Mystery

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Did drugs or booze have anything to do with that?”

  “People get tired without drugs and booze.”

  “No substance abuse issues.”

  “Some people have self-control.”

  “Her mother didn’t.”

  “What mother? She had no mother,” said Olga Koznikov.

  “She was born in a test tube?”

  “Her mother died when she was a little girl. In Colorado.”

  “What town in Colorado?”

  “Vail. She grew up in the snow. Once upon a time.”

  “That so.”

  “Her mother taught skiing, died in an accident, she was raised by the county.”

  “What about her father?”

  “Swiss tourist, she never knew him.”

  “She told you that.”

  “She showed me a picture.”

  “Of Vail.”

  “A pretty woman with a baby. Snow.”

  “Interesting,” said Milo.

  Koznikov’s cheeks fluttered.

  “Olga, her mother was a woman named Maude Grundy. She was an alcoholic streetwalker from New Mexico who gave birth to Tara when she was fifteen. Tara’s birth certificate says father unknown. Maude had a rough life, moved to L.A. at some point but we can’t figure out exactly when. Whether or not Tara brought her here is unclear. If she did, they probably had a falling-out because Tara let Maude live in a dump that burned down two and a half months ago. Maude died in the fire and Tara didn’t pay a cent to bury her.”

  Koznikov had listened impassively. Now she took long sips from the can. Suppressed a belch and smiled. “You are telling me this to make me sad.”

  “I’m telling you in case Tara told you anything that was actually true and might help us find who murdered her.”

  She turned to me. “Your question I can now answer. Yes, the old ones liked her. I thought okay, she has no father, makes sense. This much is true, even if he was not Swiss.”

  “What does having no father have to do with them liking her?” said Milo.

  “They liked her because she liked them. That’s all of it—love, sex, pleasure. You like me, I like you. One of them—what if once upon a time one of them, a very old, kind man, told me Tara was ‘patient’? That would explain it, no? That would help you understand.”

  I said, “Patience is a good quality in a young person.”

  “Good and so rare.”

  “How about a time line?” said Milo. “When did she start working with you, when did she finish?”

  “Three years is a long time to do anything.”

  “How long have you had this place?”

  “Eighteen years.”

  “You don’t get tired.”

  “I am lucky.”

  “Three-year stint,” said Milo. “How long before that had she been in L.A. working for bad people?”

  “A year.”

  “So she arrived seven years ago.”

  “You are good in math. I need calculators.”

  “Did she talk about living anywhere else but Colorado?”

  “Yes, but now I don’t know what’s true and what is not.”

  “We can sift that out, Olga. Where else did she say she lived?”

  “Texas, Arizona, Oklahoma.”

  “Not New Mexico.”

  “No.”

  “What else can you tell us?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, huh?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  I said, “What did she do after she quit?”

  The hand left her breast and fluffed her hair. Curls expanded then sprang back like metal springs. “The computer.”

  “She started selling herself online?”

  “Not selling,” said Koznikov. “Advertising. For relationship.”

  “She told you she wanted a relationship.”

  “I don’t meddle with the baby birds.”

  “But you found out she’d gone online.”

  “Things get around.”

  “Did you talk to her about it?”

  “The computer,” she said, “is magic. It can be black magic.”

  “No security,” I said. “Unlike a face-to-face business with guys like William for protection.”

  “William sells furniture.”

  “Did you ever find out who she hooked up with online?”

  “My guess is a rich man.”

  “She never told you.”

  “I don’t meddle.”

  “Things get around,” I said.

  “They do.”

  “You didn’t resent her leaving.”

  “Some jobs you can do when you are tired.”

  “Not Tara’s.”

  “The cow with empty udders doesn’t give milk.”

  “Why do you guess she was with a rich man?”

  “I saw her getting out of a car,” said Koznikov. “Rodeo Drive, the fancy stores for the skinny girls. Nice little BMW. She carried bags.”

  “From which stores?”

  “Too far to read the bags.”

  “Was she by herself?”

  “Yes.”

  “You assumed a rich boyfriend was paying for her shopping spree.”

  “She didn’t have an MBA.”

  Milo said, “I’m going to give you a fact, Olga. Because we value your help. The rich man she found was named Mark Suss.”

  “Okay.”

  “Old guy. Was he one of her regulars?”

  “I don’t know this Suss.”

  “You know another Suss?”

  Koznikov tugged a curl. “I don’t know him, I don’t know what Tara did with him, I don’t know anything.”

  “She never talked to you about Suss?”

  “How do you spell this?”

  “S-U-S-S.”

  “Short name,” she said. “It’s real?”

  “Quite. Rich Beverly Hills family.”

  “You think they hurt her?”

  “Not at this point. How about the bad men she worked with before she found guidance? Would any of them still be angry enough to hurt her?”

  Koznikov’s laugh was the sputter of a faulty ignition. “We are talking dirt.”

  “Dirt can have a bad temper.”

  Her eyes chilled. “Dirt gets stepped on.”

  “So no need to bother looking for her first pimps.”

  “No need.” She rolled a hand into a fist. “This Suss, you have talked to him?”

  “He died.”

  “Ah.”

  “After she left, did she ever return to you?”

  “For what?”

  “A social call?”

  She went quiet. Relaxed pudgy fingers.

  “Olga?”

  “Okay, I will tell you something. She came back one time. For advice.”

  “When?”

  “Maybe two years. Give or take.”

  “A year after she retired.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’d she want advice about?”

  “How to build a good relationship.”

  “With who?”

  “She didn’t say. Later, I see her in her little BMW, the clothes.”

  “Striking it rich and wanting to settle down?” said Milo. “Every call girl’s fantasy.”

  “Big joke to you,” said Olga Koznikov, “but not always funny.”

  “It happens, huh?”

  “I could give you names. Girls acting in movies, wives of rich men. Even lawyers.”

  “Even.”

  Koznikov grinned. “Not everyone knows how to use the mouth right.”

  I said, “Tara wanted to build a relationship. Something more than sex.”

  “She was happy, I was happy. She was a nice girl.”

  “What else can you tell us about her?”

  “Nothing.” Staring at us. “Now it’s really nothing.”

  Milo said, “Did William know her?”

  “William sells furniture.”

  “Even so.”

/>   “Even so, no.”

  “Back in the theoretical days, you had others like him. To set limits.”

  Koznikov held out her hands.

  “Was one of your musclemen a guy named Steven Muhrmann?”

  Koznikov yanked a curl hard enough to shake loose several snowy hairs. They floated midair, wafted onto her desk. She brushed them away. “Why do you ask about him?”

  “So he did work for you.”

  Her fingers drummed the desk. She picked up the soda can, crushed it with one hard squeeze. “Briefly.”

  “When Tara worked for you.”

  Silence.

  Milo said, “Were he and Tara close?”

  “No.”

  “You seem sure.”

  Koznikov rubbed her forehead.

  “What, Olga?”

  “Him,” she said. “I told Tara, she agreed with me.”

  “You told her to stay away from Muhrmann.”

  “All the girls,” said Koznikov. She pitched forward, bosoms intruding on the desk. “You are saying he’s the one?”

  Milo said, “We’re saying he associated with Tara after she retired. We’d like to speak to him but haven’t been able to find him. Any ideas?”

  “Did he do it?”

  “We don’t know, Olga.”

  “But it’s possible.”

  “Anything’s possible but no, he’s not a suspect and I don’t want you to act on that assumption.”

  “I don’t act.”

  “I’m serious, Olga.”

  “Fool,” she spat. “He is the actor.”

  “He wanted to act?”

  “Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “He lied.”

  “So?”

  “Lying is good practice for acting.”

  “What’d he lie about?”

  “Goofing around, not working.”

  “Booze, dope, rock and roll.”

  “Loser,” she said.

  “How’d you find him?”

  “One of my properties, we did construction. He was digging foundation. Big muscles. I thought maybe he’d be okay, because he’s gay.”

  “Muhrmann’s gay?”

  “I thought,” she said. “Taking care of the body like that, the yellow hair, very tan.”

  Milo smiled. “Only gay men do that.”

  “Gay men are the best,” she said. “Take care of the girls, no problems.”

  “Muhrmann didn’t take care of anything.”

  “Bum,” she said. “Loser.”

  “Did he have a particular thing for Tara?”

  “No. Fool.”

  “Not a smart guy.”

  “I’m talking about her,” said Koznikov.

  “She was stupid for hanging with Muhrmann.”

  “You play, you pay.” She rubbed her hands together. “Okay, I’m finished.”

  Hoisting herself out of her chair, she pointed to the door. No more than five feet tall. Thin, tight lips gave her the look of a venomous toad.

  Milo said, “If you could direct us to any girls she worked with, that would be helpful.”

  “I don’t know any girls, I don’t know anything.”

  “You knew Tara was dead.”

  “I watch TV,” she said. “Mostly Home and Garden network, sometimes Do It Yourself. Good-bye.”

  “Olga—”

  “Good-bye. Please don’t come back.”

  She flung the door open. William stood inches from the jamb, chewing gum energetically.

  “Hey,” he said.

  Koznikov said, “Take them out.”

  Milo said, “If you think of anything else—”

  “I am old, I do not think well.”

  William made a move toward Milo’s elbow, thought better of it, and gave a small bow and stepped back. “After you, sirs.”

  Milo proceeded up the aisle but I was restrained by Koznikov’s hand on my wrist. Hard grip, just short of inflicting pain.

  Tiptoeing, she placed one arm around my waist, pushed her mouth an inch from my ear.

  I tried to move away but she held fast. Put her mouth near my ear. Hot breath, then a whisper:

  “Thank you for helping Gretchen.”

  I peeled her arm off, walked away.

  She laughed. “That’s what I figured you’d say.”

  illiam trailed us through the barn. When we hit daylight, Milo said, “We’ll take it from here, friend.”

  William’s stance widened.

  “On the other hand, friend, let’s see some I.D.”

  “May I ask for what reason, sir?”

  “You may ask but you won’t receive an answer. Show me some paper.”

  William chewed fast. “Of course.” Out came a billfold. Gold dollar sign clamping a brick of cash.

  Milo said, “Marcy William Dodd. Park La Brea Towers, huh? Nice.”

  “I like it, sir.”

  Milo pointed to the row of vehicles. “Which is yours?”

  “The Hyundai.”

  “That your only drive?”

  William stopped chewing. “You were expecting a stretch Escalade, sir? With a gangsta lean and a fur hat on the headrest?”

  “Why would I expect that?”

  “You know how it is, sir.”

  “Did you know Tara Sly?”

  “No, sir. Before my time.”

  “When did your time start?”

  “Obviously after this person you’re asking about left Madame’s employment.” Teeth flashed like strobes. “You know what, sir, I’m not feeling these questions and the law says I don’t have to answer them. You take care, now.”

  He strode back to the barn.

  By the time I started the Seville, Milo had run his name, found nothing beyond the address.

  “Cleanest bunch of felons I’ve ever met.”

  “They sell furniture,” I said.

  “And I’m an Olympic ice-skater. Okay, let’s get out of here.”

  As I turned onto La Cienega, he said, “What’d she whisper in your ear?”

  “Sweet nothings.”

  “Seriously.”

  “She really likes my chest hair.”

  “The old charm never fails. You give her your number?”

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “Dinner and a movie.”

  “Be a new experience for you,” he said.

  “Cheating on Robin with an elderly psychopath? Gee, that’s enticing.”

  “Personal sacrifice in service of the department.”

  “Unlike Muhrmann, I’ve got limits.”

  “Mr. Bad Behavior,” he said. “And he goes way back with Tara—Tiara. Yeah, it firms him up as my prime.”

  He pulled out his pad and pen. “Time to fill in the time line before she snared Mark Suss. She splits from Santa Fe after her third arrest, which would be no longer than nine, ten years ago. Travels around, heads west. Maybe she even landed in those places she told Olga. A couple of years later, she’s in L.A., probably low and grubby because she gets nabbed off the bus, works the street. A year later she signs up with Olga, becomes a high-priced spread, lasts three then she retires at the ripe old age of twenty-six. After meeting Muhrmann and maintaining some sort of relationship. Am I missing anything?”

  “I find it interesting that she stopped paying her rent right around the time her mother died.”

  “What, traumatized into fiscal irresponsibility?”

  “Maybe that motivated a life change.”

  “Skipping out on the rent is psychological growth?”

  “Starting to save up for the future could be,” I said. “She was ready for a move. Did she go somewhere between the time she cut out and the time she was found?”

  “Shacking up with someone?”

  “Or living by herself.”

  “Where?”

  “Good question.”

  “I’ve already been through real estate records and she doesn’t own anything. If she had a new landlord, you’d think they’d call in if they saw her
face on the news.”

  I said, “Unless whoever she was living with had a vested interest in not calling.”

  “Muhrmann. Or Connie Longellos. Or both. There’s a secret fun-pad somewhere.” Frowning. “Or neither. Time to follow the money trail.”

  We grabbed jet-fuel coffee from the big detective room, walked to his office, and played computer games.

  With no legal way to access bank and brokerage accounts, the best bet was real estate records.

  Philip Suss and Connie Longellos-Suss owned four commercial parcels in L.A. County plus the house in Encino and a Huntington Beach condo. Property taxes had been paid faithfully, no liens or major encumbrances. A warehouse in the toy district and a Tarzana facility rented to a sports club carried mortgages, but nothing substantial compared with assessed value.

  Milo toted up the most recent appraisals and whistled.

  “Twenty-four million bazoongas.”

  I said, “It’s probably an underestimate because the properties haven’t been assessed for years.”

  One property had been sold last year: the building housing Connie Longellos’s art gallery. Forty percent short-term loan on that one, but profit from the transaction had taken care of that and Phil and Connie had netted just short of a million dollars.

  “Connie didn’t go under,” he said, “she wanted to clean up on the real estate. Oh, man, there goes my motive for her, goddamn rich people, yet another reason to hate ’em.”

  He switched to Franklin and Isabel Suss’s holdings, came up with the house on Camden Drive, an office-condo on Bedford Drive where they both saw patients, a second home in a gated community in Ventura, a six-unit apartment building in West L.A. Mortgages on everything except the primary residence, but once again, nothing crippling. Value of the package: nine million.

  “Nice,” he said, “but only about a third of what his brother’s worth. Frankie goes to med school, Philly ends up the tycoon?”

  I said, “Med school, internship, and residency create years of lost income. Phil could’ve used the time to be entrepreneurial. Or Frank’s motivated by something other than amassing money.”

  “Like?”

  “Practicing medicine.”

  “A straight line between two points? Talk about far-fetched.” He laughed.

  “For all we know, Frank’s just as rich as Phil but he has his money in other investments, like the stock market.”

  “Maybe ... hey, what if they look good on paper but one of them recently blew some serious dough on the market or some other scheme?”

  “If either of them was in acute trouble, you’d expect them to sell off properties or take out additional loans. Neither is mortgaged to the hilt and most of Phil’s properties are flat-out paid for.”