Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter 20

Milo said, “Rome and Jule save the day and now they’re gonna get grounded.”

“Send ’em consolation prizes,” I said. “LAPD flashlights for future exploration.”

He laughed. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

I said, “Can your mental state handle some purely theoretical input?”

“I’m made of stern stuff. What?”

I told him what I’d learned about Leroy Hoke, the LaPlante/Fred Drancy robberies, the cute young blonde at Perino’s nestling under Hoke’s arm.

“You think she’s Thalia.”

“What’s your opinion?” I showed him the photo on my phone.

He said, “Could be. That’s Hoke, huh? Kinda country... who’s the hulk with them?”

“No idea.”

He returned the phone. “Let’s assume our gal made her fortune laundering the wages of sin. How does that help solve her murder?”

“Hoke was never arrested for the LaPlante robbery and I haven’t found any record of the jewels being recovered. But not long after, he got sent up for tax evasion. What if he was betrayed by an insider? Not Thalia. If she’d sold Hoke out, she wouldn’t have lasted a week. But a year before he died he sent her a book about a heist gone wrong due to betrayal. ‘Hey this guy got it.’ That could’ve been a warning about another potential back-stab.”

“Why warn her ten years after he got sent up?”

“Maybe because it was shortly after Thalia got active financially, until then she’d been lying low. Think about it: She’d just moved into the Aventura and was buying real estate. Maybe Hoke activated her because his priorities changed. He got sick, knew he didn’t have long and wanted to take care of Thalia. Or just the opposite, he was figuring to get out and wanted to take care of himself. Either way, a tax felon sitting on an illicit fortune risked discovery and confiscation. So he used Thalia as a shadow investor. But raising her profile brought its own risk, so he sent her the book, with a coded message to be careful.”

“Telling her to watch out for some other thug. An associate Hoke hadn’t managed to disappear.”

“Or,” I said, “the victim of the heist, not exactly a solid citizen, himself.”

“Count Whoever.”

“Aka Fred Drancy.”

He pulled out a panatela, jammed it in his mouth, unlit. As his jaws clenched and slackened, the cigar bobbed like a yardarm.

“Thalia couldn’t have been at serious risk, Alex. She survived another sixty-plus years.”

“Which supports what we’ve been saying: Hoke took care of the immediate threat but it crossed generations.”

“Third-, fourth-generation bad seeds.”

“One of whom could be lying right there. Wars have been fought based on thousand-year grudges, the same for family feuds. Maybe there’s a clan that’s passed down a story of being cheated out of a big score, and one of the offspring finally decided to do something about it. Thalia told me she chose me because I worked with you. Her plan was to make sure I could be trusted, then get you involved. Even at the risk of making herself an accessory to a whole lot of long-cold crimes. At her age, what could anyone do to her? Unfortunately, her timing was off.”

He took out a matchbook, tore off a match, bent it, slipped it into his pocket. The cigar followed. “So all I have to do is look for some lowlife who hung with Hoke in the bad old days and trace his family tree.”

“Or start with Waters and Bakstrom and work backward.”

“The natural history of nasties... lemme see that picture again.”

I retrieved the Perino’s shot.

“The other guy,” he said, “central casting, goon, no? We find out his name was Moose Bakstrom or Biff Waters, I’ll buy you a case of Chivas. Blue, green, name your color.”

I said, “We could start with the original case files on Hoke’s tax bust and the LaPlante robbery.”

“Something that old won’t be computerized, and paper files are dumped in some out-in-the-boonies place the department claims is an archive.”

“I’ll call Maxine Driver tomorrow, see if she has advice.”

“There you go,” he said.

As we headed for the Seville, he found the match and the panatela and lit up. “History’s peachy, but I’m kinda partial to current events.”

I reached Driver at ten A.M.

“You have something to tell me?”

“More like another question.”

Silence. “I see.”

“Once the case is resolved, you’ll be the first person I call.”

“You remind me of a guy I dated in grad school. Very earnest, lots of promises.”

“He keep any of them?”

“A few.”

“I’ll do better.”

“Ha. What now?”

“I’d like to email you a photo of Hoke with a man, see if you can identify him.”

I pushed a button. She said, “Where’d you get this?”

“Web article on Perino’s.”

“Darn, wish I’d thought of that. Is the girl your centenarian victim?”

“Maybe. Any idea who the bruiser is?”

“Nope, sorry. Looks like a bodyguard.”

“Is there anyone you can think of who’d know more about Hoke?”

“Doubtful, gangster-research isn’t exactly a hot topic for historians,” she said. “The grant money goes to gender inequality and colonialism — wait a sec, there might be someone. Janet Pitcairn at Princeton, I see her at conferences. She’s into the East Coast mob, gets foundation dough by framing it as research on ethnic immigration patterns. Maybe she knows someone, I’ll give her a call.”

“Ask her about Fred Drancy — Count LaPlante’s real name. He was originally from Boston but moved to New York after the robbery and got into big-time trouble.”

I told her about the art theft.

She said, “Same M.O., different commodity. Maybe Drancy was a co-conspirator in the jewel thing, not a victim?”

“I hadn’t thought about that but sure, why not? With the consignors cut out, his share would’ve been larger than if he’d operated legitimately. Excellent idea, Professor. Thanks.”

“Maxine’s fine and you know how to thank me — yes, I’m a tape loop.”

“Persistence,” I said. “Perfect for research.”

“A heckuva lot more productive than spending all afternoon arranging one’s shoes so they face precisely the same way. Which is not to say I wasn’t an ideal child.”

“I really appreciate the time, Maxine.”

“I probably shouldn’t admit it,” she said, “but this is turning out to be fun. My parents wanted me to be an orthodontist. They still have no clue why I do what I do.”

I left messages for Milo. He called in shortly after two P.M.

I told him Driver’s conjecture about Drancy. “If it’s true, add his offspring to the bad seed list.”

“I like it,” he said. “His being in on it woulda made the job a cinch. Alarm’s off, safe door’s unlocked. What I don’t like is an expanded suspect pool but yeah, it’s definitely worth considering. Meanwhile, I’ve got a few more facts on Hoke. He was sentenced to eleven years, came down with cancer a few months before his release date and died in the prison infirmary. Prison historian only found one visitors log, covers the last three years. One person for Hoke, Christmas, Easter, July Fourth, Labor Day. Woman who signed in as Thelma Myers, no other details. She also shows up after Hoke’s death as custodian of his body. Without her, he’d have ended up in an unmarked grave on the prison grounds.”

“Thelma, Thalia.”

“Myers, Mars. Everyone reinvents themselves, Alex. No records that I can find, for all we know her real name’s Lola Montez.”

I said, “Limiting her visits to four times a year fits with keeping a low profile. So does showing up on holidays when she could get lost in a flood of visitors and wouldn’t be missed at her job.”

“I called Vollmer — the archive — to get Hoke’s arrest file and anything on the jewel thing. Gonna take a while, only one guy handles all the requests, some wild-child who managed to slide from homicide to traffic to eating dust and mold. He said he’d search manually, maybe he even will. No luck on the dump-site contractor, either, can’t get a response from the owners, property’s under dispute in a divorce.”

“Send me Bakstrom’s photo, I’ll go back and see if anyone recognizes him working there.”

“Don’t waste your time, Alex, we already canvassed the neighborhood.”

“Let me try, anyway.”

“Persistent.”

“Better than arranging toy soldiers so they face the same way.”

“What?”

“Send the picture. Anything on the bullet in Waters’s head?”

“Too messed up for ballistics, all they can say is it’s a .22. Which is kind of like saying a hit-and-run victim encountered a car. The pathologist did say she found the decomp impressive, given the date we know Waters cut out on his landlord, so he probably was stored somewhere hot and humid.”

I said, “Waters being killed so soon after Thalia’s murder could mean he was a pawn from the beginning.”

“Mr. and Ms. Adorable are anything but? Maybe one of them should be worrying. Why slice the pie at all?”

“Waters and Bakstrom were cellies. If Bakstrom already knew the woman, she could be on his visitors log.”

“So she could... that mind of yours, who says there’s no perpetual motion machine — all right, the photo’s coming your way. A better one actually, I had a tech guy Photoshop the Mohawk into oblivion. Went back to the hotel, now Refugia says probably and Bogomil says for sure. I put a BOLO out on him.”

The image came through.

I said, “Perfect.”

He said, “There you go, back to boosting my self-esteem.”

Too late that day but the following afternoon, equipped with Henry Bakstrom’s cleaned-up visage, I drove to Pacific Palisades.

Blue skies and golden sun can prettify anything but the unfinished construction fared poorly in the daylight, wood turned ashy and ragged by glare, fissures on blocks wound-like, the gouged earth soupy and arid in equal proportions.

No entry, the damaged section of fence had been replaced. But the spot where Waters had been tossed was obvious: a barren rectangle of dirt. I turned, ready to begin my door-to-door, when I spotted a woman descending the crest and heading my way. Fast pace, dictated by the small dog walking her.

She saw me and crossed the street. My waiting around made her glance at me nervously. Forties, brunette, tight body in a jean jacket, black leggings, yellow running shoes.

As she passed, I smiled and said, “Excuse me.”

She kept going but the dog skidded to a halt and studied me. She tugged; grimaced as her canine boss stood its ground. Stocky brown-and-white mutt, probably heavier than its size would imply. Staffordshire terrier mixed with something low-rise like corgi or dachshund.

The woman said, “Shit, Petey! Go!”

Petey planted his legs and kept appraising me.

I said, “He’s cute.”

The woman finally made eye contact. Yanking the now taut leash and cursing silently. Her glare said it was all my fault.

No sense pushing it. I began walking.

“Hold on, there!” I looked behind me. She’d recrossed the street and was charging toward me. Whipped out her phone and began jabbing buttons while in motion. Made a mistake and cursed and tried again and dropped the phone.

Petey looked amused. I retrieved it and handed it to her. She snatched it. Petey assumed an obedient sit.

“Now you behave?” Scowling and sun-creased, but not a bad face. Maybe even capable of pretty when not compressed in anger.

I said, “Is something the matter?” I flashed my LAPD consultant badge.

“What’s that?”

“I work with the police.”

“With? What does that mean?”

“My name is Alex Delaware. Feel free to call Lieutenant Sturgis at the West L.A. station.” I recited the number.

She said, “Why should I believe you?”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Call and verify.” I smiled at Petey. He produced a noise that began as a low growl but ended up as a friendly purr.

I said, “Hey, there, little guy.”

No aggression but no smile; Blanche is the only dog I’ve known who can strikingly simulate human joy.

The woman tugged the leash for no apparent reason. Petey bared his teeth. Big teeth for a small pooch. He raised a leg and let out an impressive fart. Shook himself off with pride. I laughed.

The woman said, “I don’t see what’s funny. Especially not here. This is a terrible place.”

“The murder. I was called to the scene.”

“Hmm... give me your name again.”

“Alex Delaware.”

She stared at her phone but did nothing with it. “No one’s telling us a thing and we don’t feel safe. Let me see that thingie again.”

She squinted at the badge. In need of glasses but not wearing them. “Behavioral science?”

“I’m a psychological consultant—”

“Oh, shit,” she said. “You’re profiling? There’s a crazed serial killer here?”

“Definitely not. I’m here to do follow-up—”

“About what?”

“I’m talking to people who live here and might be able—”

“The police already came door-to-door. Not very polite, considering they wanted my help. Now they send a psychologist? To do what? Shrink our heads.”

I sighed.

She said, “Am I causing you stress?”

I pocketed the badge, walked to the Seville.

“What?” she said. “This happens and I have to be nice about it? What’s nice about someone being killed? About that piece of shit.” Pointing to the construction.

“The project?”

“Piece of absolute shit. They tear down a perfectly nice Spanish and plan a ten-thousand-square-foot piece of I-don’t-know, everything’s lovey-dovey according to her, meanwhile everyone knows he’s bringing bimbos home while she’s traveling. And when he’s gone, she’s going off with the contractor. They’re lowlifes. From Europe!”

“Where in Europe?”

“Sweden, Denmark, someplace like that. Don’t ask me how they made their money, what I do know is they brought bad karma here when they tore the Spanish down. Then someone gets murdered? Un-be-liev-able. Who was the victim?”

“No one from here,” I said.

“That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Sorry, Ms.—”

“Like I’m going to give you my name? Last time I gave my name I got served with papers. By the rat-bastard.”

“Your ex.”

“Don’t call him that. He’s nothing to me.”

Petey looked up at her and let loose more wind.

She said, “Look at this, you’ve delayed his bowels, now his schedule’s going to be all screwed up.”

“Could I take a sec to show you a photo?” Before she could answer, I flashed Bakstrom’s image.

“Shit! He did it?”

“You know him.”

“He was one of them, pretending to work here, mostly they’re standing around the roach coach a million times a day, we have to listen to ‘La Cucaracha’ over and over.”

I said, “What was his trade?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Was he a framer, a mason, a—”

“How would I know? I never saw him doing anything. He sure wasn’t doing anything when he hit on me.”

She waited.

I said, “Really.”

“What, you think I’m making it up? I walk by, not with Petey, just power-walking for the burn, he’s on the sidewalk drinking some sugar drink. Smoking.” She stuck out her tongue. “Like I’d give him the time of day. He tried it the next day, also. Hello, ma’am. Moving his hips. Yeah, right, I’m supposed to be impressed by a sleeveless shirt? Filthy nails?”

She took another look at the image. “Lowlife.”

I said, “Did he look like this?”

“It’s your picture. Don’t you know what he looks like? That’s exactly him, thinks he’s God’s gift. Why’re you asking about him?”

“He knew the victim, so the cops want to talk—”

“God, that creeps me out. Was it a sex crime — they won’t even tell us if it was a woman or a man, everyone’s betting on a woman, women always get victimized.”

“It wasn’t a sex crime.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Another lowlife from the job or someone innocent?”

“Sorry, I can’t—”

“Blah blah blah. Psychologist. All questions, no answers, just like Dr. Montag and you know what we think of him, Petey?”

The dog was noncommittal.

She said, “Why do I bother with you?” and walked away.

Milo said, “Sounds like a fun chat. Got a name for this harridan?”

“Nope, but she was certain and I’m sure someone in the neighborhood can I.D. her.”

“Agreed. So you got Bakstrom at the scene, muchas gracias. My next step is Manucci, Thalia’s moneyman. I was going over my notes, realized he never called back, and when I try him by phone I get corporate voicemail. So I’m figuring a drop-in’s called for. Care to participate? I’m thinking Monday morning.”

“I’m clear.”

“More like lucid.”