Mystery

ilo paused to study the Suss mansion before slipping into the Seville. “The style to which she’s become accustomed. Would you ever get used to living like that?”

I said, “The option’s never come up.”

“Six grand at Chanel—you buy Leona’s whole blasé bit?”

“She didn’t seem to be holding back. Still, it is a stretch. Either way, her knowing about the affair doesn’t alter the botched-extortion motive. You saw how she got when you mentioned the rest of the family.”

“Mama Lion,” he said. “It’s one thing for Mark to play around with some bimbo he found cybersurfing, a whole other ball game if Leona learned her daughter-in-law set it up.”

The closed-circuit camera rotated toward us and held fast.

Milo harrumphed. “Tara’s a house, not a name—we’re outclassed, c’mon.”

I drove away.

He said, “To Leona, six a month is chump change but to Tara it would’ve been serious dough. Her getting killed nine months after Suss bit it could mean she was living off savings, finally ran out, tried to replenish by leaning on Connie, and paid big-time. Be nice if I had a real name for her.”

“Try Tiara. Sometimes slips of the tongue are meaningful.”

He ran Tiara Sly through the banks. Still nothing. Stretching, he fooled with his notepad.

A mile later, I said, “Are you open to an alternative scenario?”

“Alternative to what?”

“Connie and Muhrmann as the killers.”

“Huff and puff and blow the whole damn house down and return to square one? Why wouldn’t I welcome that?”

I didn’t speak.

“Spit it out.”

“Leona just told us she met Mark when she was twenty-four. That’s the exact age Tara claimed to be on her profile. On top of that, the photo in the entry showed Leona wearing an outfit nearly identical to Tara’s the night she died. Consciously or not, Mark may have been looking for Leona the way she used to be. Everything Tara did was calculated to exploit that.”

“And to learn that, Tara had to be in contact with someone who knew the details of Mark and Leona’s life. Like a daughter-in-law. So why the need for an alternative?”

I said, “I buy Connie setting up the relationship but that doesn’t necessarily make her a murderer. In order for Leona to endure forty years of Mark’s escapades, she built up a carapace—an elaborate system of rationalization. Mark’s flings with thruway sluts were simply the price of doing business, she was his true love. That kind of thing and a walletful of credit cards get you through the night but they take their toll. Suppose Leona had pinned her hopes on Mark’s retirement. Finally, the horny old fool would keep it in his pants and take her on a cruise. Instead, he stocked up on little blue pills and started frittering his golden years with a vixen whose virtues highlighted Leona’s deficiencies. Leona pretended to exert control by suggesting the vixen’s allowance. Then Mark died and his finances were examined and she learned he’d been giving away a lot more than six a month. Or worse, he’d made plans to leave Leona and run away with said vixen. If Tara had the gall to approach Leona with financial demands, I can see the dam bursting.”

“What leverage would Tara have over Leona?”

“The threat to humiliate Leona publicly with a lawsuit that would drag in her sons.”

“That would only be worth something if the family didn’t know about Mark’s shenanigans. You really think he could cat around shamelessly for four decades without the sons figuring it out? Especially if they spent time at the business. In fact, if we’re saying Connie was the one who pimped Tara in the first place, it’s proof she knew plenty.”

“Lots of families engage in conspiracies of silence but fall apart when the wrong rock’s lifted. Leona could cope as long as she could pretend to be Mark’s ‘little star.’ Being confronted by Tara would’ve made her feel like a bit player.”

“Pushing the widow until she’s anything but merry,” he said.

“I don’t see Leona fooling with a shotgun or a .45, but she’s got the resources to hire a pair of killers.”

“Mama Lion pounces.” He rubbed his face. “So how does Muhrmann being around that night figure in?”

“Like you said before, co-conspirator or victim.”

“If Leona’s angry enough to put out a hit and somehow found out Connie was part of the lure, Connie could be in serious jeopardy. Or not. But there’s no obvious way to find out.” He cursed. “Princess to Mystery to Tara to maybe Tiara. Next I’ll be finding out she was born Theodore and used to shave twice a day.”

“Whatever Leona’s involvement,” I said, “she gave you two good leads: an address on Lloyd Place and a doctor on San Vicente who does STD testing.”

He pulled his phone out aggressively as if dislodging a burr, punched in speed dial for Rick.

Dr. Richard Silverman answered, “Big Guy.”

“You home or at work?”

“Work. You miss me?”

“Always. Free for a sec?”

“Perfect timing, I just finished operating. Semi-necrosed gallbladder, brink of explosion, a life was saved, cue in the triumphant beating of medical breasts.”

“Congrats.”

“Now that I’ve painted that appetizing picture, how about coffee? Where are you?”

“On the road. Sorry, jammed up.”

“Oka-ay … planning to make it home for dinner?”

“Hard to tell. Alex is here.”

“Ah.” Two beats. “Hi, Alex. See if you can send him home for dinner.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Like he’s a movable object.”

Milo said, “Who in a building on San Vicente tests for STDs?”

“Any physician can test.”

“How about someone who specializes in it?”

“And here I was thinking this was a pleasant domestic chat.”

“Forget I brought it up.”

“Toothpaste back in the tube?” Rick chuckled. “I have no idea who’s on San Vicente and I don’t imagine anyone who tests would breach confidentiality.”

“You’re right, it was stupid.”

A beat. “I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks.”

“Thank me by being home for dinner.”

The next call was to a friendly judge whom Milo beseeched for a warrant on the Lloyd Place residence.

Friendliness only goes so far.

“Are you on something, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir, I just thought you might be interested.”

“Why would I be interested?”

“Particularly nasty case, sir. Your tough line on crime.”

“How do you define nasty?”

Milo filled in details.

The judge said, “It does sound ugly. Anyone else living at this address?”

“Not to my knowledge, Your Honor.”

“No one to squawk to the ACLU. All right, these are the parameters: You must establish or prove you’ve made a serious attempt to establish your victim’s identity prior to verifying that she actually lived at the address. Upon your satisfying that contingency, consent to enter the premises will need to be granted by any current permanent occupant, including tenants, and the objects of your search will be limited to personal belongings and body fluids left behind by said victim.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.”

“Yeah, yeah, knock yourself out. With all the suit-crazy cretins running around, I probably still gave you too much.”

Dipping toward Sunset, we passed the raspberry-sherbet bulk of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Heading east, I turned onto Doheny, rolled downhill, and searched for Lloyd Place.

Milo’s GPS put it closer to Santa Monica than it was and I nearly overshot. One of those easy-to-miss turnoffs dead-ending just short of West Hollywood’s border with Beverly Hills.

Narrow and shady, Lloyd was packed with small pride-of-ownership houses, many of them blocked by ivy-covered walls and hyperactive landscaping.

I said, “Marilyn Monroe lived around here during her early days.”

“How do you know stuff like that?”

“Some lonely kids read a lot.”

I cruised up half a block before finding the address. One-story front–back duplex, nearly concealed by palm fronds. Green building; not philosophically, literally: mint-hued stucco below the midline, lime wood above.

Quiet, seldom-traveled street. Perfect for a love-nest.

The nest Mark Suss had feathered was Unit B, at the rear. No name on the mailbox. Unit A was marked Haldeman. An old black Mercedes convertible sat in the driveway. Milo ran the plates. Erno Keith Haldeman, Malibu address.

We walked past the car, along an oleander-shrouded brick path littered with fronds and seeds and pods and toxic pink petals. The air smelled like Tahiti. If Erno Haldeman was in his front unit, he wasn’t letting on; no one interrupted our progress to B.

Plain wooden door, blinds drawn. The Welcome! mat was vacuumed spotless. No one answered Milo’s knock. He called the county assessor and asked who owned the property, scrawled something, and pointed to the front unit.

We retraced our steps to Erno Haldeman’s double-width door, elaborately carved, with an elephant centerpiece that spanned both panels. A brass knocker hung from the pachyderm’s trunk.

Milo used it, four times, hard. The wood—teak or something like it—responded with a dull thud.

He tried again.

A male voice, deep and boomy, said, “Go away.”

“Mr. Haldeman—”

“Not interested in what you’re selling.”

“We’re not—”

“That includes salvation if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Police, Mr. Haldeman.”

“That’s a new one.”

“It’s true.”

“Read off your badge number and I’ll verify with the Sheriff’s.”

“L.A. police, sir. Lieutenant Milo Sturgis.” Reciting his stats.

Ponderous footsteps preceded the crack of the door. A gray eye peered out from a spot well above Milo’s sight line. “For real?”

“Very real, sir.”

“What’s this about?”

“Your tenant.”

“Tara? What’s up with her?”

“She’s dead, sir.”

The door swung open on a mountain of white linen.

Midforties, slope-shouldered, as broad as two men and stretching to an easy six six, Erno Haldeman had hairless pink hands the size of rib roasts, a bullet head shaved clean, a fleshy ruddy nose that drooped to a petulant upper lip, hound-dog cheeks that vibrated as he breathed. Straw-colored eyebrows were big and coarse enough to scour greasy pots. The gray eyes were rimmed with amber, disproportionately small, bright with curiosity.

The linen was a two-piece ensemble that had to be custom: blousy V-neck shirt, drawstring pants. Mesh sandals barely contained massive, prehensile feet. Haldeman’s toenails were yellow and ridged, the consistency of rhino horn, but his fingernails were impeccably shaped and coated with clear polish.

“Tara?” he said. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish we were, sir.”

“What happened to her?”

“Someone shot her, sir.”

“Around here?”

“No, sir.”

“Here I was thinking you caught her doing something illegal, wanted my input.”

“She impressed you as someone who’d engage in illegal activities?”

“I trade grain futures, Lieutenant. Trust isn’t a big part of my emotional repertoire. But no, she was never anything but neat and pleasant when she lived here and someone else was paying the bills. It was after the money ran out and she kept making excuses that I began to wonder. She claimed to be looking for a job but I never saw any sign of that. Not that I was paying attention to her comings and goings and half the time I’m out of town, anyway.”

“When did the money run out?”

“She owes for three months.”

A white shape larger than Haldeman drew our attention to the front of the house. FedEx truck pulling in behind the Mercedes.

He said, “One sec,” signed for the package, returned reading the label. “Great price on a Château Margaux premier cru from a dealer in Chicago, ten years old, should be ready pretty soon. Normally I don’t buy blind but I’m familiar with this bottling and John can be counted on to temperature-control.”

Milo said, “Cheers. So you carried Tara for three months.”

Haldeman shifted the package to one hand, grasping it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a bit of foam.

“Okay, come inside, I’m done making money for the day.”