Breakdown

Chapter 25

Over the next few days, with no illusions of success, I continued running on St. Denis Lane.

With two women dead, what could it hurt to look around?

Of course, I knew the real reason: my chronic issues with unfinished business.

When helping patients assess their problems, I often use life-disruption as a yardstick. If symptoms don’t disrupt your life, don’t worry about them.

I convinced myself I was doing a fine job maintaining a healthy balance: making time for Robin, doting a bit more on Blanche because our morning walks had lost out to aerobic reconnaissance.

I organized my files, cleaned the garage, spent half a day on an overdue pond water change, picked up a new referral from family court.

No disruption but for the questions I kept to myself.

On the morning of my eighth consecutive run — eighteen days since the death of Zelda Chase — I noticed a white van paused at the front gate of the DePauw estate. A female arm reached out from the driver’s side and punched a code on the call box.

Nothing mysterious about the vehicle, its purpose proclaimed in metal-flake turquoise lettering topped by a cartoon of a pretty, smiling woman meant to evoke the fifties: blouse tucked tightly into pedal pushers, knotted bandanna atop coiffed blond hair, broom in one hand, dustpan in the other.

A toll-free number.

The gate clunked open and the van drove through, offering a view of the pathway I’d climbed the night I’d seen Zelda’s corpse. As it rattled shut, a mental burr lodged in my brain.

Worth telling Milo about? Or just another symptom of neurotic tenacity?

During the run back home I tossed the question back and forth. Showered and shaved and dressed and drank coffee and ate some toast, before heading back to Robin’s studio and making small talk with her and petting the dog, then settling in my office and going through email.

Taking plenty of time to see if the burr fell free.

I picked up the phone.

Milo said, “A cleaning service. That’s significant because...?”

“When we spoke to Enid DePauw she said she had a maid. A woman who’d been with her at the desert. Who she gave the night off to when they got back to L.A. Why would she need a service?”

“It’s a big place. She wants additional help.”

“That’s probably it.”

“Alex,” he said, “what the hell is this about? And why the hell are you still going back there?”

“Forget I called—”

“Whoa, whoa. What’s bugging you?”

“We know Imelda was sociable and that she left the Aziz property occasionally for lunch breaks. The only people I routinely see when I’m running are domestics talking to each other. The neighbor across the street from the Azizes — yes, I talked to him — confirmed it. He rarely saw Imelda because he’s housebound. But when she was talking to someone, it was another housekeeper. DePauw lives moments away so there’s a good chance—”

“The DePauw maid schmoozed with Imelda. So?”

“What if DePauw hired a service because now her maid has failed to show up? What if there really is a stalker picking off women in uniforms?”

He sighed. “Back to the lurking loony... are you saying his tastes extend to homeless psychotic women? Because I spoke to Bernstein and he says he’d need strong evidence to be convinced Zelda’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“Like I said, forget it, sorry for wasting your time.”

“You never waste my time,” he said. “That’s what bugs the hell out of me. You keep life interesting and I’m phobic about ignoring you.”

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.”