Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter 5

I waited by the bedroom door as he gloved up and entered. He scanned the space, inspected Thalia’s eyes, then the bruises around her nose and chin.

“Yeah, this is wrong. Gold star for ol’ Chris. Though any C.I. would’ve spotted it — Jesus, she’s a twig.”

Lumps the size of cherries formed along his jaw. “Anything out of place from yesterday?”

“I wasn’t in here yesterday. Talked to her on the porch and in the living room.”

“Ramos said she had trouble moving around. I don’t see any cane or walker.”

“She managed,” I said. “Halting but mobile. Lost her balance a few times and I helped her.”

“A hundred years old in three goddamn weeks,” he said. “And some asshole decides to ruin her birthday.”

“Guzman wondered about assisted suicide.”

He looked at me. “Do you?”

“Not from what I saw. She was in good spirits.”

“But now you’re wondering because...”

“Just being thorough.”

He gave the room a second scan. “Neat and clean, everything in place. Makes it creepier... maybe she did pay someone to off her painlessly. Let’s see what comes up after the C.I. clears the body and the techies toss the room. Meanwhile, let’s get some fresh air and you can give me the details of your one and only session with my victim.”

Out in front of the porch, Milo assaulted fresh air with a cheap panatela. He does that when bodies reek, but no serious odor had polluted Thalia’s bedroom other than the slight sourness backing up French perfume.

I told him everything I could remember, wondered out loud if Thalia had a specific psychopath in mind.

He dropped the cigar to the dirt, ground it out. “Her not being ready to spill everything at once could mean someone she cared about. Like a relative. But if we are right about it happening in the middle of the night or early morning, you see her opening the door for anyone? Particularly if she couldn’t move well.”

I said, “Someone with a key?”

“Ergo my interest in Ms. Refugia and everyone else who works here.”

“Or someone Thalia gave a key to because there was a closer relationship.”

He said, “As in potential heir with an obvious motive.”

“Maybe that’s why she called me. At her age, the issue of inheritance wasn’t theoretical. She was concerned about leaving assets to a lowlife.”

“Maybe serious assets, Alex. We’re talking someone able to live full-time in a fancy hotel. First thing I’m going to look for is a will.”

We stood in silence for a while.

I said, “Any time my name appears in the paper, you get ink. If she was worried about criminal kin, I could’ve been just her stalking horse and her real goal was making contact with you.”

“Why not contact me directly?”

“A centenarian phones and tells you she’s worried about a nasty psychopathic heir? What would you have done?”

“Suggested she hire security... Okay, if there is some reprobate behind this, it gives me somewhere to look... at her age, a son or a daughter would be in their seventies, late sixties at the youngest. Why wait that long and then snuff Mommy?”

“Circumstances change,” I said. “Seventy-year-old son marries a younger woman, she wants bangles. But sure, we could be looking for a middle-aged grandkid.”

“Hell, Alex, we could be talking about an evil great-grandbaby. Go all the way: great-great.” He frowned. “Or just a sweet little maid who’s been cleaning up after her for four years and knows where the goodies are stashed.”

His eyes swung past me. “Here’s our manager, why do they wear that stupid color, reminds me of old blood.”

A man in a liver-red blazer and gray slacks walked our way, hands laced in front of him, as if stretching sore wrists. Middle height, thin and pigeon-toed with a limp, sandy hair and a goatee, he had the round-shouldered posture of someone laden with too much responsibility.

That made me think about Thalia, hunched by a century of responsibility. What had her good cheer concealed?

The sandy-haired man reached us. “Officers? Kurt DeGraw.” Slight accent, hard-edged, Teutonic. The beard was neatly trimmed, shaped to a point.

Milo handed him a card, introduced me as “Alex Delaware,” with no explanation.

DeGraw didn’t crave one. Corporate-savvy, he kept his attention on the boss.

“Lieutenant, may I assume Miss Mars is deceased?”

“You may.”

“The maid who came to get me told me something bad happened, the police had been called, but when I asked her for details, she ran out, crying.” DeGraw looked at the bungalow. “Sad but not surprising. Are you aware she was a hundred years old?”

“In three weeks,” said Milo.

“We’d have baked her a cake,” said Kurt DeGraw. “As we always do. Now, if you could tell me when we’ll be able to clean the unit—”

“Not for a while, Mr. DeGraw.”

“Oh? Is there a problem?”

“There’s reason to believe Miss Mars’s death wasn’t natural.”

DeGraw stared. Plucked at his necktie, stamped a foot. “Unnatural in terms of...”

“Possible homicide.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Nothing but serious, sir.”

“She was a hundred years old, Lieutenant. Why would anyone bo— Why would they do that?”

Why would anyone bother?

Milo said, “Why, indeed?”

“For what reason do you believe it wasn’t natural?”

“Can’t discuss that, sir, and I imagine you don’t want rumors to circulate.”

“No, no, of course not.” DeGraw glanced at the bungalow again. “All right, do what you need to, but if you could give me a fairly accurate estimate as to when we’ll be able to begin—”

“How long did Miss Mars live here?”

“A long time, Lieutenant.”

“Could you be more specific?”

“Well,” said DeGraw, “I’ve been here two years and she was well established by then. My predecessor told me about her. The unique situation.”

“Permanent residency.”

“Exactly, Lieutenant. We don’t normally allow it.”

“Why’d you do it for Miss Mars?”

“She had a contract.”

“Stating?”

“I’m not familiar with the details,” said DeGraw.

“You don’t keep records?”

“With regard to current data we keep excellent computerized records, but there have been informational changes.”

“Meaning?”

“Updated systems. Information gets deleted.”

“No old ledgers in a storage room?” said Milo.

DeGraw’s expression said Milo had suggested he pierce his own scrotum. “Dust, mold, insects? I can’t imagine we’d want anything like that.”

Milo flipped a notepad page. “Who owns the hotel?”

“The Aventura is in transition.”

“From what to what?”

DeGraw sighed. “I’m not at liberty to discuss but a sale is currently being considered.”

“Who’s selling?”

“The parent company is Altima Hospitality.”

“Where’s corporate headquarters?”

“Dubai.”

“Who owned it before Altima?”

“Another corporation,” said DeGraw.

“Which one?”

“Franco-Swiss Château Limited.”

“And before that?”

“I couldn’t tell you.”

“How much did Miss Mars pay to live here?”

“She got a bargain,” said Kurt DeGraw. “Whoever agreed to it originally must’ve been—” DeGraw shook his head. “She was flat-rated with cost-of-living increases but she still got a bargain. One hundred ninety-six dollars and some change per day. With tax added, she paid a little over seven thousand dollars a month and that includes full board and maid service.”

“Eighty-four thousand a year, give or take.”

“A bargain,” said DeGraw. “Full board plus afternoon tea if she wanted it? And she always did. The current per diem on a deluxe bungalow is four hundred and eighty dollars.”

“No air-conditioning is deluxe.”

“Lieutenant. Many guests, particularly our sophisticated Continental travelers, prefer fresh air, and Miss Mars never complained.”

“You have no idea who she signed the original agreement with?”

“It was decades ago.”

“Have you tried to get her to move?”

DeGraw looked away. “There was an initial suggestion when we took over that she might be more comfortable somewhere else. With compensation for moving tossed into the package.”

“She turned you down.”

Nod.

“The deal was iron-clad,” said Milo.

DeGraw looked as if he’d swallowed a glass of warm spit. “Apparently.”

“When was the hotel built?”

“The Aventura was erected in 1934.”

“El Ori-hi-nal,” said Milo.

DeGraw blinked. “What’s left of it. We’d love to tear it down but preservationists... our priority is The Tower.”

“How many guests can you accommodate in total?”

“The Tower handles a hundred forty-five, the old wing, around forty.”

“Plus The Numbers.”

“Occupancy in The Numbers is at a far lower rate than the rest of the hotel. In fact, it’s not uncommon for it to be zero.”

“Except for Miss Mars.”

“Her situation was unique.”

“People opt for A.C.”

“People opt for everything electronic. WiFi, Bluetooth,” said DeGraw. “Today’s traveler demands instant connection.”

That sounded like an ad line. I said, “Speaking of technology, where are your surveillance cameras?”

“We have no cameras.”

Milo said, “Really.”

“You are surprised,” said DeGraw, with the glee of a magician unfurling his trick. “Franco-Swiss had begun installing a system. When we took over, an executive decision was made to de-install.”

“Why?”

“We choose not to rely on the false sense of security provided by electronic surveillance. Instead, we employ a top-notch security team.”

“Guards patrol.”

“Security personnel are aware.”

“How often do the bungalows get patrolled?”

DeGraw’s fingers fluttered. “When there’s a reason for coverage, it occurs.”

“No formal schedule.”

“Lieutenant. We pride ourselves on the human touch. Decisions based on actual need, not mechanics. We’ve never had a problem.”

Milo cocked a finger at Uno. “Time to amend that claim.”

DeGraw blew out a long gust of air. Mint fought a losing battle with garlic. “Our mission is based on discretion and privacy. An inviting home away from home where a traveler can stay without fear of being harassed.”

“Harassed by who?”

“Unwanted observers.”

“Paparazzi?”

“This is L.A., Lieutenant.”

“Cameras wouldn’t help with that?”

Theatrical sigh. DeGraw licked his lips. “If I tell you something in confidence, will it remain that way?”

“If it doesn’t relate to Miss Mars.”

“Can’t see that it does, so please be discreet.” DeGraw’s eyelids shuttered and opened repeatedly, an out-of-control camera. He leaned in closer. “One of our specialties is surgical aftercare.”

“Get a little tuck ’n’ roll then get tucked in.”

“We’ve developed a specialty, Lieutenant, have accommodated numerous highly important individuals during their time of physical need. Physicians are here frequently, nurses as well, but no one wears a uniform nor is medical equipment carried openly.”

“How’s it transported?”

“In luggage.”

“Covert clinic,” said Milo.

“You can see why cameras would be unwelcome, Lieutenant.”

I said, “You’ve got no gate or guard booth. It’s pretty easy to enter the property.”

“Superficially it is,” said DeGraw. “That’s part of the illusion.”

“Meaning?” said Milo.

“As your assistant just said, apparent ease.”

I hadn’t.

Milo said, “Explain.”

Another sigh. “The tighter you close something up superficially, the more inviting it becomes to those people.”

“Security staff peek behind the trees.”

DeGraw inched closer. “I’ll give you an example and hopefully you will understand. An obvious sentry, a guard booth, both would scream vulnerability. Instead, there’s always a triad of staffers at the front desk, one of whom is a highly trained security specialist.”

I thought back to the ponytails. No clue as to which one was the eyes-and-ears.

“Subtle,” said Milo.

“Exactly, Lieutenant. Even a room maid could be one of our security staff.”

“Is Refugia Ramos one of your security staff?”

“Normally, I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you,” said DeGraw. “But given the circumstances, no, she isn’t. What I’m trying to get across is that our guests deserve harassment-free healing and we see that they get it. For surveillance cameras to be effective they’d need to be computerized and computers can be hacked.”

“No nose jobs uploaded to Gawker.”

DeGraw let out a garlic-mint gust. “I’m glad you understand.”

“What about WiFi opening up electronic doors?”

“We set our system up so that each traveler has his or her individual link to cyberspace. Once they’re logged in, several firewalls go up. We have no way of learning our guests’ connection patterns, nor do we wish to.”

“But you do know when they order room service.”

“That’s an entirely different thing. Extremely limited.”

“How many of your guests are post-surgical?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Do they ever stay in The Numbers?”

“Never,” said DeGraw, “always in The Tower. Security covers every floor regularly. And please, Lieutenant, no implication that whatever happened to Miss Mars — if something did — can be linked to us. She was happy here, had every opportunity to leave if she changed her mind.”

“Got it, Mr. DeGraw. You’re sure there are no old ledgers, anywhere?”

“I’m afraid not.” Kurt DeGraw smiled crookedly. “Though obviously, we’ve held on to an old lodger.”

Milo and I stared at him.

“Well,” he said, “that may have come across wrong — but don’t you people do the same thing? Try to lighten up a sad situation? Now please tell me what’s going to happen.”

What happened was the arrival of the death army.

Six cops in three patrol cars were charged with maintaining the scene.

A coroner’s investigator named Gideon Gulden agreed the bruises pointed toward a suspicious death and got to work.

Enjoying the fresh air, a pair of burly crypt drivers killed time with their phones and waited to transport.

The lab squad was on its way.

Milo and I walked back toward the hotel, checking each bungalow, getting no response. Yellow tape had been strung up at the mouth of the pathway. A fleet of official vehicles was parked where the fire van had sat, blocking the exit from the Spanish wing’s loggia.

Curious absence of onlookers, just Kurt DeGraw on his phone and the ponytailed woman I’d seen yesterday at the desk. This morning, she had appraising eyes and a harder expression.

I pointed her out to Milo and she walked away.

He said, “The expert, I’ll check her out later.”

“Kind of quiet, considering.”

“Weird-quiet. Guess they are good with the prying-eyes set.”

“Or maybe everyone in The Tower is sedated while recuperating.”

“Clinic masquerading as hotel,” he said. “Terrific business model, when you think about it. Liquid diets at an inflated rate, no wild parties. Still, you’d think some gossip-monger would catch on.”

“Despite what DeGraw claims, getting in was easy. Maybe because The Numbers and Thalia are considered nuisances. She refused to leave so they gave her the minimum.”

“She give you any indication she was unhappy with the accommodations?”

“No,” I admitted. “Just the opposite, she seemed at ease.”

“Except maybe when she thought about a reprobate heir. Which leads me to another question: If getting hold of her dough was the goal, why wait so long? Circumstances change, but still.”

I had no answer for that.

Milo said, “Eighty-four grand a year. A bargain to DeGraw but it’s still serious dough. How did a public-sector numbers cruncher have the means to pay it year after year? Plus those Tiffany lamps, her jewelry, whatever else she had stashed in the room.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Answering service text passing along a message from an especially meticulous family lawyer. Mr. Bunyan wanted to confirm my evaluation in fifteen minutes. Two kids, five and seven, tied up in a custody battle. Both had lived in France for most of their lives until their mother decided to move them away from their father. Very little English. A translator would accompany them.

If I left now, I’d make it in time. “Gotta go, Big Guy.”

Milo said, “Things to see, people to do? Have fun, something turns up, I’ll let you know.”