Mystery (25 page)

Blank white space. The smell of fresh latex pigment.

“You’ve painted?”

“Don’t worry, there was nothing worth preserving. Not a speck in the closet and she took every bit of furniture—here, I’ll show you.”

Milo held him back. “I’d like your permission to send a crime scene team over to dust for fingerprints and other evidence.”

“You’re saying she was killed here?”

“We know she wasn’t.”

“Then what’s the point?”

“We want to identify any visitors she had.”

“I told you, there weren’t any besides the old guy.”

“But if you saw her once a week that was a lot.”

Haldeman scratched the top of his hairless dome. “Are we talking an invasive process?”

“No, sir. And the crew will do their best to clean up.”

“That’s unpleasantly ambiguous, Lieutenant.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“But if they find something creepy, they’ll do damage.”

“I don’t see that, sir.”

“No good deed goes unpunished, huh?”

Milo’s favorite credo. He remained impassive. “It’ll take a day, Mr. Haldeman, and then we’ll be out of your way.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“You do.”

“But if I refuse you’ll get a warrant or whatever paper’s involved and the end result will be the same except you’ll be pissed off that I delayed you so the floorboards will end up being pried off.”

“Not unless there’s some reason you’re aware of that we should pry them.”

Haldeman gaped. “Good Lord, no.”

“Then I don’t see a problem. There’ll be some dusting, perhaps some spraying with chemicals. But all of it comes out readily and I’ll take special care to ensure you get your property back exactly as we found it.”

“Man, you take life seriously.”

“Kind of an occupational hazard, sir.”

“Guess it is. All right, go ahead. Just let me know when your crew plans to show up. I want to make sure to be here.”

“Will do, sir. Thank you.”

Haldeman smiled. “All this civic cooperation and you’re not going to tell me who killed her.”

“We don’t know, sir.”

Haldeman studied him. “I think you’re telling me the truth. Tsk, tsk. The agony of uncertainty.” His grin was wide, sudden, playful but malevolent. “I make my living off it.”

The young, male clerk at the Beverly Hills Budget Rent A Car office wasn’t impressed by the badge. Or the request. “We’ve got four silver 1 series.”

“This one would’ve been rented long-term, maybe as long as a year and a half, two years ago, possibly by a man named Markham Suss.”

The clerk typed. “I’ve got a Markham Industries renting a 1 series twenty-two months ago.”

“For who?”

“Just says Markham Industries. And it got returned … five days ago.”

“By who?”

“I’d assume Markham Industries. Says here it was dropped off after hours with none of the required paperwork. There was a month to go on the agreement and no damage, so we let it ride. If there was damage, we’d pursue to recover.”

Milo said, “Markham Industries went out of business before the car was rented.”

“Okay,” said the clerk. “So that’s why you’re here.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was used for something illegal, right? We get that all the time. People coming into Beverly Hills for their rentals thinking it’s going to make them look respectable when they do something illegal.”

“Like what?”

“Drugs, mostly. Last year, these guys come in from Compton, think they’re pulling off some big con ’cause they’re wearing suits. We’re real careful about our screening.”

Not careful enough to check on Markham Industries. Or maybe Mark Suss had kept a corporate account going after dissolving his company.

Milo said, “What kind of background did you do on Markham Industries?”

The clerk typed some more, peered at his computer.

When the revolution comes, machines will talk to machines and people’s vocal cords will atrophy
.

“Doesn’t say much, guess they checked out okay. We don’t rent without proper documentation … looks like it was initially a two-week rental, then they renewed for a month … then three … then another three then—whoa, after that was a whole year—that’s super-long for us.” He scanned the fine print. “Looks like they asked for the long-term preferred rate, looks like they got it … whoa, they got it retroactive, big rebate for the first six months.”

“How was payment made?”

“Corporate Amex.”

“Signed by who?”

“Says here M. Suss.”

“Card number, please.”

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

Milo leaned forward. “Trust me, you can.”

The clerk deliberated.

Milo said, “M. Suss is dead, therefore he has no right to confidentiality.”

The clerk’s fingernail pinged his keyboard. “It’s your responsibility.”

Milo copied the number. “Anyone else co-sign the lease?”

“Um … doesn’t appear to be.”

“If Mr. Suss was renting the car for someone else would you need the driver’s signature?”

“Not for the rent part if he was the only one paying. We would need a valid driver’s license for the operator’s part.”

“Do you have one on file?”

“Hold on.”

Crossing the reception area to a bank of steel cabinets, he opened and shut several drawers, finally stood away, examining a piece of paper smiling. “Not bad.”

New Mexico license photo.

Tiara Melisse Grundy, five four, 105, brown and brown.

Long, dark, lank hair, no discernible makeup. But the lovely face above the white scooped neckline matched the girl who’d sold herself as Mystery.

She’d told SukRose the truth about her physical stats but had lied about her age: The DOB put her at one month shy of thirty.

Needing to be twenty-four because Leona Suss was being psychically cloned.

Even minimally groomed and wearing the borderline-sullen expression that comes from standing hours in line, Tiara Grundy looked young and fresh enough to pull it off.

Milo said, “Why’d you smile?”

“Guy renting for his chick.”

“You get a lot of that?”

“Enough,” said the clerk. “Costs a lot more than just leasing from a leasing company but they can go short-term and there’s no down payment.”

“We talking married guys?”

Smirk. “We don’t ask about their home situation.”

We left the office with Milo muttering, “Tiara Grundy,” as if he’d identified a new species.

I said, “Mark Suss eased in with a two-week rental, she built up his trust, he stretched it to a month, kept stretching, finally sprang for a full year. At that point, a conventional lease would’ve been cheaper but this was easier to hide, so he asked for a rebate.”

“Mr. Operator.”

“Even with a discount we’re talking serious money on top of the six thousand a month. Plus jewelry. There were probably additional supplements—money Leona Suss never knew about. That says Suss took the relationship seriously. Maybe Tiara did, too.”

“Love blossomed out of the mulch of sin?”

“Poetic.”

“Catholic,” he said. “Transgression’s always lurking in the shadows.”

His index finger stabbed the address on the license.

Post office box on Cerrillos Road, Santa Fe. He was on the phone before we reached the car.

The first call was to the crime lab, where he requested a go-over of the unit on Lloyd. His next quarry was Detective Darrell Two Moons of the Santa Fe Police Department.

Two Moons said, “Hey, L.A., long time. Bet you haven’t had decent Christmas chili since you were here.”

“Nothing close,” said Milo. “How’s everything, Darrell?”

“Kids are growing,” said Two Moons. “So’s my belly, unfortunately. Katz’s, too, we’re starting to look like your typical waddling detectives on one of those true-crime shows.”

“Try Pilates,” said Milo. “Tones up the core, improves posture, dissolves the body fat.”

“You do that stuff?”

“I’d rather drink battery acid.”

Two Moons laughed. “What’s up?”

“Got a New Mexico ID on a victim and a box address.” He gave Two Moons the barest essentials of the case, recited the info.

Two Moons said, “Don’t know her by name, so she’s probably not one of our chronic troublemaking hookers. I do know the address, shopping center just south of St. Michael’s. Could be the Mailbox Incorporated or the office supplies store or maybe there’re still renting P.O.B.’s at the organic pharmacy. You want me to, I’ll have a uniform stop by to find out.”

“That would be great, Darrell.”

“How’d she die?”

“Shot in the face.”

“Not nice,” said Two Moons. “Someone didn’t like her technique, huh?”

“Something like that.”

We headed back to the station.

Milo said, “Tiara Grundy,” as if the name imparted wisdom. “Grundy can’t be that common of a name. If I find a local relative, I’ll let you know where and when the notification’s gonna be.”

I said, “I’m tied up tomorrow until the afternoon.”

“Court?”

“Nope.”

“Changed your mind about picking up new therapy cases?” I smiled.

He said, “Mona Lisa, again? What’s the big deal, I’m not asking for clinical details.”

“Good.”

“Oh, man, if I ever had secrets worth keeping, I’d leave them with you. Okay, fine, you’re gonna heal some maladjusted type and it has nothing to do with me so I need to keep my mouth shut and concentrate on doing my own damn job.”

I said, “There’s a plan.”

he following morning at eleven I was pushing Gretchen Stengel’s call button. A female voice, too upholstered around the edges to be Gretchen’s, said, “One moment,” and buzzed me in.

The condo door was open by the time I got there. A chubby gray-haired woman in a loose floral dress smiled then held a finger to her lips.

When I got close enough, she whispered, “Sleeping. Finally.”

She motioned me to the edge of the landing, held out a hand. “I’m her sister, Bunny Rodriguez.”

“Alex Delaware. Bad night?”

“It was tough. Thanks for being here for Chad.”

“Is Chad here?”

“Napping also,” she said. “Snuggled up against Gretchen.” Her eyes watered. Blinking. “He’s a sweet boy.”

As if I needed to be convinced.

I said, “It’s good that he’s got you.”

“I’ve always loved Chad.” She breathed in and out and her body quivered like aspic beneath the thin, rayon dress. The print was hydrangeas and wisteria, green tendrils running amok. Her eyes were soft brown, bloodshot around the edges. Indentations on both sides of a thin straight nose said glasses were a regular thing. “My own kids are grown. Guess it’ll be an adventure. Hopefully not for a long time.”

Her smile fell well short of happiness. “Nothing like denial, right?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Bunny Rodriguez leaned in closer. “Her oncologist told me he can’t believe she’s still alive. I think she’s running on love for Chad. He’s the first …” Head shake.

“The first?”

“I was going to say the first decent thing in Gretchen’s life but I’m horrible to judge.”

“Gretchen’s led a tough life.”

“Yes, she has. If she’d—let’s concentrate on Chad, that’s what you’re here for. He’s the sweetest thing on two feet, always has been. The funny thing is my own kids weren’t sweet. Good, yes. Morally sound, absolutely. But sweet and compliant? Not on your life. I was the obedient child and I produced two feisty rascals and Gretchen produces Chad.”