Mystery

by Jonathan Kellerman

  We walked past the car, along an oleander-shrouded brick path littered with fronds and seeds and pods and toxic pink petals. The air smelled like Tahiti. If Erno Haldeman was in his front unit, he wasn’t letting on; no one interrupted our progress to B.

  Plain wooden door, blinds drawn. The Welcome! mat was vacuumed spotless. No one answered Milo’s knock. He called the county assessor and asked who owned the property, scrawled something, and pointed to the front unit.

  We retraced our steps to Erno Haldeman’s double-width door, elaborately carved, with an elephant centerpiece that spanned both panels. A brass knocker hung from the pachyderm’s trunk.

  Milo used it, four times, hard. The wood—teak or something like it—responded with a dull thud.

  He tried again.

  A male voice, deep and boomy, said, “Go away.”

  “Mr. Haldeman—”

  “Not interested in what you’re selling.”

  “We’re not—”

  “That includes salvation if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

  “Police, Mr. Haldeman.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Read off your badge number and I’ll verify with the Sheriff’s.”

  “L.A. police, sir. Lieutenant Milo Sturgis.” Reciting his stats.

  Ponderous footsteps preceded the crack of the door. A gray eye peered out from a spot well above Milo’s sight line. “For real?”

  “Very real, sir.”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Your tenant.”

  “Tara? What’s up with her?”

  “She’s dead, sir.”

  The door swung open on a mountain of white linen.

  Midforties, slope-shouldered, as broad as two men and stretching to an easy six six, Erno Haldeman had hairless pink hands the size of rib roasts, a bullet head shaved clean, a fleshy ruddy nose that drooped to a petulant upper lip, hound-dog cheeks that vibrated as he breathed. Straw-colored eyebrows were big and coarse enough to scour greasy pots. The gray eyes were rimmed with amber, disproportionately small, bright with curiosity.

  The linen was a two-piece ensemble that had to be custom: blousy V-neck shirt, drawstring pants. Mesh sandals barely contained massive, prehensile feet. Haldeman’s toenails were yellow and ridged, the consistency of rhino horn, but his fingernails were impeccably shaped and coated with clear polish.

  “Tara?” he said. “You’re kidding.”

  “Wish we were, sir.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Someone shot her, sir.”

  “Around here?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Here I was thinking you caught her doing something illegal, wanted my input.”

  “She impressed you as someone who’d engage in illegal activities?”

  “I trade grain futures, Lieutenant. Trust isn’t a big part of my emotional repertoire. But no, she was never anything but neat and pleasant when she lived here and someone else was paying the bills. It was after the money ran out and she kept making excuses that I began to wonder. She claimed to be looking for a job but I never saw any sign of that. Not that I was paying attention to her comings and goings and half the time I’m out of town, anyway.”

  “When did the money run out?”

  “She owes for three months.”

  A white shape larger than Haldeman drew our attention to the front of the house. FedEx truck pulling in behind the Mercedes.

  He said, “One sec,” signed for the package, returned reading the label. “Great price on a Château Margaux premier cru from a dealer in Chicago, ten years old, should be ready pretty soon. Normally I don’t buy blind but I’m familiar with this bottling and John can be counted on to temperature-control.”

  Milo said, “Cheers. So you carried Tara for three months.”

  Haldeman shifted the package to one hand, grasping it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a bit of foam.

  “Okay, come inside, I’m done making money for the day.”

  rno Haldeman lived in a small space set up for a big man. Any nonbearing walls had been eliminated and the ceiling had been lifted to the rafters. Floors were black granite glossy as fresh shoe polish, walls were high and white and bare. Scant furniture, all of it chrome and gray felt. A ten-foot slab of plate glass supported by three metal sawhorses hosted a bank of computers and modems and printers.

  Haldeman placed his package on a white-marble kitchen counter.

  “Why did I carry Tara for three months? I felt bad for her. And no, it wasn’t because of any personal relationship. I’m happily married and even if I wasn’t, pedophilia doesn’t appeal to me.”

  I said, “You saw her as a child.”

  “My wife’s an acoustical engineer, has two degrees from M.I.T. I went to Princeton. One gets used to a certain degree of intellectual stimulation. To me, Tara was a child.”

  “Dumb blonde,” said Milo.

  “Must be the neighborhood,” said Erno Haldeman. “Marilyn Monroe used to live around here when she was starting out.”

  “Doheny and Cynthia.”

  Haldeman blinked. “A cop versed in Hollywood lore?”

  Milo said, “What surname did Tara give you?”

  “Sly. Why? It’s bogus?”

  “We can’t find anyone by that name.”

  “Really,” said Haldeman. “I won’t insult you by asking if you’ve checked all the databases available on the Web.”

  “Thanks for that, sir.” Milo sat down. I did the same.

  Haldeman said, “Alias, huh? Well, no matter to me, she was a great tenant.”

  “Until three months ago.”

  “Nothing’s forever. What else do you need to know?”

  “Everything about her tenancy.”

  “She’s the only tenant I’ve had. My wife and I bought the place three years ago intending to combine the two units. By the time we got estimates, Janice’s work took her overseas. Her firm’s consulting to several of the large European opera houses, including La Scala in Milan, which is where she’s been for most of this year. Then some trades paid off and I bought a condo in Malibu and we figured we’d make that our main home and keep this for rental income.”

  He gave a tree-trunk thigh a light slap. Same sonic response as the teak door. “Cutting to the chase, we decided to keep the units separate, converted A to what you see here because it’s larger and the light’s better, put B up for rent. Tara answered the ad, showed up, liked it, didn’t quibble over the rent, and returned the following day with enough cash for six months plus damage deposit. That was more than a year and a half ago. She did the same thing every six months. Twice.”

  “How much is the rent?”

  “Eighteen hundred a month,” said Haldeman. “She never worked so obviously I wondered, but gift horse and all that. Later, it became clear some old guy was footing the bill because he’d drop in two, three times a week, mostly after dark. Sometimes they’d go out together, sometimes they’d stay in. All night.”

  Shrugging. “The walls aren’t that thin, but sound can get through. Maybe she was faking, but he seemed to be doing all right for his age.”

  Milo showed him Markham Suss’s picture.

  “That’s Daddy Warbucks, all right.”

  “You ever talk to him?”

  “Hello, good-bye. He was always pleasant, not a trace of embarrassment. Just the opposite, actually. I’d see him leaving and if he noticed me, he’d wink.”

  “Proud of himself.”

  “Maybe at that age that’s the only score you need to keep. For me, right now, it’s how much money I make.”

  “What made you figure he was paying Tara’s bills?”

  “All that cash?” said Haldeman. “Plus she never worked but was always decked out in fine duds.”

  “Couture,” said Milo.

  “I don’t know from couture but she always looked put together. She was into jewelry, too. Old-fashioned stuff, not what you�
�d think a girl her age would go for. Obviously she was dressing for him.”

  “What kind of jewelry?”

  “Again, I’m no expert but I did see her put on some serious-looking diamonds. I remember thinking if she ever runs into financial difficulties, I can always hock one of those.”

  “But she did and you didn’t.”

  “What can I say? She kept promising to come up with the rent. And crying. One look at her and she’d burst into tears. I figured it for histrionics, lost my patience, said, ‘From the way you’re going on, you’d think someone died.’ That really uncorked the dam. That’s when she told me. Her patron had died—that’s what she called him. ‘My patron.’ As if she was Michelangelo and he was a Medici. She just broke down and sobbed for I don’t know how long, said she needed time to get herself together, if I’d just give her time, she’d make it right.”

  I said, “Did she ever offer nonmonetary payment?”

  “Such as—oh,” said Haldeman. “Yeah, that would’ve been a nice porn script. No, she didn’t and had it come to that I would’ve refused. If that sounds self-righteous, so be it. Janice is my fourth wife and I’m determined to make it work.”

  Crossing a leg, he massaged an ankle. “She was good-looking but there was nothing particularly sexy or seductive about her. At least from my perspective.”

  I said, “What was her demeanor?”

  “Quiet, pleasant.”

  Milo said, “Unless her patron came over and the house was a-rockin’.”

  “Yup. Till he kicked,” said Haldeman. “Good for him. Getting some fun, I mean.”

  “Did Tara have any other visitors?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  The shot of Steven Muhrmann elicited a head shake. “Looks mean. He’s the one who killed her?”

  “We’re not even close to a suspect, Mr. Haldeman. In fact, we were hoping you could tell us her real name.”

  “Tara Sly’s what I knew her by.”

  “What else can you tell us about her?”

  “Nothing. I’m up early to catch the international markets, generally asleep by late afternoon. Weekends I go to my place in Malibu. Once a month I fly to Milan to be with Janice and sometimes I stay longer than I should. If I saw Tara once a week that was a lot.”

  “Her mail came to Tara Sly?”

  “Whatever she got went into her box, I never saw it.”

  “Mystery woman,” said Milo.

  “You could make it sound like that in retrospect. To me she was a dream tenant. Minded her own business, paid half a year in advance, never threw a party, never even played music that I could hear.”

  “She have a car?”

  “BMW—the smallest model. Silver. It had a rental sticker on the bumper.” Haldeman brightened. “Here’s something: It came from the Budget place in Beverly Hills, maybe that’ll help you.”

  “Appreciated, Mr. Haldeman. Is the Beemer still in her garage?”

  “Oh, no, she cleared out. Not just the car, everything.”

  “When?”

  “Sometime during my last visit to Italy, which lasted four days—three weeks ago. Janice wasn’t happy about the rent situation and I came home resolved to collect or else, knocked on Tara’s door and when she didn’t answer, I let myself in with my key. Place was empty.” His lips parted. “Was she dead by then?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So she did rip me off.”

  “Place is still empty?” said Milo.

  “Completely,” said Haldeman. “Feel free to see for yourselves.”

  ilo took the master key from Erno Haldeman’s giant mitt, slipped his own paw into a rubber glove, and turned the doorknob.

  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?”