Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter 2

As soon as the line cleared, I phoned the Aventura.

Miss Mars is here. Would you care to be put through?

No, thanks.

My next call was Ruben. At a conference in Memphis. The Internet had nothing to say about Thalia Mars. No surprise, I supposed. She’d lived most of her long life before techno-geeks decided privacy was irrelevant.

I spent the rest of the morning writing reports, broke at one P.M., slapped together a couple of turkey sandwiches and brewed iced tea, brought a tray out to the garden. Pausing by the pond, I tossed pellets to the koi, continued to Robin’s studio.

Two projects occupied her workbench, a gorgeous two-hundred-year-old Italian mandolin restored for the Metropolitan Museum of Art and an electric contraption that resembled a giant garden slug.

The grub-like thing was part cello, part guitar, and dubbed the Alienator by the aging British rocker who’d commissioned it. Forced to learn classical violin as a kid, the invariably drunk Clive Xeno wanted to try his hand at bowing heavy metal. Per his insistence, the instrument was finished in metal-flake auto paint the color of pond sludge. An enamel-tile portrait of Jascha Heifetz protruded below the bridge, showing the maestro looking skeptical.

Robin, hair kerchiefed, wearing a black tee and overalls, was holding the monstrosity up to the skylight and shaking her head.

I said, “The customer’s always right.”

“Whoever coined that never met Clive. Ah, lunch. You’re a mind reader.”

Blanche, our little blond French bulldog, rose from her basket, waddled over, and rubbed her head on my ankle. I put the sandwiches on a table and fetched her a stick of jerky from the treat bag.

Robin gave the slug another look. “Five hundred hours of my life and I end up with this.”

“Think of it as an avant-garde masterpiece.”

“Isn’t ‘avant-garde’ French for ‘weird’?” Washing her hands, she kissed me, tossed a drop cloth over both instruments, untied her hair, and let loose a cascade of auburn ringlets. “This is after I convinced him to tone it down.”

“No more penis-shaped headstock.”

“That and Heifetz doing something gross. How’s your day going?”

“Finished some reports and heading out in a couple.”

“Milo beckoned?”

“I’m going to see a woman who claims to be nearly a hundred and wants to talk.”

“Claims to be? Like she’s only ninety-eight and is being pretentious?”

I laughed. “No reason to doubt her.”

“She introduced herself that way? I’m almost a hundred.”

“She worked it into the conversation.”

“Why not?” she said. “Last that long, you’d want to strut your stuff. My great-aunt Martina lived until ninety-eight and advertised it in every conversation. ‘Canned green beans, anyone? Been eating them for ninety-eight years and I’m still breathing.’ ”

She picked up a sandwich, nibbled, put it down. “Delicious, you’re the perfect man... so why would a hundred-year-old chick call you?”

“She didn’t go into details.”

“But you agreed to do a house call?”

“She’s one of Ruben Eagle’s donors.”

“So you do a good deed and get to escape the office. It has been a while since the Big Guy called. I’ve been wondering when it would get to you.”

“I’ve been restless?”

She kissed my nose. “No, darling, but I know you. The crime rate falls, good for society, boring for you.”

She took another bite of sandwich. “A hundred years old, huh? Imagine the things she’s seen.”

When you’ve lived in a city for years, there’s no need to know much about hotels. Robin and I sometimes ate or drank at the Bel-Air and back in my hospital days I’d attended fundraisers at Hiltons and such. My exposure to the Aventura had been driving west on Sunset and passing a directional sign staked at the mouth of an entrance framed by palms. First time for everything.

The opening fed to a cobblestone drive. The palms were overgrown, bordering on unruly. A second sign legislated 5 MPH. Speed bumps placed every twenty feet enforced the rule. Combined with the cobbles, that made for a kidney-thumping crawl.

Beautiful, sunny L.A. day. Isn’t it always? But when eucalyptus joined the vegetative mix, branches dense enough to form a roof created an artificial dusk. Ten spinal concussions in, I reached a fork marked by a clot of massive banana plants. Valet and self-parking to the right, hotel entrance to the left.

I pulled the Seville into a surprisingly shabby asphalt lot boxed on three sides by pale-pink stucco walls and backed by fifty-foot Canary Island pines. Out-of-state plates and rental cars predominated. A couple of golf carts in Reserved slots. No valets in sight.

I parked, walked for a while, finally arrived at a structure that might’ve been designed by Clive Xeno during a bender: two stories of tile-roofed hacienda in the same pallid pink, attached to a four-story steel-and-bronze glass cylinder.

Cracks had formed in the older building’s stucco where it merged with the tower. Spanish Colonial mama struggling to birth a giant alien baby.

The only indication of the hotel’s identity was a rusty iron A above glass doors centering the newer addition. When I was two steps away, the panels hissed open, creating a maw that led to a three-story atrium — a tube within a tube. Background music was a brain-eroding electronic mantra flicked with random bird peeps. The ceiling was matte black embedded with starry-night LED bulbs. What might have been actual constellations, but I’m no astronomer.

To the right, thirty-plus feet of waterfall trickled down a pebbly glass wall. A scatter of leather deco-revival chairs dyed a strange liverish red were sided by chunks of resin pretending to be boulders. Empty chairs but for a hipster couple in their thirties facing each other as they worked separate iPhones. A girl around five stood near the woman, limp doll in her hand, thumb in her mouth.

Ranchero Revival meets Missile Silo meets twenties Paris meets Fred Flintstone via Beijing.

With an overhead tribute to the Griffith Park planetarium.

Maybe dealing with that on a daily basis helped a hundred-year-old brain stay in shape.

To the left, a pair of chrome elevators preceded glass doors leading to the older wing. At the center, Reception and Concierge shared a poured-concrete counter. Three pallid, ponytailed people in their twenties were on duty, a woman and two men, each the same five-six or so and wearing Asian-style tunics colored the hepatic hue of the chairs.

No name tags, no notice of my approach as thirty fingers continued to tap laptops.

When I reached the counter, one of the men smiled with astonishing warmth while continuing to type. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Ms. Mars.”

“Thalia,” said the woman. Now three wan faces found me fascinating.

“We love Thalia,” said the other man.

The woman said, “You’re her doctor. She said to send you right over.”

“She’s in Bungalow Uno,” said the first man.

The woman eyed the glass doors. “If you go through there, you’ll be in El O-ree-hee-nal. Just keep going and go outside and you’ll see a sign leading to The Green.”

I said, “O-ree—”

The first man said, “Ori-hi-naaal. Spanish for ‘original.’ ”

Second said, “What’s left of the old hotel. The Aventura believes in preservation and synthesis.”

The woman said, “Uno’s the last bungalow.”

First said, “We love Thalia.”

On the other side of the glass was a rose-carpeted hallway lined with numbered oak doors. The first few rooms had been converted to computerized card-slot entry. The rest retained heavy cast-bronze knobs and keyholes.

Partially ori-hi-naaal.

The corridor emptied to an echoing loggia that led outdoors. The air smelled like freshly cut grass. The Green was a wide stone path swathing through more palms, plus ferns and bromeliads. Like the entry drive, dimmed by overgrowth.

The first bungalow appeared fifty feet in, white clapboard, tar-roofed, swaddled in green. A sign over the door read Ocho: 8. The countdown continued with a series of identical structures through Dos: 2.

Then, a traipse through jungle until a larger building backed by a high pink wall slipped into view.

Uno: 1 was set on a raised foundation with three steps leading to a screened porch. A roof pitched higher, a brick chimney, and black shutters set it apart from the other bungalows. Paint flaked from boards, the roof was patched with tar where shingles had come loose.

Once upon a time, the VIP suite?

The location afforded privacy, the high wall security. But the distance from the parking lot would mean a serious hike for an older person. Maybe Thalia Mars was one of those super-specimens.

The porch door was open. As I climbed the steps, the arid voice I’d heard over the phone said, “Dr. Delaware! Who knew you’d be so handsome?”

Eighty or so pounds of vintage humanity in a Ming-blue dress sat in a rattan peacock chair and smiled up at me. The chair looked identical to the throne Sydney Greenstreet had occupied in Casablanca. The actor had been four times that weight and overflowed the cane. The current occupant evoked a toddler playing grown-up.

“Ms. Mars.” I extended my hand and received a quick, firm shake by fingers that felt like chopsticks. A ring set with a huge amethyst collided with my knuckles.

Thalia Mars’s wide amused mouth was augmented by meticulously applied coral lipstick. Her eyes were clear brown. Shoulder-length hair tinted the ivory of old piano keys had been whipped into a meringue of waves. Nearly a century of gravity had done its inevitable thing with her jawline, but a dagger-thin face below the cloud of hair retained enough integrity to suggest a once-firm chin and prominent cheekbones.

The blue dress was silk with long, tapered sleeves defining pipe-cleaner arms and a knee-length hem that revealed brief segments of seamed stocking. Yellow kitten-heeled sandals dangled well above the floor. Red toenails, silver manicure, diamond chips in her earlobes, a pearl necklace dangling from the dress’s high neckline well past the waist of an attenuated torso.

She took a deep breath, said, “Thank you for coming,” braced her hands on the sides of the chair, and took a while easing herself upright and planting her feet. She tottered and I moved toward her but she laughed softly and waved me off.

Inhaling again, she drew herself up.

Maybe five feet tall, including the heels. Despite her attempt to straighten, her back remained humped, her head pitched forward. She swung her arms a few times and announced, “Hup two march.”

No movement at first. Then she began obeying her own command.

I followed her trudge across the porch and into a small living room enlarged by clever layout and natural light. The ceiling was white beams, the floor wide-plank pine burnished the color of old whiskey where it wasn’t concealed by a threadbare lilac-and-olive Persian rug.

A plum-colored mohair chair faced a limestone fireplace. Perpendicular to the hearth, gray velvet love seats faced each other across a black lacquer Chinese table. Silk throw pillows were scattered with a pseudo-randomness that requires care. Petite occasional tables were topped by glass-shaded lamps, one of which sported a dragonfly motif and might have been Tiffany. A floor lamp to the left of the fireplace, its base green enamel, its dome studded with bubbles of red glass and crowned by a faceted red finial the size of a cocktail olive, looked crude by comparison and probably wasn’t.

The scant remaining square footage was taken up by a two-chair dining table and a bare-bones kitchenette. A rear doorway suggested a dim hall.

Thalia Mars settled herself in the mohair chair and motioned me to the left-hand couch. “Thank you for indulging me, Doctor. Something to drink or a snack, perhaps?”

I said, “No, thanks,” just as a soft rap sounded on the front doorframe and a pretty young Filipina in a liver-colored frock entered wheeling a tray on a cart. “Teatime, Miss M. For two, like you asked.”

“Punctual as always, Refugia. Thank you, my dear.”

The tray was set down on the Chinese table. Crustless sandwiches, scones, chocolate wafers, cheese, grapes.

The maid snuck a look at me. “Bon appétit, Miss M.”

“Take a scone for yourself, dear.”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

“Indulge, dear, you’re perfectly trim. Take it from me, darling: Enjoy your appetite while you still have one. I can barely smell or taste, food has become hay and straw.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re fine,” said Refugia.

“Fine, but insensate, dear.” Brown eyes drifted upward. The tiny body swayed. “Sometimes I dream that I can taste mussels in France, tomatoes in Italy. Then I wake up with a tongue made of felt.” Soft laugh. “At least I wake up.”

“Oh, Miss M, you’ll always be okay.”

“Thank you, Refugia. That’s all, for now.”

“When should I come back to collect the tray?”

“Let’s say two hours, dear.”

Stripped of cargo, the cart rattled all the way to the stairs. When silence returned, Thalia Mars said, “Can’t taste tea, either, but I’m diligent about hydration. Would you please pour me a cup, Doctor? One lump but only half full, my wrists aren’t what they used to be. And take something for yourself. If that doesn’t violate a professional regulation.”

“I’m fine, Ms. Mars.”

“Fair enough but would you mind dispensing with half the formality? I promise to stick with ‘Doctor’ but I’d prefer you address me as Thalia. My parents were vaudevillians who had high hopes for me and named me after the comedic muse. To their great disappointment, I rebelled and became an accountant, but I’ve always liked the moniker.”

“Sure, Thalia.”

I poured and handed her the cup. She used both hands to guide it to her lips, lapped like a kitten and smiled over the rim. “Hearing my name on a young man’s lips is rather a kick — was that inappropriate? If it was, please forgive me. I’ve never had a personal experience with a psychologist.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Have I experienced a nervous breakdown?” The smile enlarged. “Not as far as I can tell.”

Slowly, painstakingly, she lowered the cup to the table. “So why have I imposed on you? I suppose honesty’s the best policy, so I’m going to come right out and admit my lack of complete candor over the phone.”

Patting her hair, she crossed her legs at the ankles. “When I said I was aware of your work at the hospital and admired it, that was sincere. However, that’s not why I called you. I became interested in your involvement in... less savory matters.”

I sat there.

“You don’t understand what I’m getting at, Doctor?”

“Why don’t you tell me.”

She reached for the teacup, missed, lost her balance. I took hold of her arm and stabilized her.

“Drat,” she said in a choked voice. “The thing that used to be my body has turned traitor.”

“May I hand you the cup?”

“Seeking permission?” She grinned. “You’re worried I’ll fly off the handle at some perceived slight.”

“Some people prefer doing things for themselves.”

“Old people.”

“All kinds of people.”

Brown eyes aimed at mine. “Yes, please, pour.”

I filled another half cup.

She said, “Done with finesse, Doctor. Is there someone at home for whom you regularly pour—” A hand shot to her lips. “Oops, that was a definite faux pas. Gad, I feel the fool.”

“You’re not being tested, Thalia.”

“Really?” she said. “Are we sure of that?”

“I am.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s kind of you to say — I suppose at this point you’re wondering if I am an utter fizzy-head. Perhaps I should dig up that driver’s license to prove I haven’t fibbed about my age.”

“I’ll take it as fact,” I said. “Though you do look considerably younger.”

“Always have. Not that there are standards for how artifacts are supposed to look. But vanity aside, have you met any other gals of my vintage?”

“I haven’t.”

“I suppose novelty counts for something.” She frowned. “Why am I going on?”

“It’s a new situation, Thalia.”

She stared at her lap. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Why don’t we start with why you think I can help you.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m a big reader, always have been. Always been a fan of the public library. Harder to visit there, now that I don’t drive. Refugia and some of the other infants who work here prod me to give the computer a try. I’m sure it would’ve proved helpful back in the Pleistocene era, when I had a job. But now?” She stuck out her tongue.

I said, “What kind of accounting did you do?”

“Nothing impressive, Doctor. I kept the books for a number of government departments, ended up at the county assessor until I retired.”

“How long has the hotel been your home?”

“A while,” she said. Lifting her cup with both hands, she sipped silently. The pinkie of her right hand extended. Nails perfect, every hair in place. A slight tremor had taken hold of her hands but she managed to put the cup down. “Would you be so kind as to hand me one of those chocolate biscuits?”

I complied and she nibbled twice before shaking her head. “Like eating lint. I used to love chocolate... anyway, how I found you. Sans the library, I have occasional copies of the paper delivered to me by the staff. Mostly when the yen to work a crossword or a Sudoku takes hold.”

She swiveled toward the partially open door. “Back in my bedroom, I’ve got a sixty-inch television, high-definition, the works. I record movies and that show about the Alaskan crab fishermen — have you seen it? Poor men taking their lives in their hands simply by going to work each day — what I’m trying to say, Dr. Delaware, is that I’m not a total Luddite. I enjoy being in touch.”

I said, “You came across my name in the paper.”

“More than once, though I wouldn’t call it often. Unrelated criminal cases but no explanation of what your involvement was. I found it intriguing.”

She recrossed her legs. “This is the point where I confess that I wasn’t totally accurate with regard to the Internet. Once you piqued my curiosity, I did have one of the infants look you up — what do they call it, Googling a search? What emerged was your work at the hospital, and that intrigued me further. Crimes and helping kiddies? I thought to myself: This is an interesting person. Western Pediatric really is an institution that I admire — would you mind helping me shift position? Just grab and pull me forward a smidge.”

She extended both hands. Her skin had turned icy. Using me as a counterweight, she inched forward, finally let go, breathing hard.

“Thank you. Now I have a question for you: What’s the current psychological wisdom with regard to guilt?”

“There really isn’t one.”

“Why not?”

“For some people, guilt can be crippling. For others, it’s helpful.”

“Hmm... how about an example of when it’s beneficial?”

“People with no capacity for self-examination are capable of terrible things. Guilt helps society sustain itself.”

“What kind of people are we talking about?”

“The extreme example would be psychopaths.”

“Crazy people.”

“No, psychopaths are sane but they’re selfish, lack empathy, and can be cruel and impulsive.”

“What we used to call bad eggs,” she said. She went silent, looked to the side. “Can total scoundrels be changed? Or at least channeled into something productive?”

“If it suits their purposes.”

“So, not really. Do bad eggs inevitably exploit the good eggs?”

“Again, Thalia, if it’s in their best interests.”

“Big dog eats little dog when hungry.”

I nodded. “Psychopaths are good at sniffing out victims. Psychopaths with brains and charisma can succeed on a grand scale.”

“You could be describing politicians.”

I smiled.

She said, “I worked for the county, don’t get me started. All right, another question: When looking for their victims, is there a type they go for?”

“Whoever they sense will fulfill their needs.”

“Predators with a nose for prey.”

“Exactly.”

“Do they specialize? Thieves running with thieves, burglars with burglars?”

“Criminologists used to believe they did. Now we know that’s not true.”

“Bad is simply bad.”

“There’s a psychopathic range of behavior, but it’s narrower than for morally normal people.”

“But theoretically,” she said, “any miscreant is capable of anything. Violence, for example.”

“Smarter psychopaths tend to avoid violence because it’s usually a losing strategy. But in the end, it depends on whether their goals can be achieved nonviolently.”

“If push comes to shove, nothing stops them.” She drew a hand across her gullet.

“Are you asking about someone in particular, Thalia?”

“Oh, no... what a disheartening picture we’ve drawn of humanity, Doctor. I suppose I was hoping for better. Would still like to think of our planet as an evolutionary gem rather than an orbiting hunk of waste material. Several years ago when I saw photos taken from that faraway telescope — the Hubble — I was cheered. The universe seemed beautiful. Jewel-like. But I suppose one needs to be light-years away to see it like that.”

I said, “Thalia, context is important. Psychopaths can be disruptive but they’re a very small percent of the population.”

“Most people are morally sound.”

“I believe so.”

“You believe?” she said. “What does the science of psychology have to say about it?”

“It’s not a topic that’s been studied well.”

“I see... this has been most helpful, Dr. Delaware. Is our time just about up? I don’t wear a wristwatch anymore, too heavy. And the only clocks I have are above the stove and on my bedside table, so if you don’t mind — is that a vintage Rolex on your wrist?”

“Girard-Perregaux.” Gift from a great-uncle, a Battle of the Bulge hero who’d bartered it for candy bars in postwar France and came home wanting to forget.

“Very chic, Doctor. What time does it proclaim?”

“We’ve got a quarter hour left.”

“Really?” She suppressed a yawn. “Excuuuse me, so sorry. Would you mind terribly if we kicked in early? I’m flagging.”

“No problem.” I stood.

She reached out a hand. I gave her mine. She held on.

“Will you come see me tomorrow, Dr. Delaware? Perhaps a bit earlier in the day, so I can conserve my energy, say eleven A.M.? Oops, I nearly forgot. Your fee. You’ll find a check over by the blue Tiffany, the one with the dragonflies. Aren’t they lovely creatures, so ephemeral. Would you mind fetching it yourself?” Patting her knees. “The hinges are creaking.”

I walked to the lamp. A cream-colored paper corner peeked from under a bronze base molded into the stalk of a lily.

Bracing the lamp, I pulled out a seven-by-five envelope, heavy stock, no personalization. Inside was a check drawn on the personal account of Thalia M. Mars, made out in a gracious but shaky hand.

Six thousand dollars.

“This is way too much, Thalia, and as I said over the phone, a retainer’s not called for.”

“Consider it an account to be drawn upon.”

“That’s the definition of a retainer.”

“It is when advance payment is for the convenience of the payee,” she said. “However, in this case, you’re helping me keep things simple.”

“Even so, Thalia, six thousand—”

A coral grin livened her face. “Are you doubting I’ll last long enough to deplete the full amount? If so, what’s the big deal? You’ll reap a windfall.”

“Thalia—”

“Just joshing, Dr. Delaware. Look, the check’s already made out, let’s not haggle. By doing it my way, you really are helping me avoid constant calculating, writing, recording.”

She blew a raspberry. “Ledgers were my life for decades, I saw them in my dreams, have had quite enough of that, thank you. And should you come out on the plus end, nothing will stop you from donating any overage to charity. I’m sure Dr. Eagle would appreciate that.”

I said, “Payment aside, I’m still not clear about the purpose of our sessions.”

“You’re not? I thought I was being lucid as a diamond. All right, allow me to sum up: What I want from you is exactly what you just provided. Clarification of questions that arise, plus open ears and an open mind.”

She yawned, covered her mouth. “Excuse me — I really am running out of steam. Tomorrow at eleven?”

Before setting out, I’d checked my calendar. Open-ended conference call on a three-child custody case at nine A.M., new evaluation at twelve thirty.

“I’m not free for most of tomorrow, Thalia.”

“No, of course not, why would you be, you’re a man in demand. All right, is there any time you could squeeze me in?”

She winked. “As I mentioned, I do have a rather momentous birthday coming up.”

“I can probably be here between ten and ten thirty but if an earlier appointment runs late, we’ll have to reschedule.”

She clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Ten it is!”

“I’d still like to know more about your goals for our sessions.”

“My immediate goal is breathing, Doctor.”

“Seriously, Thalia.”

“Oh, must I be? I thought I wasn’t being tested.” She wagged a finger. “Gotcha!”

I fought laughter and lost.

“Aha! I’ve amused you!” she said. “And just to show what a nice gal I am, I won’t even ask for a discount.”

I drove home knowing I’d been played by a tiny, wizened person. Why didn’t it bother me?

Because I found the hints she dropped interesting? Guilt, criminal patterns, victim selection, incorrigibility.

The universe as a jewel, not junk.

Despite what she’d said, people don’t see psychologists for theoretical discussion. So the past half hour had been all about self-defense and possibly denial.

Something personal she wasn’t ready to discuss?

A woman with a past? Nearing the end of her years and seeking atonement?

Putting all that aside, she was eons out of my patient range. Did open ears and an open mind constitute valid use of my professional time? Was any sort of payment justified, let alone a six-grand retainer?

I’d give her another session, take it from there.

Meanwhile, I’d hold off cashing the check.

Robin knows better than to ask me about patients. But when I got home and found her in the kitchen feeding Blanche supper, she said, “Have fun with your new girlfriend?”

“It was different.”

“After you left, I did a little cybering. Did you know that a third of centenarians live independently? Superior protoplasm, I guess.”

I poured myself coffee, offered her some, but she said, “No, thanks, there’s enough caffeine in me to go rock-climbing blindfolded.”

She portioned out the last bit of canine cuisine and sat down across from me. “I asked about fun because you looked kind of chipper when you came in.”

I smiled and shrugged.

She ran a finger over her lip. “No more nosy-girl. But anything that lifts your spirits is okay with me.”