Mystery

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “If she was any sweeter, I’d need insulin. She sat down with me for over half an hour, took a careful medical history, looked at my hide and pretended it wasn’t so bad, then spelled out the pros and cons of dermal abrasion and a whole bunch of alternative treatments. By the end I was feeling so guilty about scamming her, I nearly signed up.”

  Robin said, “We’re talking about one of the daughters-in-law?”

  “Yup. The other one wasn’t as friendly, but considering the way we barged in on her and dredged up unpleasant memories, she was damn near saintly. Bottom line: They both come across as honest and solid and utterly un-criminal and there’s nothing in their backgrounds to suggest anything nasty.”

  “How come you looked at them rather than their husbands?”

  “Because someone used the first daughter-in-law’s name to check into rehab, meaning another female.”

  “Dr. Isabel,” she said. “What’s the other one’s name?”

  “Connie Longellos.”

  Robin said, “Connie can be a man’s name. Connie Mack used to manage the Yankees.”

  “How do you know stuff like that?”

  “Daddy’s girl.” She dropped her eyes, the way she does when remembering her father.

  “I’m impressed,” he said. “Unfortunately, the landlord said it was a woman.”

  Robin said, “Did I just complicate your life, Big Guy?”

  I said, “Actually.”

  They turned to me.

  “The landlord may have assumed it was a woman from the name on the reference. He never spoke to anyone.”

  “Indeed,” said Milo. He winced. “Maybe you prevented some serious tunnel vision. I’d thank you for thinking outside the box but anyone who blabs about outside the box has obviously never been there.”

  Robin patted his hand. “Would you like some dessert?”

  walked Milo down to his car.

  “Thank Robin for the meal.”

  “You already did.”

  “Do it again. For dessert.”

  “We didn’t have dessert.”

  “I sure did,” he said. “Sweet insight.” Shaking his head. “Connie Mack. Why the hell not? Those brothers get looked at tomorrow.”

  I said, “Fake Connie’s P.O.B. was in Pacific Palisades, which isn’t that far from both murders. En route, actually, if you’re coming from B.H.”

  “Gotta be some kind of tie-in ... okay, brace yourselves, Phil and Frank. If I can get backup, I’ll have them both watched. If not, I’ll start with Phil because his hours are more flexible. Plus, he’s married to the real Connie and I can see some disgruntled husband pulling something like that.”

  “No DUIs on Phil’s record.”

  “None on Frank’s, either, but big deal, could be luck. Like Phil’s the night he passed the Breathalyzer.” He laughed. “Luck on top of the sperm club. Okay, sweet dreams, if there’s something to clue you in on I will.”

  The call that came through at eleven a.m. wasn’t from him. Blocked number, straight to my private line.

  “Doc, this is Moe Reed. L.T. asked me to tell you he got called downtown, doesn’t know for how long.”

  “Trouble?”

  “If you call a statistics meeting trouble.”

  “He’s been avoiding that for a while.”

  “Chief calls you personally and ... expresses his opinion, you don’t avoid.”

  “Thanks, Moe. Anything else?”

  “Chief woke him at six a.m.,” said Reed. “Some way to start your day.”

  I plugged each Suss twin’s name into several search engines, cross-referencing with Topanga, Pacific Palisades, Malibu, a couple of West Valley towns. Nothing.

  At noon, I walked down the kitchen stairs, crossed the garden to Robin’s studio, stopped to feed the fish. She was studying the same guitar top, holding it to the light, tapping at various spots, running a finger along the outer contours. To my eye, she hadn’t done much to it. Ten feet away, Blanche snoozed on her doggy bed.

  “What’s up, honey?”

  “Milo’s tied up, I thought I’d take another look at Philip Suss’s house.”

  She picked up a chisel, wiped the blade, set it down. “I’ll keep you company—don’t be so shocked. Why not?”

  “For one, it’ll be boring.”

  “With me to keep you company? Now I’m insulted.”

  “I’ll be fine, you’ll be in a stupor.”

  She looped an arm around my waist. “I shouldn’t be carving, anyway. Too distracted.”

  “By what?”

  “Her. I know there’s no rational reason, but sometimes I get tired of ignoring how I feel. What’s the second reason?”

  “What second reason?”

  “You said ‘for one.’ What’s two?”

  I had no comeback.

  She said, “There you go. With me along, we can pass for a loving couple, you’ll be less likely to be mistaken for a weirdo snooper.”

  “Guess I won’t need my greasy raincoat and my Groucho nose.”

  “The nose could be cute but definitely no coat.”

  She propelled me toward the door. Blanche awoke, stretched, yawned, flexed her ears, then bulldog-bounced after us.

  “You’re sure you want to do this? It’ll probably end up a whole lot of nothing.”

  “Cheer up,” said Robin. “It’ll be fun. Or at least different.”

  “Ann and Andy, huh?”

  “I was thinking Nick and Nora.”

  “We taking Asta along?”

  She thought about that. “No, she bores easily.”

  We reached Portico Place shortly before one p.m. Crows squawked and squirrels raced up trees but no sign of human habitation, which is routine for any high-end L.A. neighborhood. The same vantage spot was available but I parked south of the house and farther away to avoid a pattern.

  Oblique view but good enough to make out the BMW and the Lexus in the cobbled court.

  Robin said, “Nice place. For one of those.”

  “McMansions?”

  “No, it’s better than a McMansion. Nice proportions. But new trying to fake old never really works, does it? Still, this one’s a valiant try.”

  She handed me one of the sandwiches she’d prepared.

  Roast beef on rye, horseradish-flavored mustard, wrapped precisely in foil. Potato chips, pickle slices, sweating cans of soda. Everything packed in a mini-cooler.

  “This is way too civilized,” I said.

  “What does Milo eat?”

  “Burritos are a favorite but anything quick and massive and oily.”

  “Well,” she said, “why not kick it up a bit, class-wise? Even when doing something uncivilized.”

  “What’s uncivilized about watching?”

  “We’re not watching, we’re hunting, angel. Praying for someone to end up helpless and thrashing in a snap-jaw trap.”

  “That bother you?”

  “Not at all.”

  We finished the food and the drinks, sat another twenty-three minutes before the gates swung open.

  Connie Longellos nosed her Lexus to the street and turned south. Passing right by us but staring straight ahead.

  “Pretty woman,” said Robin. “But kind of grim, from what I could see. If her husband did that to her, being pretty obviously isn’t enough.”

  Fourteen minutes later, the BMW exited. Philip Suss sat high at the wheel, lips moving, smiling as he talked.

  Robin said, “Nothing grim, there. Whoever he’s chatting with is making him happy.”

  Suss headed south, too.

  I waited awhile before following.

  Robin said, “This isn’t one bit boring.”

  When Milo and I had followed Connie Suss, she’d driven east on Ventura Boulevard to Sherman Oaks. Her husband took that same thoroughfare west, avoiding the freeway and slogging through turgid midday traffic. Easy to follow, as he nudged his way toward Encino’s business district. I stayed three car lengths behind, closed the gap occasi
onally before drifting back, caught glimpses of his still-moving mouth.

  He remained on Ventura through Tarzana and crossed into Woodland Hills where he turned left on Canoga Avenue, left again on Celes Street, right onto Alhama Drive. Stopping in front of a yellow, fortiesera one-story cottage, he strode to the front door, rang the bell, was admitted.

  Robin said, “Nice white linen shirt, tailored slacks, polished shoes, and his hair’s all shiny. He sure ain’t playing poker with the boys.”

  “Nora strikes.”

  “Never knew what you were missing, huh? Seriously, Alex, didn’t he look duded up to you? As in hot date? And check out the Mustang in the driveway. That’s a girl-car.”

  Pale blue fastback, white interior. A bumper sticker bore what looked to be a Japanese character.

  I copied down the tag numbers. Robin took a sheet from my pad and sketched the character.

  Driving up the block, I turned around, set up a watch spot to the north. Cutting the engine because Phil Suss might not be interested in a quick drop-in.

  Seconds later, he emerged, followed by a woman.

  Then another.

  Two tall, shapely females in their late twenties or early thirties, each crowned by a mane of long, thick, dark hair that loved the breeze.

  Phil Suss walked arm in arm with both of them, laughing and sauntering toward his car.

  I was too far to make out ethnicity but both women wore tiny, tight tops—one red, one black—ultraskinny jeans that worshipped forever legs, and spindly heels high enough to turn walking into a balancing act.

  Phil Suss held the passenger door open and bent the seat forward to give one of the women access. As she crouched and squeezed herself into the back, he patted her butt. The other woman rolled her hips and did the same for his rear. He kissed her. She returned the favor.

  Robin said, “Pretty definitely wasn’t enough.”

  I waited until the BMW returned to Celes before following. Reached the intersection with Canoga just in time to spot Phil Suss speed south. After a quick right onto Dumetz, he drove less than a mile before merging onto Topanga. Fifteen minutes later, he veered onto Old Topanga Road and pulled into the gravel lot of a wood-sided restaurant.

  Satori.

  Robin said, “Well, look at this.”

  She and I had eaten here a few times, when we had time to spare and romance on our minds. It had been a while. Too long?

  The setup was a loose collection of leaf-sheltered patios and cozy, stone-floored dining rooms. Some of the outdoor areas offered views of Topanga Creek. I remembered the menu as organic minus the self-righteousness, nudges toward vegetarian but some animal protein, good wines, high prices.

  Lovely, when you were with the right person and the bees weren’t swarming. The last time Robin and I had been here, a mama raccoon had tended to a litter of mewling pups creekside.

  Phil Suss and his women entered under a wooden arch, arms around each other.

  Robin and I watched from the Seville, close enough, now, to make out ethnicity. And prevailing mood.

  Caucasian.

  Happy verging on giddy.

  Both women were gorgeous, with the toned voluptuousness of creatures who lived by their looks.

  I thought of Tiara Grundy, wondered if she’d ever been here with Mark Suss.

  Or either of his sons.

  Robin said, “The sandwiches weren’t that big, let’s do lunch.”

  “You must be mistaking me for Milo.”

  “Being Milo has its advantages, hon. C’mon, let’s go in, I told you I’d provide cover. A single guy spying on them would attract attention. We’re in love, everyone will rejoice.”

  She opened the passenger door, paused. “Do we need a plan?”

  “Just be unobtrusive and learn what we can.”

  “I can do unobtrusive,” she said. “We can hold hands, pretend there’s nothing on our mind but us.”

  The restaurant was mostly empty, which worked to our advantage as the hostess consolidated her seating strategy.

  Escorting us to a pine-shrouded patio, she led us to a table that offered privacy and a sweet view of babbling water.

  Charming. But it put us too close to the rear booth where Phil Suss and the curvy brunettes had settled. Positioned our backs to the festive trio.

  Robin said, “How about there?” and pointed to a less favored station with a clear frontal view of Suss’s party.

  The hostess’s eyebrows climbed. “Whatever you prefer.”

  “Thanks for the first one but that one’s our special table,” said Robin. “We were here on our last anniversary, happened to be driving by and decided to be spontaneous.”

  The hostess smiled. “Spontaneous is good.”

  Phil Suss ordered two iced teas, one that he drank, the other that he covered with a folded napkin. The women opted for flutes of champagne.

  Giddy girls, with all the right moves: hair tosses, lip licks, strategic touches of Phil Suss’s shoulders and arms and cheek.

  The one in the red top—a halter that exposed a flawless, velvety back—had dense, wavy black hair artfully streaked with bronze.

  Black Top’s ironed-straight locks were bronze-highlighted ebony.

  As if the two of them worked as a team, had coordinated a joint pheromone attack.

  Both women displayed traces of augmentation at all the strategic spots: chest, eyelashes, cheekbones. I revised my age estimate: midthirties to forty.

  Phil glowed, loving the attention.

  Robin and I picked up our menus, hid behind the oversized, hemp-bound litany as we continued to sneak peeks.

  Refills of champagne, girlish giggles.

  Robin said, “Hmm, vegan duck. They didn’t have that before.”

  “Didn’t know ducks were that philosophical.”

  She laughed. We touched hands, ordered salads, continued to spy.

  From the rapt expressions on the brunettes’ flawless faces, Phil Suss was the wittiest man on the planet.

  Another man walked past us.

  One of the women called out, “Baby!”

  Robin and I continued to peruse but let our eyes drift.

  Dr. Franklin Suss, bald head glowing, wearing a slate-blue Nat Nast shirt embroidered with billiard balls, cream linen pants, and brown calfskin loafers, kissed the woman wearing the black top, then her friend.

  Then he walked to his brother and both men embarked on a garrulous ritual of hugs, double-cheek kisses, more hugs, back pats, power shakes.

  Red Top said, “Enough, you two, I’m gonna get jealous.”

  Black Top said, “Or we’ll think you guys are really weird.”

  Frank and Phil kissed again. Frank wiggled his hips in a parody of girlishness.

  Everyone laughed.

  Frank slid into the booth next to Red Top.

  His arm snaked around her shoulder with the ease of habit. Phil’s arm did the same for Black Top.

  Phil uncovered the second iced tea and slid it over to Frank.

  Frank high-fived air, raised the glass. “Thank you, bro.”

  Phil did the same with his tea. “Bro.”

  They stretched in front of the women and clinked.

  Red Top said, “Here we go again. Boys, pay attention: There are beautiful, sexy women here.”

  “Brotherly love beats that,” said Black Top, pouting.

  Frank said, “Brotherly love. Guess we should live in Philadelphia.”

  Red said, “Huh?”

  She turned to Black, who shrugged. “What do you mean, Frankie?”

  Phil said, “Forget it, Lori, let’s order.”

  “Is it some kind of joke? Philadelphia’s like nowhere.”

  “Ever been there?”

  “No, but there’s no beach.”

  Phil said, “Now you’re a geography expert.”

  Frank snickered.

  Black said, “C’mon, Frankie. What’s the joke?”

  Frank did a slow eye roll. “It was a bad joke, b
aby. So what’re we having?”

  Red said, “Why would you tell a bad one?”

  Frank’s face tightened. “I didn’t know it was bad until I said it.” Speaking slowly, as if to a dull child.

  Red said, “Oh. Okay.”

  Phil said, “Think of it this way: When you guys put on the wrong bikini it takes you by surprise, right? It looks good on the rack, but then you find out it doesn’t work on the bod.”

  Lori pouted. “Everything’s right on this bod, Philly.” Puffing a substantial chest.

  Her friend did the same. Then she brightened. “Oh,” she said, “I get it: Philly from Philadelphia.”

  Titters.

  Black said, “But Frankie from Philadelphia doesn’t fit.”

  Dr. Frank Suss said, “There you go, always a bridesmaid, never a bride.”

  Puzzled looks.

  Phil Suss said, “Enough of this bullshit. You guys are the hottest thing on the planet and Frankie and I dig you and I’m hungry.”

  hil, Frank, Lori, and the woman finally identified as Divana punctuated their lunch with frequent kisses, cheek strokes, and some not-so-subtle under-table gropes.

  The couples paired off loosely: Frank with Divana, Phil with Lori. But I remembered the ass-patting back on Alhama Drive and doubted it was as simple as that.

  Robin and I picked our way through a couple of salads and tried to look casual. As the meal wore on, her smile began to look like a decal.

  But she was relaxed as we left Satori moments after the foursome departed.

  Brothers in the middle, arms around each other’s waists, laughing. Mute women flanking.

  Phil and Lori got into the BMW. Frank ushered Divana into a black Cadillac XTS.

  I said, “Any suggestions if they split up?”

  Robin said, “I’d stick with Phil. It was his wife whose name got used.”

  Girl detective.

  Both cars edged out of the lot. North on the canyon would take them back to the Valley, south, past the spots where Steven Muhrmann and Tiara Grundy had died.

  The Suss twins chose neither, staying on Old Topanga and proceeding deeper into the wooded, quiet corners of the canyon.

  Two brothers, two cars.

  Two brothers, two guns?

  Easy nonverbal twin communication could lead to a perfect two-man firing squad. The synchronized wounds that had puzzled Clarice Jernigan.