Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter 8

He followed me home, where I dropped off the Seville, and we continued to the hotel in his unmarked.

The lobby was empty. The same trio worked the front desk.

The woman saw us coming and knew why. Before we’d crossed half the lobby, she retrieved a large black purse from beneath the granite counter and motioned us outside.

Once we got there, she continued to the parking lot, ended up in a rear corner shaded by palms in need of trim. Unclasping the purse, she pulled out a pack of Marlboros and a clear plastic lighter half filled with fluid. When we shook our heads at her offer of cigarettes, she lit up, took a deep drag, and untied her hair.

A dense brown sheet flopped onto her shoulders. Handsome woman, with knife-edge features, a freckled nose, and narrow dark eyes. In daylight her skin looked more weathered and I recalculated her age as late thirties.

She smoked hard enough to create a sizable ash, flicked it onto the ground. “What can I do for you?”

Milo said, “You’re security.”

She smiled. “I blew my cover, huh? Or did DeGraw tell you?”

I said, “When it became a crime scene, you were observing.”

“Ah. Okay: name, rank, et cetera. Alicia Bogomil, alleged security consultant here.” She spelled it. Milo wrote it down.

She said, “I used to have one of those — the little pad. Spent seven years with Albuquerque PD, four on patrol then special assignments to vice and gang violence. I thought of going for detective but ended up following my boyfriend out here. He does location scouting for TV, the show he was working in New Mexico dried up, he had no alternatives so we moved.”

“Nothing like loyalty,” said Milo.

“And sometimes he even appreciates it. Anyway, a homicide here is the last thing I expected.”

“When did you find out it was a homicide?”

“When you got here and stuck around. Then you talked to DeGraw and he told me. He’s pretty freaked out.”

“Generally, it’s a safe place?”

“To the point of being boring,” said Alicia Bogomil. “My job is ridiculous, basically standing around. Yeah, there’s towels and hangers getting ripped off, once in a while someone puts a hole in a wall with a doorknob, but how much trouble can softballs get into?”

“Softballs?”

Bogomil’s smile was crooked and knowing. “Lumpy things, all stitched up?”

I said, “Plastic surgery patients.”

“Exactly, softballs. That’s what we do here, it’s ninety percent of the occupancy. DeGraw said he told you about it.”

“He didn’t give a number.”

“Well, that’s the number, ninety,” she said. “This place isn’t really a hotel, it’s an aftercare facility for vain rich people. Not that I’m dissing anyone who wants to improve themselves, it’s your money, your pain threshold. What I’m getting at is we’re supposed to turn a blind eye to anything short of a serious felony. Like a patient freaking out and destroying property because they’re on too much dope. Until now we never had a serious felony.”

She smoked some more. “Is it definitely a homicide?”

Milo nodded.

“Too bad it was Thalia, she was a really nice lady.” To me: “When I told you that the first time you showed up, I meant it. My only contact with her was when she’d take a walk, see me and talk. She was fun, great sense of humor. You could tell she had class.”

“How often did that happen?”

“When I first started, little over a year ago, it was once, sometimes twice a day. She had an exercise routine, stroll in the morning, then in the afternoon. But recently — few months ago — it started tapering off. Probably because she was getting weaker and her balance was off. Occasionally, I’d see her stop and hold on to something. Guess she could’ve used a cane but didn’t want one. One of those proud ones.”

She looked at her cigarette. “My best guess is she became a total shut-in like a month ago.”

I said, “Great sense of humor.”

“The best.” She flicked a liver-colored lapel. “Like this stupid thing. The color sucks, Thalia called it bilious. Said the word came from ‘bile’ and according to the Greeks or someone, bile was a nasty body fluid, the original bad humor. She said if they kept making us wear it, we’d become incurably cranky.”

More tar entered her lungs. She took a deeper drag.

Milo said, “Ten percent of the guests aren’t softballs.”

“Once in a while you get some sucker who found the place online and is expecting luxury for a bargain price.”

“Rates are low,” I said.

“And getting lower. The rooms in The Can are boring, basically boxes with a round wall. Give me a choice, I want corners.”

“The softballs are medicated so they don’t notice.”

“They arrive totally out of it,” said Alicia Bogomil. “Mostly at two, three A.M. No check-in, it’s all prearranged.”

Milo said, “Who brings them?”

“Sometimes it’s an ambulance but never with a siren, sometimes it’s a limo or a private car. There’s always a nurse dressed like a civilian but they rarely stay more than the first night. You can always tell when they’re getting better and ready to leave because the attitude kicks in.”

Milo looked at me. “Therapeutic obnoxiousness, there’s a diagnosis for you.”

Bogomil grinned again. Fine lines formed at her eyes and mouth. “Hey, maybe I can be a doctor.” To me: “What kind are you? Never saw Miss Mars sick.”

“Psychologist.”

“Really? She was the last person I’d peg with an emotional problem.”

Milo said, “It was a consultation.”

“Okay,” said Bogomil. “So why’s he with you now, Lieutenant?”

“Long story. What else can you tell us about Thalia?”

“Just that we all liked her. And I never called her Thalia, always Miss Mars — same way I’d treat any old person, I was raised right.”

“She ever have problems with the staff?”

Narrow eyes became slits. “Never.” She studied Milo but knew better than to probe.

I said, “We’ve heard there’s very little security back in The Numbers.”

“There’s no security back in The Numbers. DeGraw made it clear, we don’t go there, not worth spending time or money on. Maybe that’s why he’s so freaked out. My guess is he’ll close The Numbers down, now. The softballs can’t use them because they need temperature control and wireless links to their doctors in case of an emergency.”

Milo said, “DeGraw considers The Numbers a nuisance.”

“Exactly,” said Bogomil. “He’s a world-class prick. Made a crack once about wouldn’t another earthquake be nice, everything except The Can would fall down.”

“Did he resent Thalia?”

“You think he could’ve done something? Really?”

“Not likely?”

“He’s a prick but I never picked up any big-time anger. And he wasn’t losing money on her, she paid her way. And it’s not like people are beating down the doors, you ask me, the whole hotel will eventually close down.”

“Why do you say that, Alicia?”

“Because the Arabs who own it always look super-unhappy when they show up. DeGraw gets calls from Dubai, he looks like he just swallowed vomit.”

“How often do they visit?”

“Twice since I’ve been here, second time was like... four months ago. Some prince or emir, whatever, with an entourage. A kid, looked like he didn’t shave, drove up in an orange Lamborghini followed by a bunch of limos, walked past us, had some face-time with DeGraw. Afterward DeGraw was like he just dropped the soap in the prison shower. He waited like an hour and went home. Called in sick the next day.”

“Job insecurity and mistreatment,” said Milo. “That could make someone resentful.”

“He’s always resentful, probably born that way,” said Bogomil. “Do I think he’d off Miss Mars? Honestly, I don’t see it. He’s a wuss, not big on taking action, period. And what would be his motive? With or without her, the place is still going to struggle.”

“What’s your take on Refugia Ramos?”

“Quiet, goes about her business. She was Miss Mars’s regular so I can see why you’re asking. But sorry, nothing weird about her. I assume you ran all the checks.”

“We did. Clean.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” said Alicia Bogomil. She ground out her cigarette. “I wish I had something juicy for you guys but this place is mega-boring, only thing you ever see is softballs and nurses coming and going, only thing you hear is moaning behind doors up in The Can. Not the kind of moaning you get at other hotels, I’m talking the pain meds ran out.”

“Anyone on the staff twang your antenna?”

“My antenna.” She smiled. “I like that, gonna use it from now on. Nope, no one stands out, people are just putting in their time. Was there a burglary?”

“Doesn’t look that way.”

“But maybe?”

Milo smiled.

“Got it. Anyway, with no burglary, I can’t see the point of anyone on the staff doing something. Not much of a staff left, the Arabs keep cutting costs. But no new hires and I think I know everyone pretty well and I never saw anyone pull a hissy.”

Milo flipped a page. “What about Miss Mars’s visitors? Anyone stand out?”

“Never saw a single visitor.”

“She had a lawyer who came by, a woman named Ricki Sylvester.”

“Don’t know her,” said Bogomil, “but that doesn’t prove anything. I’m either at the front desk or patrolling The Can or having a room service meal, it all comes from the kitchen, now, no restaurants anymore. Tastes like hospital food, wish there were trucks coming by, nothing like a street taco. What does this lawyer look like?”

“Middle age, a little heavy, curly blond hair, maybe glasses around a chain and a briefcase.”

“You know,” said Bogomil, “I think I did see someone like that, like a week ago. Had no idea she was headed for Miss Mars. I was right here, taking a smoke break before going off-shift at seven, meaning four thirty in the afternoon, give or take. The lot was mostly empty, per usual, even the livery drivers are giving up. This crappy old Buick drives up, out comes a woman who fits that description. I figured her for a nurse or some rich person’s gofer, delivering meds, we see that plenty. She’s a lawyer, huh? Doing a house call? Guess that makes sense.”

“How so, Alicia?”

“Personal service for a client with bank.”

“Miss Mars had big bucks.”

“That would be my bet. Living here full-time and the way she carried herself, the way she spoke. She reminded me of the rich old women I’d meet when I used to waitress at a country club when I was in high school in Cincinnati. Ladies who lunch, you know?”

“Anything else you can think of?”

“Nope.”

Milo handed her his card.

“This reminds me of Albuquerque,” she said. “The job sticks with you even after you leave it. If I ever want to try LAPD, maybe you could give me a recommendation — just kidding.”

She pulled out a second cigarette. “Or maybe not.”