Mystery

s I drove back to L.A., Milo called the Agajanian sisters. Rosalynn said, “We’re still talking to Brian about how best to help you.”

“It just got simpler,” he said, “search for a girl who called herself Mystery.”

“If you already know who she is, why do you need us?”

“What we know is that she called herself Mystery.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I’ll talk to my sister and brother.”

“How about just plugging ‘Mystery’ into your data bank.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“According to Brian?”

“Brian protects us,” she said. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Sooner would be better than later.”

“When I have something to tell you.”

He bared teeth. Ground them. Expelled the next sentence in soft little puffs. “Thank you, Rosalynn.”

“My pleasure, Lieutenant.”

Steven Jay Muhrmann’s last utility bill, still unpaid, had been mailed to a gray frame bungalow on Russell Avenue east of Los Feliz Boulevard. A small, warped, covered porch jutted like a wart on the façade. Dust served in lieu of a lawn. The block was shared by other small houses, most subdivided into flats. The exceptions were Vlatek’s Auto Paint and Body, a Volvo-Saab mechanic, and a peeling black stucco box advertising secondhand clothing. Toxic stink and the sound of metal pounding metal emanated from the body shop. Even under a blue sky the neighborhood would’ve been drab. A late-settling marine layer turned it funereal.

The gray house had no doorbell. Milo’s knock elicited footsteps from within but it took several more raps for the knob to turn.

Three people in their early twenties looked out at us, groggily. The air behind them smelled of body odor and popcorn.

Lanky, faux-hawked sandy-haired man.

Lanky faux-hawked black-haired man.

Pretty bespectacled Latina with massive curls twisted into twin barbells.

T-shirts, pajama bottoms, bare feet. The décor I could see was guitars, amps, a drum kit, heaps of fast-food refuse. A giant bag of U-Pop Movie Corn nudged a Stratocaster.

Milo introduced himself.

Black Hair yawned. Contagious.

“Could you guys step out for a second, please.”

Moving like robots, the trio complied. The girl stepped in front of her companions and tried to smile but ended up yawning. “How could there be a noise complaint, we haven’t even got started?”

“No one complained about anything. We’re looking for Steven Muhrmann.”

“Who?”

He showed them the DMV shot.

Black Hair said, “Mean-looking dude-o.”

“Got that stormtrooper thing going on,” said Sandy.

“I was gonna say he looks like a cop,” said Black. “But that would’ve been rude. Actually, you guys don’t look like cops. More like … hmm, maybe you do. You’re big enough.”

The girl nudged him. “Armand, be nice.”

Black picked something out of his eye. “Too early to be nice. Are we excused now, Officer?”

Milo said, “Steven no longer lives here?”

“We don’t know Steven,” said the girl.

“We know Steven Stills,” said Armand. He strummed air. “By reputation. Something’s happening here and it sure ain’t clear.”

“How long have you guys been living here?”

“Three months.”

“Rent or own?”

Armand said, “If we had a record deal and the dough to own, it wouldn’t be a dump like this.”

Sandy said, “Bel Air’s the place for me. Be a Bel Air hillbilly.”

Black said, “Trust me, it’s overrated.”

“That’s ’cause you grew up there.”

Milo said, “Who’s the landlord?”

Sandy said, “Some company.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“What did Steven do?”

“Name of the company, please.”

Sandy said, “Lisa?”

“Zephyr Property Management,” said the girl. “I’m the primary on the lease.”

Sandy said, “The bass player always gets the best roles.”

Milo said, “Do you have a number for them, Lisa?”

Use of her name made the girl flinch. “Sure, hold on.” She went inside the house, returned with a business card.

Leonid Caspar, Property Manager, cell phone area code that told you nothing about geography, P.O.B. in Sunland.

I said, “When you moved in, was anything left behind?”

Sandy smirked. “Like a clue?”

“A clue would be great.”

Lisa said, “Don’t pay attention to them. No, sorry, Officer, it was empty and freshly painted. The guy from Zephyr said the last tenant had stiffed him for three months’ rent.”

“Boo on Steven Mermaid,” said Armand.

“A pox on Steven Mermaid,” said Sandy.

Lisa said, “Stop being assholes, guys. Both of you go shower.”

The boys bowed and turned to leave.

Armand said, “The bass reigns supreme. In Paul McCartney we trust.”

Leonid Caspar answered with a hoarse, “Yeah?”

Milo filled him in.

Caspar said, “That one. No employment history to speak of, credit rating worse than the State of California. So why’d we rent to him? Because we’re stupid. Plus, he gave us a year of rent up front and damage deposit.”

“Once that ran out, he split.”

“What can I say, Lieutenant.”

“How many months did he stiff you for?”

“Two—no, says here three. Almost four, really, my son can’t add. Oh, boy. So why’d we let him go that far? ’Cause we screwed up, let him slip through the cracks. We manage twenty-six buildings here and in Arizona and Nevada, all of them thirty units minimum, except for that dump on Russell. My wife inherited it from her grandfather, it was his first investment, helped him start up the company so it’s like a family big-deal. Up to me, we’d sell it but she’s sentimental.”

“Did Muhrmann leave anything behind?”

“Let’s see … says here just trash. Lots of trash, we had to pay for hauling. So technically, he owes us for that, too.”

“Did you ever meet him, Mr. Caspar?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“How’d he connect with you?”

“We advertise in local papers, on Craigslist, other onlines. What’d he do, scam someone else?”

“Who in the company dealt with him?”

“You sound serious. More than a scam?” said Caspar. “He did something serious?”

“We’d just like to talk to him, sir.”

“So would I. I put it out to collection but no one can find him.”

“Was the year’s worth in cash?” said Milo.

“That’s what it says here. I know what you’re thinking but it’s not our responsibility to figure out how they come up with payment.”

“Cash literally or a money order?”

“It’s listed as cash.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Rental was eight a month, times thirteen is ten four, we rounded off the damage deposit to six, made it eleven even.”

“Eleven thousand in cash,” said Milo.

“You’re trying to tell me he’s a dope dealer?” said Caspar. “I get cash from all types. Unless someone tells me there’s a problem, it’s none of my business.”

“To qualify he had to give you prior addresses. Could I have them, please?”

“We didn’t bother with priors because he told us up front his credit was zero.”

“What about references?”

“Let me check … yeah, there’s one. C—as in cookie—Longellos.” He spelled it. “Says here she confirmed he worked as personal assistant, was honest, faithful, true-blue.”

“She,” said Milo.

“My note says Ms. C. Longellos.”

“How about her number, Mr. Caspar?”

Caspar read off a 310. “You find him, I wouldn’t mind if you let me know.”

“Happy to help,” said Milo. “I’d be even happier if one of your employees actually met him face-to-face and called me by the end of today.”

“Sure,” said Caspar. “Quid pro whatchamacallit.”

C. Longellos’s number placed her in Pacific Palisades.

Not in service.

No current DMV records for that address existed but the data bank coughed up the two-year-old DUI conviction of a woman named Constance Rebecca Longellos. Forty years old, P.O.B. in Encino.

I said, “Another under-the-radar devotee. Maybe Harriet Muhrmann’s instincts were right and alcoholic misery loved company.”

He flipped through his pad. “Stevie’s most recent rehab was about two and a half years ago, place called Awakenings, in Pasadena.”

He consulted his Timex. “Traffic’s gonna be unfriendly all the way east, but we could make it out there in maybe an hour, catch dinner before heading back. Remember that fish-and-chips joint on Colorado I was looking for last year when we worked the dry ice murder, turned into Thai, I was bummed? I’ve been back there and it’s pretty good Thai. You game for driving?”

“Sure.”

“Be sure to put in your gas voucher.”

“You’re into quaint rituals, huh?”

“What?”

“I haven’t gotten reimbursed for the last three batches I sent in.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It seemed petty,” I said.

“Shit. I was assured by the His Arrogance’s office that you’d be fast-tracked.” He snapped his phone open. “Bastards.”

Before he could punch in the chief’s speed-dial code, an incoming call was heralded by a few bars of Eine kleine Nachtmusik. This year, classical, last year, seventies rock.

“Sturgis.”

A young male voice said, “You’re a policeman?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Oh … you’re sure?”

“This is Lieutenant Sturgis, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Brandon Caspar, my father said I should call you about a tenant at our property on Russell.”

“Steven Muhrmann,” said Milo.

“Yes, sir.”

“Appreciate the call, Brandon. What can you tell me about Mr. Muhrmann?”

“I only met him once,” said Brandon. “When I gave him the key. That was almost a year and a half ago so I don’t remember much, except he was a little … I don’t want to say scary, more like not friendly. Kind of … trying to act like a tough guy.”

“Act how, Brandon?”

“It’s nothing I can put into words, know what I mean? He just snatched the key out of my hand, didn’t want me to give him the information about the unit we usually give. Where the circuit breaker is, the water main, the meter. He said he’d figure it out. When I tried to tell him I always explained to new tenants he said, ‘Well, now you won’t.’ Not joking about it—like he could kick my butt if he wanted, you know?”

“Hostile,” said Milo.

“He could’ve kicked my butt,” said Brandon. “He was big—not fat, buffed, like he lifted. This big, big neck.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yeah, in the house he was,” said Brandon Caspar. “But later, when I left him with the key, I saw a girl in a car, parked in front. I wasn’t sure she was with him but I thought maybe she was ’cause she seemed to be just waiting. So when I drove off I looked in my mirror and she got out and went into the house. Then I started wondering if we had something to worry about. The terms of his lease were pretty strict because it was a cash deal: solo residency, we didn’t want to get into a crash-pad situation.”

“Or a dope house.”

No answer.

Milo said, “Your father was concerned Muhrmann might be a drug dealer because Muhrmann paid eleven thou up front in cash.”

“I know, I’m the one took the money.”

“He handed it to you?”

“No, it got dropped off at the office. But I found it in the mailbox.”

“Dropped off by who?”

“We assumed him, I mean that kind of money you’d want to handle it yourself, right?”

“That kind of money I wouldn’t drop it in the mailbox.”

“It’s a locked box,” said Brandon. “Goes right into the office.”

“What kind of car was the girl sitting in?”

“Some little compact, didn’t notice the brand.”

“What did she look like?”

“Hot.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“Long blond hair, great body. Kind of like Scarlett Johanssen. Or another one, an old one Dad likes. Brigitte something.”

“Bardot?”

“Yeah.”

“Scarlett or Brigitte.”

“Hot and blond,” said Brandon. “I only saw her from a distance.”

“But that was enough to know she was hot.”

“Some girls, you know, they’ve just got the look, you can spot it from far away.”

“If I fax you a picture would you be able to tell me if it’s a match?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything else you remember about this girl, Brandon?”

“Nope. Why?”

“We’re curious about her. Nothing.”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I did have an impression, though, sir. About both of them. You interested in impressions?”

“I sure am, Brandon.”

“With him being all pumped and her being hot what kind of flashed in my head was porn stars. We get that all the time. Offers for short-term rentals, mostly at vacant apartments out in the Valley. The money’s great, but Dad won’t go for it, too religious.”

“But Dad doesn’t pay much attention to the house on Russell.”

“You got that right,” said Brandon. “Calls it his albatross. To Mom it’s some kind of shrine, but she doesn’t have to deal with renting it or fixing it up.”

“You wondered if Muhrmann was renting the place for shoots, that’s why all the cash up front.”

“My dad would be pissed, so I drove by around a week later to see if anything weird was going on, but it wasn’t.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Lots of cars, vans, people going in and out, anything weird. I even asked Vlatek—the guy who owns the body shop. He said nothing different was going on since Muhrmann moved in, he never even saw Muhrmann.”

“Sounds like you did a little detection work,” said Milo.

“I was curious,” said Brandon. “Dad likes me to be curious.”