamline.”

“You’re protected.”

“Only up to a point. They can’t dump me outright but they can bug me about early retirement. Or try to break down my already fragile psyche by shoving trivial stuff at me.”

“Assaults, robberies, burglaries.”

“If I wanted to fill out reports all day, I’d be working for the government.”

“As opposed to...”

“Continuing to serve a paramilitary organization that makes use of my exceptional people skills, heroic nature, and inductive talents to bring bad guys to justice.”

He bent and searched a lower shelf. “You guys are kinda sparse in the nourishment department... okay, here’s a start.”

Scrambling five eggs with slices of leftover steak and hastily shredded fried chicken, he tossed in onions, mushrooms, bell pepper, celery, and zucchini, topped it all off with spirited dashes of cayenne, garlic salt, and whipping cream.

Moments later he’d plated a shimmering yellow mound the size of a cat, tucked a paper towel under his chin, and sat down. “Where’s the pooch? I’m Pavlov’d to where I need to feed her first.”

“On an errand with Robin.”

“So I caught you at a lonely-guy time.”

“What’s not earthshaking?”

“I owe a favor to a Rampart D.” He shoveled in omelet, chewed, swallowed, repeated. “Damn, forgot fluids.”

I poured him a glass of water and brewed a pot of coffee.

He said, “Sterling service. And you’re not even an actor.” He looked up. “Did that evoke Zelda? Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. We live in L.A., everything’s about performance. And I’m resolved about Zelda.”

“Choosing to be optimistic about the kid? Good.” His eyes drifted leftward as he took another forkful.

Hiding something?

I said, “Earth-not-shaking?”

“Okay, the favor is looking into a Rampart missing. Fifty-eight-year-old woman named Imelda Soriano, lives with her son’s family in Pico-Union. She’s always worked as a housekeeper, has been freelancing for agencies in order to spend more time with her grandkids. Eight days ago she headed to her current job, didn’t return home, hasn’t been heard from since. D II Lorrie Mendez took it as a favor to the family, there’s some sort of connection. Lorrie and I have worked together, she’s a peach of a gal — pardon the gender specificity. She hasn’t made any headway past Imelda maybe being on the first bus of two she takes to work, driver thought so but couldn’t be sure. Driver of the second bus had no idea.”

He wiped his mouth. “Why am I telling you all this? Because Imelda’s job is on my turf, Lorrie hadn’t been able to make contact with the estate manager, and the agency’s attitude was ‘our labor pool is transient, she’s already been replaced.’ ”

I said, “Living with her son’s family is transient?”

“It’s a euphemism, Alex.”

“Immigration issues.”

He nodded. “Lorrie thought maybe I could pull some Westside clout.”

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.

Milo said, “How much notice does the family give before showing up?”

“Usually none,” said Stoeller. “Sometimes they let Jason know so he can stock the fridge and he texts me. Six months ago they wanted McDonald’s.”

“So they’re basically absentee.”

“But maintenance needs to be maintained constantly. The biggest chunk of my time is spent here, letting people in and out, handling service calls. I also look into the family’s commercial and industrial properties. Not the business end. Cleaning, repairs.”

“Got your hands full.”

“It’s like the Golden Gate Bridge. The moment they finish painting it, they need to start again. But no worries, I like my job, no two days are the same.”

I said, “A place this size needs a sizable crew. Who did Imelda Soriano work with?”

“Actually,” said Stoeller, “we only employ one cleaner at a time.”

Milo said, “How big is the house?”

“Thirty-two-thousand square feet, give or take, but our experience has been that one person’s enough. I know that sounds skimpy but the family prides itself on thrift.” He rolled his eyes. “Actually it works out okay. There’s an automatic vacuum system, HEPA filters and other advancements attached to the HVAC system, and most of the rooms are unused.”

“So no one we can talk to about Ms. Soriano?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Except you,” said Milo. “You’d see her regularly.”

Even white teeth bounced atop Stoeller’s lower lip. “I feel like I’m being tested. I’m cooperating, guys. But I can’t help you.”

“See it from our perspective, Man. A mother and a grandmother’s been gone for over a week and her family’s going through hell. She worked here, you still work here.”

“I remember an older woman who stopped showing up, guys. Apart from possibly ‘hello,’ we had no contact. I can tell you she was a good worker. If she hadn’t been, we’d have had contact, all right.”

Milo showed Stoeller the photo.

Stoeller nodded. “So she’s missing? How worrisome. When she didn’t show up on schedule, I assumed she’d flaked and complained to the agency.”

“How soon after she didn’t show up?”

“When she was two hours late.”

“A Detective Mendez spoke to Mr. Clegg and informed him Ms. Soriano was missing.”

“That may be true, but Jason never informed me,” said Stoeller. “Now, if there’s nothing else—”

“Bear with us a bit longer,” said Milo. “How do people get admitted to the property?”

“The same way you did. I check them out and if they qualify, I push a button.”

“What about exiting?”

“There’s a button inside the gate that can be used. But policy is not to inform everyone so generally I’m in charge of egress.” From his pocket, he pulled a tiny white remote studded with red buttons.

“What about the gardeners?”

“Same process for everyone. And when operations are disrupted, as with Ms. Soriano’s discontinuation, I change the gate code.”

“Meticulous.”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“So Ms. Soriano was able to leave at will but would have to beep in.”

Same setup as BrightMornings.

“Well, yes,” said Stoeller. “Unless I place the gate on hold-open. Which I do when trash bins are wheeled to the street or there’s a prolonged delivery.”

“I assume your cameras feed to a computer.”

“More than one computer.”

“Including your laptop.”

“No. To the house’s central system.”

“What about gate openings and closings? Are they coded separately?”

Head shake. “The movement of the gate isn’t programmed per se. Obviously when someone leaves, the camera will capture that image. Though I have to say the camera on the gate doesn’t pan widely, it just covers the drive.”

“Well, we appreciate your getting things moving for us.”

“Meaning?”

“It’ll be good to see your video feed so we get a handle on Ms. Soriano’s comings and goings.”

“There wouldn’t be much coming and going, guys. She was here to work.”

“She wasn’t allowed any breaks?”

“Of course she was. Two for coffee and half an hour for lunch.” Stoeller stroked his beard and took another look at the photo. “Did she leave the premises occasionally? I’m sure she did but she always returned promptly. I know all this sounds impersonal and elitist but you need to understand what it’s like for me here. I don’t sit around enjoying the ambience, I’m constantly dealing with issues — mostly with the rental properties — so when something goes smoothly, I ignore it. In terms of how often she left on break or where she went, all I can say is we’re not talking huge blocks of time and she didn’t have a car, none of them do, we’ve never had a single maid park here. So my guess is she took brief walks. You’re not thinking someone hurt her out there?”

Gazing at the gate. As if the notion of violence in the vicinity was ludicrous.

Milo said, “We need to cover all bases, Man. Now if you could retrieve the last month of feed from the gate camera, that would be great.”

Stoeller clicked his tongue. “Wish I could help you but I can’t set that in motion without authorization.”

“From?”

“Jason. And he’ll probably need to ask someone above him.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“You have no idea.”

“How long will it take?”

“Hopefully, not too long — I’m sorry, guys, it’s not my call. How about you give me your email and as soon as I’ve downloaded the file I’ll send it to you.”

“Thanks, Man.”

That sounded hipsterish. Stoeller probably liked it. He said, “My pleasure, guys.”

“Who’d the agency send to replace Imelda?”

Stoeller brightened. “That I can tell you right away — she’s here now, hold on.”

Darting behind the door, he closed it.

Milo said, “You find him hinky in any way?”

“Not really,” I said. “More like job anxiety.”

“My take, too. He doesn’t follow through on the security feed, I’ll change my mind.”

The door opened and Stoeller emerged with a woman around twenty wearing a pale-blue uniform and carrying a dust-cloth.

“This is Rosa Benitez,” he said, sounding as if he’d just learned a new fact.

Milo and I smiled at the young woman. Her eyes were huge, brown, terrified.

“Just a few questions, Rosa.”

No reaction.

Manfred Stoeller said, “She doesn’t speak much English but I do Spanish. Want me to translate?”

“Appreciate it.” He showed the photo to Rosa. “Ask her if she knows this woman.”

No need to translate. Rosa flinched and said, “Imelda.”

“Ask her how she knows Imelda.”

Stoeller rattled off rapid Spanish. Rosa replied haltingly. Stoeller said, “From the agency. They talked in the office a few times.”

“Why did looking at the photo make her upset?”

Same routine. Stoeller said, “She heard Imelda disappeared.”

“From who?”

“Other women at the agency.”

“Anyone have theories about what happened to Imelda?”

Rosa’s reply was rapid but quiet and Stoeller had to cant his ear closer. “No one has been told anything. That’s what makes it frightening. The unknown.”

Milo looked at me.

I said, “Ask her if she has any ideas about what might’ve happened to Imelda?”

Five hard head shakes. Saucer eyes.

I said, “Is there anything she can tell us about Imelda? What kind of person she was?”

Stoeller translated.

Rosa smoothed a strand of hair and looked off in the distance. Her eyes had moistened.

She said, “Muy amigable.”

Stoeller said, “Very friendly.”

Rosa talked some more. Stoeller turned to us, any trace of insouciance gone.

“She says it’s wrong. Someone so nice to have bad luck.”