Mystery: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “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.”

  s we headed for Pasadena, I said, “Muhrmann told his mother he was trying out for a movie and C. Longellos had a P.O.B. in the Valley. Maybe the kid’s instincts were good.”

  “Maybe it’s my day for insightful citizens. Let’s see if your fellow mental health pros are half as good. If they are, we celebrate with Thai.”

  The address listed for Awakenings, A Healing Place, was a triad of whitewashed fifties ranch houses turned into a compound by vinyl picket fencing, not far from the Santa Anita Race Track. Deadbolt and buzzer on the gate, drought-friendly plants in the yard.

  No signage. Milo double-checked the address. “The numbers match.”

  We got out of the car. The drive had taken over an hour. Both of us stretched. Quiet block of well-tended apartment buildings and a few other single dwellings. Did the neighbors have any idea?

  The faintest odor of equine sweat and waste spiced the cooling air.

  I said, “Maybe they also treat compulsive gambling.”

  “Drop your line where the fishies are swarming? Smart marketing. But with all the fancy outfits claiming to fix your head, you’d think Ms. C. Longellos would want something swankier.”

  “Green acres, tai chi, therapeutic massage, past-lives regression?”

  “Toss in vegan cuisine and I’m sold.”

  I said, “On the other hand, a profile this low could be perfect for people with serious secrets.”

  We waited to be buzzed through the picket gate, walked up a brick path that led to the center house, and entered a tight, uninhabited lobby backed by a pebble-glass reception window. The receptionist who’d let us in had kept the window shut. To the left, a black door was fitted with security hinges.

  Tight procedures because the clientele was unpredictable?

  The lobby smelled sweet and acrid and frightening, like a public health clinic during a mass vaccination. Hard uninviting furniture sat atop rust-brown linoleum. The walls were tongue-and-groove wood painted cigarette-ash gray. Seeping through the chemical aroma was the rancid bite of greasy food left too long in steam tables.

  A whiteboard to the right of the window listed an all-day schedule of group and individual therapies, psychological and physical.

  The session of the moment: Face Your Self with Focus: Constructive Mindfulness, Beth E. A. Manlow, M.D., Ph.D.

  Milo muttered, “My butt’s falling asleep out of empathy.” He tapped the window.

  A lock turned, the pane slid open. A pretty Asian woman, hair tied back in a blue-black bun, said, “How may I help you?”

  Milo’s badge flash was followed up by Steven Muhrmann’s photo. “Recognize this fellow?”

  “Sorry, no, I’ve only been working here two months.”

  “Could we please speak to someone who’s been here awhile—say, two or three years?”

  “May I ask what this is about?”

  “A serious crime.”

  She touched her phone. “How serious?”

  “Serious enough to bring us here. Who’s the boss around here?”

  “I’m going to page our director, Dr. Manlow.”

  “Says on the board she’s in session.”

  “If she is, she won’t answer, and we’ll just have to see what to do. I’m still learning the regulations, so bear with me.”

  She took care to slide the window back in place softly. A few seconds of muffled conversation preceded her reemergence. Smile of relief. “Dr. Manlow will be down in a moment. If you’d care to take a seat.” Motioning to the hard chairs.

  Before our butts lowered, the black door swung open. The woman who marched through was forty or so with thick, wavy chestnut hair, wide aqua eyes, and a longish face of a porcelain hue and consistency that suggested sun phobia. Full lips, thin beakish nose, a smidge too much chin for ideal beauty.

  An attractive woman made more so by confident posture.

  She wore a cinnamon cashmere sweater, muted brown plaid slacks, bitter-chocolate crocodile pumps. A leather day planner matched the shoes. So did the leather pen case hanging from her waistband, along with a cell phone and two beepers, one topped by a strip of red tape.

  Enough gear to give her the cop swagger but she strode forward without an errant twist of hip or leg.

  No jewelry. The risk of being snagged?

  “I’m Dr. Manlow.” Glassy, girlish voice but authority in her inflection.

  “Thanks for seeing us, Doctor. Milo Sturgis, Alex Delaware.” He handed his card over. Most people skim. Double-Doctor Beth E. A. Manlow put on gold-rimmed glasses and read carefully before slipping the card into her day planner.

  “Homicide. Who’s been murdered?”

  “A woman we’re still trying to identify.” Milo showed her the sketch of Mystery née Princess.

  Manlow said, “Sorry, she’s not one of our patients. At least not for the past five years since I’ve been here.”

  “You remember all of your patients by sight?”

  “I’ve got an eye for details an
d it’s only been five years. I saw this rendering on the news, it didn’t ring any bells then and that holds for now. Annie said you showed her a picture of a man.”

  Milo produced Muhrmann’s photo.

  She stared, removed her glasses, shook her head. Resignation, not denial.

  “What’s his connection to your case?”

  “You know him.”

  “Tell me the name you’ve got for him.”

  “Steven Muhrmann.”

  She nodded.

  Milo said, “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Why are you interested?”

  “He knew the victim.”

  “He knew her, that’s it?” she said. “Or are you saying he’s your suspect?”

  “Would that make a difference, in terms of how much you’re going to tell us, Doctor?”

  Manlow tapped a foot. Pulled a thread from her sweater, frowned as she coiled it around her fingers. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  The black security door opened to a narrow hallway that terminated in a transparent window laced with steel mesh.

  A red No Admittance Without Authorization sign hung below the uppermost of two deadbolts. Just in case you missed that, a white placard read Personnel and Inpatients Only Beyond This Point.

  Manlow’s office was just inside the door. As we entered, I glanced through the mesh, caught a glimpse of another, longer corridor paneled in knotty pine. A woman sat on the floor reading. Another woman worked a crossword puzzle. At the far end, a man stretched, touched his toes, rotated his neck.

  Everyone in street clothes, nothing clinical about the ambience. But something about the way the three of them moved—slow, measured, mechanical—said frivolity had long been left behind.

  Manlow’s office was modestly proportioned, walled with bookshelves, file cabinets, and a collection of mounted diplomas. Elizabeth Emma Allison Manlow had earned a B.A. from Cornell when she was still Elizabeth Emma Allison, an M.D. from UC San Francisco, and a Ph.D. in neuropharmacology from Stanford. Internship and psychiatry residency had both been served at Massachusetts General. A fellowship certificate in cognitive behavior therapy had been granted by an institute in Philadelphia.

  She’d finished her training six years ago. This was her first and only job.

  No family photos. I liked that. With a true pro it’s all about the patient.

  Milo said, “What kinds of conditions do you treat here?”

  “Substance abuse, exclusively.”

  “Not gambling?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Being so close to the track.” Milo repeated his line about fish and fishing.

  Beth Manlow smiled. “Maybe we should develop a program for that. No, we concentrate on addictive chemicals. And that doesn’t include overactive sex hormones, either, because sex addiction, in my opinion, is a monumental crock.”

  “Tell us about Steven Muhrmann.”

  Manlow’s smile chilled. “Are you familiar with rehab programs?”

  Milo said, “Not really.”

  “Most of them suck.”

  He laughed. “Don’t hold back, Doc.”

  Beth Manlow said, “Look, one thing this work has taught me is that to be effective, you have to grasp reality firmly. This is a very tough business and success rates, as defined by five years with no relapse, are all over the place—from two percent to seventy-five.”

  He whistled.

  “Precisely, Lieutenant.”

  “No one really knows what works.”

  “We know a few things,” said Manlow. “But you’re right, there’s much to be done in the way of establishing criteria for success. And let me assure you that anything approaching the seventy percent figure is likely to be either an outright lie or based exclusively on self-report, which is a fancy term for bragging. That’s not to say most facilities are moneymaking rackets, though some are. It’s really the nature of the beast that we stalk: Addiction isn’t a sin nor is it simply a set of bad habits, though bad habits inevitably follow addiction. The crux of the problem is that when people get hooked on a narcotic substance, their brain chemistry changes. We can detoxify addicts during acute phases and we can teach them to reverse destructive patterns of behavior if they’re sufficiently motivated. But I’ve yet to see anyone claiming to undo the basic addictive biology.”

  Milo blinked. Clicked his tongue. A signal I’d never seen before but decoding was easy. Take it, pal.

  I said, “Sounds like a chronic disease.”

  “Precisely, chronic care is the best-fit model,” said Beth Manlow.

  “And this relates to Steve Muhrmann because—”

  “I gave you that little speech because I need you to be realistic about what I can tell you. We are one of the best facilities in the country but we do not turn a profit, nor do we aim to. Awakenings was started by a man who lost two children to addiction and sought to prevent the same tragedy in other people’s families. Solon Wechsman passed away five years ago and left an endowment that funds this place, but only partially. I was hired after he died and a bit of financial freedom allows me the luxury of brutal self-appraisal. Our success rate—accurately determined—is thirty-six percent. It may not sound like much but I think it’s pretty good. It’s like being an oncologist—a cancer specialist. If you’ve allowed someone several constructive years, you’ve accomplished something important.”

  “You’re saying Steve Muhrmann was one of the sixty-four percent.”

  “I can’t talk about him or any other patient specifically. But I won’t tell you you’re wrong.”

  “Did he create special problems when he was here?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t get into details.”

  “Can you say what he came to you for?”

  “All I’m going to tell you is that for the most part patients come to us volitionally. But a few are sent to us.”

  I said, “Muhrmann had a couple of DUIs and the court imposed treatment.”

  “In a perfect world,” said Beth Manlow, “everyone would have sufficient insight to know when their engines needed a tune-up. In our world, some cars need to be towed in.”

  “Have you found any difference between mandated patients and those who come on their own?”

  “My preliminary data say there is a difference.”

  “Court-appointed patients are more problematic.”

  “Let’s just say they’re less focused on long-term solutions.”

  “Clean me up, sign a paper, send me home.”

  She shrugged.

  I said, “Did Muhrmann show any tendencies to violence?”

  “I’m not going to answer that,” she said. “But don’t interpret my reticence as a yes.”

  “Was there anything about him you found troublesome in terms of aggression?”

  “I can’t tell you that, either,” she said.

  “Maybe you just did.”

  “I wouldn’t assume anything. Now, if there’s nothing more, I need to lead a group in—”

  I said, “Constance Longellos.”

  Manlow smoothed her thick hair. Stood, straightened a diploma that had been hanging straight. “I really do need to get going, the group’s waiting. It’s not a bad thing for addicts to learn to delay gratification, but no sense pushing it.”

  As she headed for the door, I said, “Ms. Longellos served as a reference for Mr. Muhrmann, so he could rent a house. Like Muhrmann, she was convicted of drunk driving. That could be grounds for rapport.”

  Manlow tapped the door frame.

  Milo said, “The girl on TV was seen with Muhrmann hours before she ended up with her face blown off.”

  Manlow’s knuckles blanched. “Gory details are supposed to shock me into an ethical lapse? I’m a physician, that kind of thing doesn’t bother me.”

  “Does it bother you that a former patient you were unable to help may have gone on to commit murder?”

  Manlow’s pale face colored at the peripheries, hairline, jaw points,
and cheekbones reddening like an oxidizing apple filmed in time-lapse.

  One of her beepers went off. The one without the tape. Snatching it from her waistband, she read the number. “I need to go right now. I’m going to buzz you out and I suggest that a return visit will not be useful for anyone.”

  ilo stopped to stare at the ranch houses before slipping into the passenger seat. “Place calls itself Awakenings but Manlow admitted most of the patients go back to sleep. Including Steve-o. The way she got squirrelly about Longellos tells me there was a hookup. And that Muhrmann was a problem child. So what constitutes a problem in a place like this?”

  “Chronic noncompliance,” I said. “Or consorting with another patient. In this case an older woman with problems of her own.”

  “Consorting,” he said. “Love your knack for the genteel. Yeah, maybe he consorted with DUI Connie. Who can’t be found anymore.” He grimaced. “The Caspar kid described Muhrmann as hostile and aggressive. Maybe women he consorts with don’t fare well. But Dr. Manlow wouldn’t come out and say he was dangerous.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t when he was here. One good thing, we’re developing a time line: Longellos and Muhrmann get busted around the same time, Muhrmann’s out for a year or so when he uses her as a reference for the house on Russell. By that time, he and Mystery are hanging out, maybe to shoot a porno. He has eleven grand in cash but comes to his mother eight months ago for more money. She gives him two, which he probably uses for dope, because once his upfront rent’s paid off, he stops paying. Whatever his relationship with Connie Longellos, he kept seeing Mystery. Maybe for sex, maybe for business, maybe for both. Which could tie in with that scene I saw at the Fauborg: some sort of fantasy game involving the two of them and a third party.”

  “Mystery’s hot date,” he said. “We’ve been assuming a man, but what if this Connie was part of the threesome? That could explain two weapons when the time came for Mystery to go. A woman might not have enough shooting experience to do it on her own.”

  “But she might get a charge out of being part of a firing squad.”