Mystery: An Alex Delaware Novel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “If Manlow was involved in fraud why would she let on that someone using Connie’s name had entered the program?”

  “She actually didn’t come out and say it, Alex, she just didn’t deny it.”

  “Basically, she told us without having to come out and say it.”

  “That could be because we caught her off guard. Or she’s one of those liars who figures it’s best to sprinkle in partial truths.”

  He phoned the medical board, got voice-mailed to the ethical complaints section. Nary a gripe about Elizabeth Allison Manlow.

  I said, “Someone could’ve registered and paid as Connie without Manlow’s knowledge. As long as insurance wasn’t billed, there’d be no reason to check I.D.”

  “That much cash,” he said, “means someone with plenty to spare. Like any of the Susses.”

  “Using someone else’s name would be a good way to hide the fact you’re getting treatment. But it’s also an act of aggression, so maybe we should look for someone who resents Connie.”

  “Could be anyone.”

  “Families are emotional cauldrons but posing as a woman almost certainly means a woman,” I said. “That leaves Leona and the sister-in-law—Isabel. I don’t see Leona putting herself at that kind of risk. Isabel’s also a doctor. Easy access to drugs and that could’ve translated into addiction. And as a physician, exposure could’ve meant losing her license, so she’d have good reason to hide her identity. And like Connie, she’d be familiar with Mark’s sexual hijinks.”

  “She checks herself in under Connie’s name, makes friends with Muhrmann, tells him about her crazy family.”

  “Rehab encourages confession. A guy like Muhrmann would hear Big Money Old Guy Young Chicks. He flashes on Tiara, says, I’ve got a great idea.”

  “Naughty Dr. Isabel.” He pressed both hands to his temples. “Or we’re all wet and the fake Connie could be someone outside the family who knew enough to make trouble. Like a staff member, Lord knows how many people it takes to run those households. Some maid or butler thinks he can rake in a few thou, that could be enough motivation.”

  “Millions beats thousands.”

  “Stick with the family, huh?”

  “Maybe it’s my occupational hazard, but that feels right.”

  He called the medical offices of Drs. Franklin and Isabel Suss. After enduring a recorded mini-lecture on sun exposure recited over new age music, he reached a human voice.

  “Doctors’ office.”

  “I’d like a consult on some dermabrasion.”

  “Are you a patient, sir?”

  “No, but I might wanna be. Anything tomorrow?”

  “Let’s see … Dr. Frank’s booked but Dr. Isabel’s got a cancellation at three.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Could I please have your insurance information?”

  “Don’t have it with me but I promise to bring it.”

  “Please do, sir. It’s important.”

  He clicked off. “This could turn bad if Connie’s already bitching to the rest of the family about her screwed-up dunch.” He snorted. “Traffic geniuses sure primed the pump for me. One-tenth of a percentage and they treat her like a criminal.”

  “Put rules in place and some people stop thinking.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, amigo. Rick and I know a guy, used to be a tennis pro, developed heel pain so his doctor prescribed a handicapped parking permit. A few weeks later, the heel gets better but Jean-Georges is still putting his Jaguar wherever the hell he pleases. Meanwhile, some poor guy with one arm and a screwed-up leg has to borrow a pal’s wheels and parks in a handicapped slot. When he comes out, the parking Nazi’s writing him up. Fair enough. But what’s the chance the Nazi, seeing the one arm and the screwed-up leg, tears up the ticket?”

  A big hand slapped the dashboard. “About the same as my being invited to the next Suss reunion.” Shaking his head. “Dunch. My thing’s cluttony.”

  “Chronic gluttony?”

  “I was thinking ‘constant’ but that’ll do.”

  I took Benedict Canyon over the mountains as Milo checked his messages. A sheriff named Palmberg had phoned ten minutes ago.

  Squinting, he made out the number. “Malibu station. Can’t think of any reason for a day at the beach.”

  The Malibu desk officer said, “No one by that name works here.”

  “He called me from there.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Lieutenant Sturgis. LAPD.”

  “Hold on.” Moments later: “He’s from Downtown but he was here this morning. Here’s his cell.”

  One beep before a bass rumble said, “Larry Palmberg.”

  “Milo Sturgis returning your call.”

  “Milo,” said Palmberg, as if digesting the name. “Got a murder out here in Topanga I thought you might be interested in. Less than a mile north from where you had one last week and the body seems to be about from that same time, give or take. Might not be related, then again.”

  “Male or female?”

  “Male, two gunshot wounds to the back, magnum load. Blew out his spine and everything in front of it.”

  “Any sign of a shotgun?”

  “Nope, just two bullet wounds. There’s a good amount of decomp but what I can tell you is he was a decent-sized fellow, dyed his hair blond, his driver’s license claims his mama named him Steven Muhrmann. I looked him up, fellow’s got a checkered past. Know him?”

  “I know of him, Larry,” said Milo. “Can’t wait to make his acquaintance.”

  Sheriff’s Homicide Investigator Laurentzen Palmberg was six four, two hundred and fifty solid pounds, in his midfifties, with a gray crew cut and firm, rosy cheeks. Gold-rimmed, small-lens eyeglasses creased a serious nose. He was smoking enthusiastically, snubbed out his cigarette as we stepped out of the Seville.

  Introductions were quick. Palmberg took out a hard-pack of Parliaments, kept passing it from hand to hand. Otherwise, he looked serene. Deputies in tan uniforms abounded, Palmberg was the only person in civvies: well-cut gray pin-striped suit, white tab-collar shirt, orange tie patterned with the noble heads of Irish setters. One dusty-toed black loafer tapped the eastern edge of the road.

  He pointed to where white-clad crime scene techs fussed over something, around thirty feet down. The object of their attention lay on a ten foot mini-mesa chunked out of the hillside by eons of erosion. If the body hadn’t landed there, it would’ve rolled another hundred feet into dense brush.

  “Here’s where it started.” Palmberg walked to a nearby evidence marker and nodded at a large brown patch spreading over asphalt, dirt, and grass. Clumps of what looked like pemmican littered the brush.

  Once vital organs, drying in the sun. We all end up nonvital.

  I said, “What’s he wearing?”

  “Black suit, what used to be a white shirt. Black tie. Guess his last night was fancy.”

  Same outfit I’d seen outside the Fauborg. I waited for Milo to comment but he just said, “Who found him?”

  “Helicopter,” said Palmberg, “some real estate guy checking out large plots of vacant land. The pilot got as low as he could to verify it was what he thought it was, then called us.”

  “Good eye.”

  “He used to fly traffic for you guys, guess old habits die hard.”

  Palmberg smoothed down an already impeccable lapel. “The movie that’s playing in my head until something better comes along is this: Muhrmann was with someone in a car, they stopped to enjoy the view. He’s looking out that way, the shooter gets behind him, does the deed. Muhrmann either rolls down by himself or gets a little push. There’s no sign of any big struggle and no drag marks so I’m figuring gravity was on the shooter’s side, it really wouldn’t take much propulsion once you put things in motion. Body stopped where it did because it snagged on some branches. Without that, we’d never have found him.”

  Milo said, “Any idea how far the shooter was standing?”

  Palmberg gazed at the
white-suits. “Their best guesstimate is ten feet away, give or take. Due to the decomp it’s hard to be sure, but no obvious stippling, so probably not a contact or close-up. I can see the shooter suggesting they stop for the view then making some excuse to go into the car where he gets the weapon and blasts Muhrmann before Muhrmann knows what’s up. Your vic was shotgunned, huh? But you’re here?”

  “Shotgunned but also nailed by a .45.”

  “Two bad guys?” said Palmberg. “No sign of that with mine and the shell we recovered was a .357. So what do you know of this guy?”

  Shadowing his eyes with a palm, Milo peered down into the crime scene. “He was a prime suspect in my murder but now I might have to recast my own movie. How’d you know about my vic?”

  “What do you think?” said Palmberg. “I’m a dedicated detective, pore over the daily stats like it’s my cholesterol report.” He rumbled a long, deep laugh. “Nah, I saw it on TV, then when I found out where this one was dumped, I started wondering. So tell me, Milo, if Muhrmann was your prime, how come he wasn’t mentioned on the news?”

  “All I had on him was a feeling.”

  “Feelings are good, I’ve closed a lot of cases with feelings.”

  “Tell the bosses that,” said Milo. “The ruling was I didn’t have enough to go public.”

  Palmberg clucked. “My bosses would probably say the same. Anyway, it wouldn’t have helped much, seeing as Muhrmann’s been down there rotting for days, maybe got nailed the same night as your Jane Doe did.”

  “Jane’s got a name, now. Tiara Grundy, did some call girl work and ended up as a mistress to a Sugar Daddy.”

  “Daddy on your radar?”

  “Also dead, half a year ago, natural causes.”

  “Boy, this town chews ’em up. What kind of natural?”

  “Heart, he was pushing seventy, didn’t watch his cholesterol.”

  “Any leads at all?”

  “Muhrmann’s body could be a lead, Larry. He was seen with Tiara the night she died and we’re thinking she was on a date but not with him.”

  He nodded at me.

  I recapped the scene at the Fauborg.

  Palmberg said, “Fake movie star with a fake bodyguard. Some sort of game, huh? You’re thinking another rich mark?”

  Milo said, “A rich sociopath mark who colluded with Muhrmann to shoot Tiara, then took care of Muhrmann a mile later in order to tie up loose ends. Any tire tracks around here?”

  “If there were any, they’re long gone.” Palmberg removed his glasses, checked the lenses, scratched away a speck of something. “Any specific candidates for this crafty death dealer?”

  “We’ve been looking at the Daddy’s heirs, thinking maybe Tiara tried some extortion when she lost her means of support.”

  “Rich folk like to delegate.”

  “They sure do,” said Milo. “Problem with a contract killer is how do I access the money trail?”

  Palmberg put his glasses back on. “Sounds like we’re both in great shape. You have problems sharing your file?”

  “Soon as I get back, it’s faxed to you.”

  “I’ll do the same, buddy. Once I have a file.”

  They exchanged cards.

  Milo said, “My file has Muhrmann’s mother’s info in there, lives in Covina, nice lady.”

  “Aren’t they all,” said Palmberg. “Your lucky day, missing out on notification by a mile.”

  “Aw shucks.”

  “Best part of the job, huh? We talking regular nice or real nice?”

  “Real nice.”

  Palmberg cursed cheerfully.

  Milo took in the crime scene again. “You been down there yet?”

  “Twice. The second time my pants got ripped up, I had to change suits. You might think twice.”

  Milo said, “You keep spare duds on hand?”

  “All the years of body fluids?” said Palmberg. “You don’t?”

  Palmberg waited on the road, talking into his cell phone, as Milo and I climbed down, walking sideways but still slipping several times.

  The flat area turned out to be a shallow crater, larger than I’d estimated, closer to twenty feet wide. The sky above huge, deep blue silked by cirrus. The earth was hard-pack, gray where it wasn’t brown, and carpeted with wild sage, mustard, wilting poppies, the odd struggling pine seedling.

  Gorgeous spot, wide open and sunny. All that sweet air couldn’t conquer the decomp reek. We reached the body just as the coroner’s crew finished bagging.

  Three techs, a woman and two men. They’d rolled down a snap-open gurney, looked unhappy about the prospect of getting it back up.

  One of the men said, “Hey, Lieutenant.”

  “Walt. Could I have a look at him before you take him?”

  Walt unzipped the bag to waist level. An abstractly humanoid mass, part leather, part oozing headcheese, caught light from the glorious sky. The eyes were gone, canapés for resourceful birds. Some kind of carnivore had feasted on the neck, extruding blood vessels and muscle fibers and tendons. The white shirt was shredded, the black tie turned to bloody ribbon. Splintered ribs protruded from a massive exit wound. The rotted sponge of lung and the degraded rubber of heart littered the ravaged chest. Dead maggots dusted everything like a hideous toss of wedding rice.

  Milo turned to me. “Any way that’s remotely recognizable?”

  I said, “The hair’s the same. So are the clothes and the general size.”

  Walt said, “You bring witnesses to scenes now, Lieutenant?”

  “This witness is authorized.” He introduced me as a police consultant but didn’t explain my link to Muhrmann. All three techs were puzzled but no one said anything.

  The woman said, “If he’s on record, we can verify the I.D. Printable left thumb and ring finger, the rest is gnawed to the bone.”

  Walt said, “Anything else you need, Lieutenant?”

  Milo said, “No, thanks. Zip him up.”

  Walt did so without looking at the body.

  The second man, younger, darker, said, “Now the fun part, shlepping him up there. We shouldn’t have to do it but the drivers are stuck in traffic and Detective Palmberg wants transport A-sap.”

  Walt said, “This was TV, they’d send us a copter, do that flashy basket thing. A copter found him in the first place.”

  “TV,” said the woman, “I’d get a makeup artist and fake boobs out to here and talk like an idiot.” She batted her lashes. “Cee Ess Eye at your disposable, let’s do an ultrasonic magnetic cross-section of the left lateral dorsal fibrio-filamental inclusion. Then we’ll know who his great-grandfather was, what he ate for Thanksgiving six years ago, and what his first cousin’s schnauzer thinks about kibble.”

  Everyone smiled.

  The younger man said, “You ask me, using the gurney’s a bigger pain. You guys take the body, I can do the gurney.”

  The woman said, “Anything to avoid the corpus delecti, Pedro.”

  Pedro said, “You want to do the gurney, Gloria, I’ll do the body.”

  “Kids, kids,” said Walt. To Milo: “Can’t take them anywhere.”

  Milo said, “If you can use two more sets of hands, we’re at your service.”

  Pedro said, “That’s okay, we’re CSI studs, can handle it all by the first commercial.”

  Walt said, “Speak for yourself, action hero. As is, my back’s gonna bitch for a week, they want to help, God bless ’em.”

  Milo scanned the slope. “Anything else down here other than him that I should be concerned about?”

  “A little blood,” said Walt, “but most of it’s on the road and the first ten feet of the drop. We tagged and bagged skin fragments but all you’re going to get is more of this guy, there was no struggle.”

  Milo checked the area anyway, nostrils flaring, then compressing. “How about two of you do the gurney, the rest of us will form the funeral procession.”

  “It’s a plan,” said Walt.

  We began the climb.

>   Pedro said, “The Lord is my shepherd. Too bad this ain’t a sheep.”

  didn’t hear from Milo the following day and my call to Gretchen asking how Chad was doing went unanswered.

  Robin and I went out to dinner at an Italian place she’d heard about. Little Santa Monica Boulevard on the western edge of the Beverly Hills business district. Family-run, the wife cooking, the husband hosting, two teenage girls serving. Homemade everything, good wine.

  Garlic breath for both of us, which is as good a definition of diplomacy as any.

  When we got home and took Blanche out of her crate, she licked my hand with special enthusiasm. Did the same for Robin and belched. Now we had a consensus.

  The doorbell rang.

  Blanche raced to the front of the house and sat there, tail-stub wagging.

  Robin said, “Someone she’s eager to see.”

  A voice on the other side bellowed, “Must be my looks.”

  She let Milo in. “Hope I’m not interrupting, kids.”

  A cheek peck caused him to grimace. “Spaghetti con olio y mucho garlicko.”

  “Master detective. I’ll go use mouthwash.”

  “I was just thinking we could all go out. Alas.”

  “We’re happy to feed you.”

  He threw up his hands. “The sacrifices I make for friendship.”

  As we walked to the kitchen, Robin said, “How’s Rick?”

  “Meaning how come I’m dining solo?”

  “No, darling. Meaning how’s Rick.”

  “Busy,” he said. “On call and probably honing his scalpel as we speak. I’m busy, too, only difference is he’s going to actually accomplish something.” He stopped. “But don’t let me destroy your happy, wholesome domestic ambience. In fact, I should probably take leave before my mope-virus infects anyone.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Robin. “What can I get you? Hopefully something with garlic so we can all be social.”

  Three hastily snarfed mixed-meat sandwiches and an equal number of cold Grolsches later, he let out his belt a couple of notches and beamed up at her. “You’re a ministering angel—who needs Prozac?”

  “Bad day, Big Guy?”

  “Nothing day.”