The Wedding Guest

Chapter 35

Staying on the Glen to Wilshire, he headed west, gliding along the Wilshire Corridor, a stretch of wannabe New Yorkish high-rises between Comstock and Westwood Boulevard.

As he entered the Village, he said, “The way you put it before, housecleaning. That’s cold, kiddo. You’re supposed to be the sensitive guy but you talk about the worst stuff like it’s business as usual.”

Interesting point. Working with him had probably armored me with a carapace of sorts.

I said, “If you’d prefer, I can dredge up a pout and some tears.”

He laughed again, softer, less corrosive, covered the distance to the Strathmore complex far too quickly.

Parking illegally across the street, he said, “You’re getting one more chance to do this politely, Bob,” and tried Pena’s number. No answer.

I said, “Maybe he’s on vacation. Enforced or otherwise.”

“Or worse.” He groaned and put his palms together. “Merciful God, please don’t tell me Bob’s also been housecleaned by The Phantom of Westwood.”

We got out and headed for Building B. Just as we arrived, the doors opened and two girls emerged.

U. sweatshirts, short-shorts, lace-up boots, long hair swinging in rhythm with spangled smartphones.

“I’ll be penniless in New York,” said one. Enjoying the notion.

“I’ll be penniless in Los Gatos,” said her friend, equally buoyant.

They hurried off, laughing. Milo shook his head and reached for the door.

I was closer and caught it.

He muttered, “Reflexes,” strode past me, crossed the entry, and beelined to a ground-floor door marked Manager.

No resistance from the knob. He stormed in, leaving me to catch the door.

Bob Pena was sitting at an ugly woodite-and-chrome desk, eating a sandwich. As Milo charged toward him, his eyes bugged.

“Bon appétit, Bob. Don’t choke. Yet.”

Pena put down the sandwich and gaped. Homemade meal resting on a bed of waxed paper: bologna on white, sliced carrots, potato chips, plastic-wrapped cheese saltines, a cluster of green grapes. Can of Fresca to wash it down, the top not yet popped.

“I... how’d you—”

“Get in here? Obviously your security leaves much to be desired. Why haven’t you returned my calls, Bob?”

Pena shrank back. Atop the desk was a black-bound ledger, a copy of Sports Illustrated, and a standing calendar in a cheap turquoise plastic frame. Soft-focus photo of Academo’s home office in Columbus, a columned heap of colonial bricks fit for a mortuary.

Milo said, “That was a real question. Bob.”

“I... I... I had nothing to tell you.”

Milo cracked his knuckles and settled a haunch on a corner of Pena’s desk. Brushing aside the ledger and the magazine, he studied Pena the way a snake examines a mouse. Pena scooted his chair backward but there wasn’t much by way of escape space before he collided with a metal file cabinet.

Milo said, “I’m genuinely puzzled, Bob. CCTV footage comes up all the time when we’re working cases and everyone we ask is happy to help.”

Pena looked at his lap. “I’d like to help.”

“But?”

“The decision isn’t mine.”

“The company has a problem cooperating with law enforcement.”

“I gave you the name of someone—”

“Yeah, yeah, Sandra Masio. Problem is, she doesn’t answer my calls, either. No one at Academo does.”

“I’m sorry,” said Pena, sounding as if he meant it.

“I mean it’s not a controversial thing. Bob. All we want to know is did the late Mike Lotz leave the building on a certain day. We’re talking a dead junkie janitor. I can’t imagine why the company would give a shit.”

Pena’s arms stretched forward, hands braced along the edge of the desk. His cheek muscles twitched and one eye sagged.

Milo inched closer and drew himself up. Beer keg with legs tilting forward, about to topple.

Pena’s knuckles blanched. “I’m really sorry.”

“A junkie janitor. So it makes us wonder. Maybe someone else is being protected.”

Pena blinked.

“Is that it, Bob? Someone who lives here? A VIP tenant — smart guy, a professor type?”

Three more blinks. Frantic head shake. “I don’t know about that.”

“You’re sure?”

“I don’t know anything about what you’re talking about. I just do my job.” Pena’s voice had weakened. Trying to muster indignation and failing pathetically.

I pointed to the ledger. “Does that list all the tenants?”

“No, no, expenses.” Wheeling forward, Pena flipped the book open, showed us columns of numbers. “For taxes.”

I eased the ledger out of his hand and turned other pages. Itemized costs, no names.

Milo said, “Okay, show us the book that does list the tenants.”

“Can’t do that,” said Pena.

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Can’t. Company policy. If it was up to me, honest, I’d—”

“What’s the big secret?”

“Privacy,” said Pena. “It’s what sets us apart.”

“From?”

“Regular dorms. You got to understand the situation.”

“Educate us.”

“We’ve got rich folk wanting something different for their brat — their kids.”

I said, “Nowadays, brats don’t care much about privacy.”

“Not them, who cares about them?” said Pena, volume rising, sparked by an upsurge of confidence. Quoting policy does that for some people. “It’s the parents. They’re paying the bills, they want their babies protected.”

Milo said, “Then maybe they should find out that people seem to like this place for dying.”

Pena made a gagging noise. “That’s... not true.”

“No? Cassy Booker, Lotz — and, oh yeah, your old buddy Peter Kramer.”

Pena’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“Kramer’s dead.”

“What?” Pena’s right hand began clawing behind his ear.

“You didn’t know?”

“Why the heck would I know?”

“He worked for you, then all of a sudden he’s not here.”

Pena shook his head violently. “What I know is one day he didn’t show up. I called him, he didn’t call me back. I figured another flake, it’s L.A. He was always a little spacey.”

I said, “How so?”

“Spacey, you know — spaced out. I’d ask him to do something, sometimes he’d hear me, sometimes he wouldn’t. He wasn’t any great shakes — don’t want to bad-mouth him if he’s dead but it wasn’t a big loss. What happened to him?”

Milo said, “He stopped living, Bob.”

“I mean — was it... bad?”

“Haven’t heard of too many fun deaths, lately.”

“Oh, God.” Pena slumped, shook his head.

“So,” said Milo. “How ’bout that CCTV footage?”

“I told you, it’s not here. Goes directly to the company.”

“Kind of a screwy system, Bob. What if you have an incident here — armed terrorists shoot the place up, serial killer goes from room to room and cannibalizes brats — hell, what if North Korea drops a bomb on your roof? You’d want to look at footage pretty quickly, no?”

Silence.

“Bob?”

Pena’s response floated above whisper-level. “That happened, I’d ask the company.”

“Well,” said Milo, “any of that ever happens, I hope Sandra or whoever does a better job than they’re doing now. And you know what, we’re going to take the burden of decision off your shoulders, Bob. With all the people dying here, getting a court order to search your tenant rolls will be a snap.”

He patted Pena’s shoulder with terrifying gentleness. “One other thing. Bob. If I suspect you’ve concealed or monkeyed with those rolls before I get access to them, I’ll have you cuffed, booked, and sitting in a cell faster than you can say obstruction of justice.”

Pena’s shoulders sagged. “Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Do what you gotta do.” Smiling wanly, Pena picked up his sandwich. Held it out. “Want it? Lost my appetite.”

“Tsk,” said Milo.

“Do what you gotta do,” Pena repeated. “Free country.”

We returned to the unmarked where Milo put his cell on speaker and speed-dialed Assistant D.A. John Nguyen.

Nguyen listened to the specifics. “So the company’s either hiding something or they’re just bureaucratic assholes. Unfortunately, either way, you’ve got no grounds to pry their cold, dead fingers from their corporate info.”

“C’mon, John.”

“Being a shithead isn’t a crime, Milo. If it was, both state legislatures and the governor would be eating jail food.” Nguyen laughed. “Which is a cool fantasy, no? You can try getting paper from one of your sap judges but don’t hope for much. Problem is, you’re not dealing with a specific suspect. This is a civil matter, judges don’t want to wade in that septic tank.”

“I’m gonna go for it.”

“It’s your time and effort. Don’t call me up and bitch, ’cause I’m gonna say—”

“I told you so.”

“Toi da noi voi anh roi.”

“What’s that?”

“I told you so in Vietnamese.”

“Sounds nicer.”

“Not when my mother says it — tell you what I’ll do. I’ll check out this company, see if they’ve got any local liabilities — not just a few people croaking on dope. The kind of civil stuff certain judges will take on.”

“Such as?”

“High rate of tenant complaints, poor maintenance, rent gouging, lax payment of property taxes and utilities, failure to comply with inspections. Something serious comes up, leveraging a bit of stupid footage shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Thanks, John. How do you say it in Vietnamese?”

“No idea, Mom never thanks me.” Nguyen laughed. “Oh, yeah. Kam ung.”