Mystery

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Like everyone shrinky-dinkying him to the point where he wants to upchuck.”

  “You do have a way with words,” I said.

  “Actually, words were never my thing, Doc. I flunked English in high school. Along with a whole lot of other stuff. Being stoned all the time and never studying ain’t the pathway to academic stardom.”

  “But it sure was fun at the time.”

  She laughed. “It’s more than the training, isn’t it? Send some asshole to shrink school, you end up with an educated asshole. Which, now that I think about it, sounds like a good title for a porno. Analyst Anal Adventures: Educating Ruby’s Ruby Asshole.”

  I said, “In terms of Chad’s next appointment—”

  “Stop being inappropriate, Gretchen. I may be a compassionate therapist but my patience isn’t endless.”

  I named a day.

  She said, “Okay, okay, okay, fine. Bunny may be here, it’s about time for her next nosy-pants visit. She’s decided she needs to be my early-stage hospice provider, even though I keep telling her I’m fine.”

  “But you don’t stop her from coming.”

  “Right now,” she said, “she’s the only person who loves me.”

  “Not counting Chad.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m talking someone who can actually help me. With the nasty stuff, the disgusting stuff. ’Cause eventually, they tell me it’s going to get gross.” Her voice caught. “You should probably meet her, anyway. Seeing as she’ll be taking over.”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re a peach,” she said. “I’m even starting to think you might be for real—sorry, I need to control that evil mouth, there are nice people out there, I just never met them.” Shrill laughter. “Me, me, me—okay, here’s something about you: As a token of my appreciation, I’m going to pay you a bonus.”

  “Out of the question, Gretch—”

  “Hold on, before you brush me off, smart guy, I’m not talking money. What I’m going to give you is better. Information. As in for Sturgis with his current case, the one that was on the news this morning.”

  I didn’t speak.

  She said, “Aha, now I’ve got his attention! Okay, here’s the deal: I was waiting to see how you did with Chad today so I’d know whether or not you deserved another—a special treat. And guess what: You passed the test.”

  “Gretchen, if you’ve got information for Lieutenant Sturgis, you need to tell him directly.”

  “You’re not pals anymore?”

  “Bartering is unethical.”

  “I’m not bartering, I’m offering you a freebie on that girl whose face was on the news. Everyone knows when the cops can’t I.D. a victim they’re screwed. For Sturgis to put her face up on TV, he’s screwed blue and I just might know who she is.”

  “I hope you do, Gretchen, but I can’t be your middleman.”

  “Why not?”

  “I owe you undivided loyalties and you owe me no payment other than what we already agreed upon.”

  “Now you’re being a stiff.”

  “Now I’m being your therapist.”

  “It’s not payment, it’s a bonus.”

  “Look at it this way,” I said. “If I had a patient who owned a jewelry store, I wouldn’t take a Rolex for my services.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s wrong.”

  “I don’t see it,” she said. “I think you’re being a total stiff.”

  “Be that as it may.”

  “You have no desire to hear what I have?”

  “I’m sure Lieutenant Sturgis does.”

  “I don’t want to call him,” she said. “I can’t stand him.”

  The meeting between her and Milo had lasted all of twenty minutes. Frosty, but not conspicuously hostile.

  “It’s up to you, Gretchen. See you in a few days.”

  “I tell you I might know how to I.D. a dead girl and you don’t give a shit?”

  “What you and I do isn’t about me.”

  “Period.”

  “Period.”

  “So now I need to call that rude fat fag, personally,” she said. “Man, you should work for the IRS, talk about a bunch of rigid morons. Speaking of which, I need to talk to you about something else, yeah, it’s back to me, me, me, can I have another appointment for me, me, me? Sometime when Chad’s in school and before Bunny gets here and starts to run my world?”

  “Let’s talk right now.”

  “Only if you charge me, Mr. Ethical. Gretchen learned from her previous profession: Only chumps give freebies.”

  “You advanced me a lot of money,” I said. “Let’s consider it a draw on your account.”

  “Ka-ching ka-ching—hey, what if I don’t live long enough to get my money’s worth out of you?”

  “What’s on your mind, Gretchen?”

  “Is your phone secure?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Hmm ... yeah, why would anyone give a shit about a shrink? No offense. Okay, it’s about those sub-scum suck-ass parasites aka the IRS. When they nailed me on that tax bullshit, part of the deal was I’d pay back everything I’d supposedly evaded. I liquidated all kinds of shit, lost all of my real estate.”

  “But ...”

  “Exactly,” she said. “I saved up for a rainy day. What I need to make sure is that after I bite it no one comes after Chad’s trust fund. What my advisors-to-remain-anonymous are telling me is that by itself the IRS won’t do diddly ’cause they’re stupid, couldn’t find a fart after a bean dinner. But if the damn LAPD gets on my case again and sics the Feds on me, everything could get royally fucked up. This is my kid, I can’t let that happen.”

  “Why would the cops go after you?”

  “Why, indeed.”

  “You’re back in business?”

  “Well,” she said, “let’s just say I do a bit of consulting. Have been for a while. Which is how I came across your little informational treat—correction, the fat fag’s little treat. Reason I’m bringing this up now is because you’ve got connections to the cops.”

  “My only connection is—”

  “Fatso, yeah, yeah, yeah, but he’s got a direct line to the top. As in the Top.”

  “Not really, Gretchen.”

  “No? How many lieutenants get called into the chief’s office like he does?” She giggled. “Makes you wonder if the chief’s got a secret life, maybe likes to suck the big one. You ever pick up on anything like that?”

  “What do you think I can do for you, Gretchen?”

  “It’s not what I think, it’s what I need. You have to grease me with Sturgis so when I’m gone the department doesn’t molest my kid’s future.”

  “Is that the reason you called me in the first place?”

  “What? I hurt your feelings? No, I called you because someone I trusted said you were righteous and knew your business. Then I thought of you and Sturgis and hit on a new idea. Which, now that I think about it, you’re obligated to go along with. ’Cause Chad’s your patient and this is about Chad and if you fail to protect him, what does that say about your ethics?”

  I thought about how to answer that.

  She said, “It’s not that complicated. Your job is to help my kid, so do it.”

  “I don’t see Sturgis having that kind of influence but if it comes to that, I’ll do my best.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “On the grave of Freud?”

  “Adler, Jung, and B. F. Skinner, too.”

  “If it comes to that, tell Sturgis I was a good mother. Otherwise he finds out I’m gone, he’ll go have a six-course meal.”

  “I doubt that, Gretchen.”

  “What, he’s a sensitive, mushy-hearted marshmallow, not a big fat bully who ruined my lunch and all I was trying to do was recuperate from prison?”

  “I’ll do everything I can for you, Gretchen. Promise.”

  “Fine. Now go tell him SukRose was a baby step, it’s time to look for a scumbag nam
ed Stefan.”

  Pronouncing it Ste-fahn.

  I thought: Stefan who?

  I said: Nothing.

  She said, “Don’t you want to know his last name?”

  “I’m sure Sturgis does.”

  “Man, you’re a tough one, got those balls of titanium. Ever consider donating sperm?”

  ilo splashed truffle oil into the pan. Thirty bucks for a two-ounce bottle. He’d entered the house flourishing the receipt and announcing the price. Then he showed me a photocopied driver’s license.

  Eight eggs from my fridge, scrambled with milk and chives and mushrooms, reacted to the enrichment with a quick, sharp sizzle. The earthy aroma of upper-echelon fungus filled the kitchen.

  I said, “First time you’ve ever cooked.”

  “I’m that kinda guy. Emotionally flexible.” Humming. “Too bad Robin’s not here. It’s really her I owe, but we might as well fuel up.”

  It was nine in the morning. He’d arrived freshly shaved, hair slicked, wearing his version of haute couture: baggy blue suit bought for a funeral ten years ago, white wash-’n’-wear shirt, discouraged blue tie, black-leather oxfords in lieu of the colorless desert boots.

  Dividing the eggs into two heaps, he carried the plates to the table, was chomping away before he lowered himself into a chair.

  I was more interested in the license.

  Black Suit aka Steven Jay Muhrmann. Six two, two fifty-five, brown, blue, a P.O.B. in Hollywood that Milo had marked defunct.

  “His latest utility bill was sent to Russell Avenue in Los Feliz, but he’s got no registered vehicle, no record of recent employment that I can find.”

  The picture had been taken five years ago when Muhrmann was twenty-nine and favored a dark mullet. The license had been suspended one year later and never reinstated.

  Angry glare. No one likes waiting in line at the DMV but Steven Muhrmann’s bullnecked scowl suggested more than a long queue was at play.

  I said, “Friendly fellow.”

  Milo put his fork down. “Julius Child offers you tableside service and you don’t even lift a fork? This is a celebratory breakfast, as in I now have a suspect with a real-life name. Eat before it gets cold.”

  I took a bite.

  “And?” he said.

  “Delicious. No job, no car says Muhrmann’s an un-solid citizen. Any criminal history?”

  “Coupla DUIs lost him his license, at the second he also had what the arresting officer thought was traces of meth in a Baggie but turned out to be steroid powder. Despite the unfortunate absence of violence, I like him. Because he makes his mommy nervous. She’s the one tipped me off. Phoned this morning at seven and said the girl on the news was someone her son might know. I didn’t need to press her for details but she sounded like she wanted to get something off her chest, I figured an in-person would be better. What I did get was that she’d last seen him eight months ago, was calling himself Ste-fahn.”

  Pronouncing it exactly as Gretchen had. Before Milo showed up, I’d been wondering how to deal with her tip. Some deity was kind.

  He said, “This is the guy you saw, right?”

  I nodded. “Mommy sells out Junior. What’s this world coming to?”

  “More important, Mommy’s pretty sure she saw Princess with Junior. Princess never actually came in the house but when Mom walked Stefahn to the car, she was there. He introduced her as ‘Mystery.’ Mom said she thought it was ‘Ms. Terry,’ but Stevie corrected her. Girl never said a word, Mom thought she looked a little sad. Or maybe just shy.”

  “Any guns registered to Stefan?”

  “Nope and I didn’t press Mom, didn’t want to overload her before we meet in person. Which is due to happen in an hour, she lives out in Covina. That gives us just enough time to wolf down this repast. Ingest, lad, ingest.”

  East Dexter Street in Covina was a thirty-minute cruise on the 10E followed by half a dozen quick turns onto sun-bright residential streets. Harriet Muhrmann’s house was no different than most of her neighbors’: a one-story fifties ranch the color of coffee laced with too much cream. White-painted lava rock girdled the width of the structure. Crescent-shaped windows were cut into the brown door of the double garage. Eight monumental date palms columned the driveway. The rest of the landscaping was velvet lawn and neat little pockets of impatiens and begonias. The block was silent.

  A sisal mat trumpeted Welcome!

  The woman who stood waiting for us in the doorway was trim with mannish gray hair, a long pleasant face, and soft eyes behind gold-framed glasses. She wore a cinnamon turtleneck, brown jeans, white deck shoes.

  “Ms. Muhrmann?”

  “Harriet.” She looked up and down the street. “Better come in, we don’t want to alarm anyone.”

  The door opened directly into a twelve-by-twelve living room. Brown-velvet couches compressed grape-colored carpeting. The TV, stout and gray-screened, was a borderline relic. A bookshelf held paperback bestsellers, souvenirs from theme parks, a collection of ceramic deer, framed snapshots of cute little kids.

  Harriet Muhrmann walked to her picture window, parted the drapes an inch, peered through. “Make yourselves comfortable. Coffee or tea?”

  Milo said, “No, thanks. Are you worried about something, ma’am?”

  She continued to look out the window. “This is a nice block, everyone’s concerned about their neighbors. Anything different gets noticed.”

  We’d arrived in the Seville.

  “Does your son visit often, Ms. Muhrmann?”

  The curtain slipped from her fingers. “Stevie? No, but when he does, sometimes people do ask me about it.”

  “Stevie concerns them.”

  “They’re concerned for him.” She turned, gnawed her lip. “Stevie’s had his problems. I should tell you that right after I called you, I had my regrets. What kind of mother would involve her son with the police? I respect the police, my husband was an MP in the army, but ... I don’t know why I did it. But seeing Stevie’s face on the news. That girl. I just felt it was my duty.”

  “We appreciate that.”

  “If it was her.”

  “You seemed pretty sure it was.”

  “I know I did,” she said, “but now I’m not sure. There are so many girls like that.”

  “Like what, ma’am?”

  “Beautiful, skinny, blond—the kind who want to be actresses.” She moved away from the window, picked up the smallest ceramic deer, put it down. “Have I gotten Stevie in massive trouble?”

  “Not in the least, ma’am. Our goal is to identify our victim and if Stevie can help us with that, he’d be doing us a giant favor.”

  “So you don’t suspect him of anything.”

  “We had no idea who he was until you called.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That makes me feel better. But I have to tell you, she still could be someone else. You see them everywhere, gorgeous girls. Gorgeous people, period, I don’t know where they come from. Doesn’t it seem to you as if people are getting better looking?”

  “In my job,” said Milo, “I don’t see people at their best.”

  Harriet Muhrmann flinched. “No, of course not—you’re sure I can’t get you something to drink? A snack? I’ve got honey-roasted peanuts.”

  “No, thanks, ma’am, we just ate. So people in the neighborhood worry about Stevie when he comes to visit. Has he been ill?”

  “Do we need to talk about Stevie, Lieutenant? The main thing is that girl might—or might not—be the girl I saw him with the last time he was here.”

  “Eight months ago.”

  “About. It wasn’t a scheduled visit, Stevie just dropped in.”

  “And she waited out in the car.”

  “Some girl did. I didn’t even know he was with anyone until I walked him out.”

  “He called her Mystery.”

  “Obviously that’s not her real name. To be honest I thought it sounded like a stripper name. But I didn’t say anything, just ‘Pleased to meet y
ou’ and held out my hand. Her fingers barely grazed mine. Like she didn’t want to be touched.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “Not a word, all she did was smile. Kind of a spaced-out smile.”

  I said, “As if she was on something?”

  Her mouth twisted unpleasantly. “The thought occurred to me.”

  “You’ve noticed that before in Stevie’s friends.”

  She trudged to a chair, sat down. “You’re cops, you knew right away what I meant about the neighbors worrying. Stevie’s had a substance abuse issue since fourteen. His dad spotted it, Glenn thinks like a cop, maybe too much like a cop. He’s in Eye-rack now, as a contractor. Doesn’t even tell me what he does.”

  I said, “Glenn knew what to look for.”

  “I used to think he was being paranoid but he was right. He confronted Stevie immediately and there was hell to pay.” Slumping. “It wasn’t an easy time for our family. Stevie wasn’t the least bit remorseful. His excuse was everyone did it. Including Brett—his older brother. That got Brett mad and the two of them nearly beat each other senseless. Glenn watched, I nearly fell apart.”

  She hugged herself. “Our dirty laundry doesn’t matter to you.”

  Milo said, “Sounds like Stevie was a bit of a challenge as a kid.”

  “The funny thing is, he started off as the easy one. It was Brett who gave us conniptions, he was a hellion from day one and Stevie was so sweet and quiet. When Stevie was little, I used to say thank God I’ve got one who sits. So now Brett’s an optometrist in San Dimas, has four kids, doing great. Sometimes I think they’re programmed from conception and we have no control over what happens to them.”

  I said, “When did Stevie fall in with the wrong crowd?”

  “Junior high. A real wrong crowd, it was like someone flipped a switch.” Her mouth trembled. “Unfortunately, we could never figure how to flip the switch back. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. Or expense. One thing that really irritates Brett is all the money we’ve spent trying to help Stevie get his life together. So maybe that’s where Stevie met that girl.” She laughed. “Sorry, that was kind of confusing.”

  I said, “Maybe he met her in rehab.”

  She stared. “Yes, that’s what I meant. Glenn says it’s the dumbest thing, making a rehab buddy, druggies need to get away from other druggies. But the way she looked that day—spacey. Maybe, don’t you think?”