Mystery

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Ready, aim. Bro.

  They’d probably done it a thousand times as kids, using peashooters, toy pistols, water guns.

  Adulthood changed the game, as the big thrill became aping Daddy’s approach to women.

  Taking on Daddy’s Sweetie as a cruel inheritance.

  A foolish, naive girl who had no idea she was chattel, easily disposed of like any other liquid asset.

  Phil’s white car slowed.

  Frank’s black car did the same.

  The surroundings changed to tucked-away houses, many of them trailers and shacks and do-it-yourself follies, set well off the road. The brothers turned onto an unmarked dirt strip that angled acutely. A rural mailbox tilted on a stake. Shaggy cedars and drought-loving oaks drooped over the passage.

  Both cars were soon enveloped in darkness, then gone.

  I drove another twenty yards, kept the Seville running, got out.

  “Where are you going?”

  “For a look.”

  “I’ll go, too.”

  “Inefficient,” I said. “Take the wheel and keep the motor on. If I need to make a run for it, you’ll be ready.”

  “A run? How about neither of us goes and we just give Milo the address.”

  “I’ll just check for a second, it’s no big deal.”

  She held my wrist. “Too much testosterone, baby, and now we know what they’re capable of.”

  “Testosterone will work in my favor. They’re thinking fun, not felony.”

  “You can’t be sure of anything, Alex.”

  I removed her hand, left her there.

  Dried-up stick-on address numerals curled on the side of the mailbox. I memorized them, checked the box. Empty.

  Thirty feet in, the dirt driveway S-curved, explaining the cars’ quick disappearance.

  Pressing to the left side, so I’d be facing any surprise oncoming vehicle, I continued, sinking into leaf litter that squished and hissed. Stopped to listen. Heard nothing.

  A few more yards: laughter.

  Fun, the best distraction of all.

  As the driveway snaked to an end, afternoon sunlight flashed hot and white.

  I inched forward. Stopped twenty feet back from a tamped-soil clearing, half an acre or so in diameter.

  Aqua flash of swimming pool. Behind the pool, the log-sided flanks of a low, wide house. Behind the house, forest.

  The Suss brothers’ cars were parked carelessly in front of the pool, providing partial barriers.

  Hums, thrums, laughter.

  A male voice said, “Oh, yeah, baby.”

  I made my way behind the Cadillac, gazed through both windows, was hampered by tinted glass.

  I hazarded a look above the hood of the car.

  Phil Suss sat on the rim of the pool, naked and tan, bulky muscles blunted by a coating of suet. Eyes shut, mouth agape as one of the women lay across the deck and tended to his lap. Across the water, at the shallow end, Frank Suss, pallid, thin but paunchy, embraced the other brunette. Her legs clasped his waist. The synchronized movement of their hips created a languid stroke never tried at the Olympics.

  As I turned to leave, Phil pumped air with one fist. “Yes!”

  Frank opened his eyes. Smiled dreamily. “Bro!”

  “Bro!”

  Both girls laughed. But it sounded rehearsed.

  Robin rolled the Seville toward me and I got in. Before I could belt up, she was speeding away, passing Satori without a glance.

  Hands clamped on the wheel, unsmiling.

  “You okay?”

  “Anything earthshaking?”

  “Nope.”

  “What, then?”

  “What you’d expect.”

  She frowned. “All of them together?”

  “Separate but equal.”

  “Right in front of each other. It’s almost incestuous. And those two hotties don’t have a clue what they’re dealing with.”

  “Now they’ll have a chance to find out,” I said.

  She put on speed, passed Steven Muhrmann’s death site. No reason for me to point it out to her. Same for where Tiara had lost her face.

  The ride emphasized how close the two locations were to each other. Fast-action night of blood and surprise.

  Robin said, “I wonder what that bumper sticker means. Has to be something lewd.”

  It wasn’t.

  A website on japanese bumper stickers translated the character as “peace” in a style of lettering called kanji.

  Robin said, “Okay, time to get back to what I’m good at.”

  lori divana combined with the Suss brothers’ names pulled up nothing.

  I phoned Milo to give him the address on the log house’s mailbox.

  Voice mail, again. Ditto at Moe Reed’s extension.

  I tried Milo’s other acolyte, Detective I Sean Binchy.

  “I think he’s downtown, Doc.”

  “Must be a long meeting.”

  Binchy said, “A lot of them are.”

  “If you see him, have him give me a call.”

  “Will do, Doc. Listen, could I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “My sister’s sister is thinking about going into psychology. Can she talk to you about it, one of these days?”

  “Sure, Sean.”

  “Thanks. I’ll give Loot your message.”

  “Could you look up a couple of addresses to see who pays taxes on them?”

  A beat. “Doc, all these new privacy regs, they’re really clamping down on personal use. Some guys think the brass even has spy programs on us, recording all our keystrokes.”

  “The info’s not personal, Sean, it’s part of Milo’s case.”

  “But he hasn’t officially authorized it, Doc. I don’t want to be a wienie, but ...”

  “I don’t want to put you in a spot,” I said. “But we’re not talking confidential information, I could go downtown and access the data myself.”

  “That’s true, hmm,” he said. “We’re talking the face-murder?”

  “Yup.”

  “That poor girl ... tell you what, I’ll look it up and leave it on his desk. Along with a note saying you suggested the search based on ...”

  “Something I observed an hour ago.”

  “Okay, consider it done. And I’ll give Dorrie your number.”

  I said, “Once it’s on his desk, Sean, would passing it along to me be a problem? Seeing as it’s right out in the open?”

  Silence.

  “It’ll save him time, Sean, I promise he won’t mind.”

  “Oh, man,” he said. “Yeah, you’ve always been straight with me, Doc. What addresses are we talking about?”

  he house on Alhama Drive was owned by one Oral Marshbarger.

  The Web produced only a single person blessed with that name: an accountant at a firm in St. Louis.

  Late to be calling over there, but I tried.

  Voice mail coughed up a long list of extensions. “For Mr. Adams, dial 101. For Mr. Blalock, dial 102.”

  I waited for the alphabet to glide by, punched 117.

  A man answered, “Marshbarger.”

  Misrepresenting yourself as a cop is a serious crime. Con-spieling while glossing over the details is hazy legal territory. It’s also an easy carney trick because most people pick up on buzzwords and don’t process details. Marshbarger, being a CPA, might mean he was the exception, but nothing ventured.

  “Mr. Marshbarger, this is Alex Delaware working with the L.A. police on a case. Some question came up about a property you own in Woodland Hills on Alhama Drive.”

  “Police? Don’t tell me they used it for that.”

  “For what, sir?”

  “Porn shoots, what else? When they showed up looking like that, all sweetness and ... I guess you’d call it seductiveness—of course I was suspicious. I wanted to come right out and ask them if they were scouting for some porn outfit but I got worried there’d be some sort of sex-discrimination suit. Like would you ask us
that if we were men? Nowadays everyone sues everyone for everything.”

  I said, “When did their lease begin and what did they tell you about themselves?”

  “So they did use it for that. Jesus.”

  “You’re not in trouble, Mr. Marshbarger.”

  “Why should I be in trouble? I’m the victim. The point is, it’s disgusting. And fraudulent, the house was clearly advertised as a personal residence. Did they trash the place, someone complained?”

  “The house appears to be in fine shape.”

  “Did they plant flowers?” said Marshbarger. “They promised to, that was part of the deal.”

  “The garden looks great, sir.”

  “I assure you, if there was some way I could’ve screened them, I would’ve, but what were my options?”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  “There was exigency,” he said. “I bought the place, figuring I’d live there myself. Three months later the firm transferred me here. I asked for compensation until I could rent the house at fair market and the firm agreed but the unspoken message was Do it quick, Marsh. Those bimbos were the first to show up with real money and good credit. Which makes total sense, I suppose, if they were fronting for some porn outfit. That industry grosses more than Hollywood, right? And lots of it never gets reported—is that what this is about? Some tax thing, you figured I’d know about it because I’m a CPA? Sorry, no, nothing. And that’s all I want to say.”

  “Mr. Marshbarger, there’s no tax issue and your tenants aren’t suspects in anything. Including pornography.”

  “What, then?”

  “They’ve associated with what we call persons of interest.”

  “Organized crime? Oh, Jesus—”

  “No, sir, you’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about in that regard. I just need some information.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “Basic facts for verification. What names did they use on the lease application?”

  “Apparently their real ones,” said Marshbarger. “That’s what the credit check company said, believe it or not.”

  “You had your doubts.”

  “Divana Layne? Lori Lennox? Those sound real to you?”

  That from Oral Marshbarger.

  I said, “What job history did they list?”

  “Models. They said they worked mostly in Japan.” Snicker. “Those Asians go for the voluptuous ones, don’t they?”

  “And they both had good credit histories.”

  “A-plus. Six-figure incomes for both of them. Maybe the yen–dollar exchange worked in their favor.” He chortled again. “Models. Maybe for Hustler but not for one of those fashion rags my ex used to read, with those stick figures.”

  “Who were their previous landlords?”

  “Real estate companies in Tokyo, they showed me letters of reference. In Japanese but they also had translations. Kind of hilarious, actually. Like those manuals you get with cameras and stereos?”

  “You verified.”

  “I made a couple of long-distance calls, got taped messages in Japanese, left my own message, never heard back. I didn’t have time to be doing all that international calling, I needed to move, they had the money. And they haven’t missed a month. In fact, if they’re taking care of the place and there’s no criminal activity, maybe I’m glad I rented to them. Why’s this information so important, anyway?”

  “How’d the girls find you?”

  “Craigslist,” said Marshbarger. “I tried ads, agencies, all that did was attract losers. And like I said there was a time element, so I did what everyone does nowadays. I didn’t expect much. But they showed up with the goods. Financially speaking.”

  “Anything else you want to tell me about them?”

  “So I shouldn’t evict them.”

  “No grounds I can see, Mr. Marshbarger. You shouldn’t contact them, period. They haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Porn’s okay?”

  “There’s no evidence they’re into porn.”

  A beat. “So why are we talking?”

  “They know some people who’ve come to the department’s attention. Speaking of which, let me run some names by you. Steven Muhrmann.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Tara Sly?”

  “Now, that’s a porn name,” he said. “Or a stripper name—is that what they are? Pole-riders?”

  “Markham Suss.”

  “Nope.”

  “Anyone named Suss?”

  “Nope.”

  “What’s the rent on the house?”

  “I wanted two thousand, we settled for sixteen hundred plus they handle all the utilities and gardening. And plant flowers and keep them up nice. The place looks okay?”

  “Charming. Do they pay by check?”

  “Auto-pay account through Wachovia,” said Marshbarger. “They never miss. So it’s okay for them to stay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay ... what did you say your name was? Just in case things do get complicated.”

  “Phone West L.A. Division and ask for Lieutenant Sturgis.”

  I gave him the number.

  He said, “That’s not you.”

  “Lieutenant Sturgis is the boss.”

  “Sure, but—”

  I hung up, silently thanking Robin for insisting we get a blocked number. Left a detailed message at Milo’s private cell, plugged in divana layne lori lennox lingerie.

  The computer spit out five Japanese websites and two from Bangkok. Canned translations turned the text into malaprop-laden gibberish that elevated camera manuals to Shakespeare.

  Not a problem; the images said it all.

  Page after page from Asian trade shows. Divana, Lori, and other similarly endowed beauties strutting Tokyo runways in various combinations of satin, lace, rayon, fishnet.

  Name recognition for underwear models. They’d achieved minor celebrity in a culture with a genius for micro-delineation and exquisite refinement.

  The most recent show was three years ago. Both women were old enough to have begun modeling over a decade ago.

  That gave them plenty of opportunity to hook up with any combination of Suss males. A few years on the other side of the planet, then back to L.A. where they’d reunited with the twins.

  So far they’d made the grade.

  Tara’s fate said they’d better hope that continued.

  The house on Old Topanga Road was owned by one Olna Fremont.

  I turned the name into a keyword. The information highway spread out before me.

  I sped. Slowed to rubberneck.

  Screeched to a halt.

  ori Lennox née Lorraine Lee Bumpers came to her door, hair in curlers, wrapped in a white terry bathrobe lettered Hilton on the breast pocket.

  Female Caucasian, five seven, 121, a DOB on her license that made her thirty-two.

  A genuine birth date on a twenty-one-year-old LAPD arrest form made her thirty-nine.

  Only one arrest in L.A. County, but a sealed juvenile record implied priors. The solicitation for prostitution charge was nothing glamorous; she’d worked Sunset and Highland as an eighteen-year-old runaway, got nabbed her first week, was sentenced to a group home and counseling. A year later, she’d been picked up on a similar charge in Vegas but since then had stayed out of legal trouble.

  The six-figure income she’d claimed was real but limited to the five years she’d modeled in Japan, buttressed by residuals from a few TV commercials filmed there and partial ownership of an apartment building in Laughlin, Nevada. Since her move back to L.A., a yearly gift of twenty-six thousand dollars from unnamed sources filled in some blanks. Gift tax was exempt for only half that amount, so most likely a pair of donors.

  This morning her feet were bare, toenail polish chipped, face stripped of makeup. A reflexive smile corroded when she saw Milo’s badge.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “I thought it was.” She looked at her wrist. Pale band on a tan arm w
here her watch usually sat.

  “Eight fourteen,” said Milo. “Hope it’s not too early, Ms. Lennox.”

  She worked up another smile, produced uneasy dismay. “Actually, it kinda is.”

  White teeth were flawless. Her breath was stale.

  “Is Divana awake yet?”

  “Just,” said Lori Lennox. “What’s going on?”

  “Can we come in?”

  “The police? It’s a little ...”

  “No big deal, Lori, all we want to do is talk.”

  “About?”

  “Phil and Frank Suss.”

  Slate-blue eyes shuttled back and forth like ducks in a shooting gallery. Wanting to lie but insufficient smarts to come up with a good one. “Okay.”

  “You know them.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s why we want to come in,” said Milo.

  “Are they okay?”

  “They’re great, Lori. Coupla happy campers.” He pointed to the pale strip of arm. “Nice tan. I’m betting real rays, not bronzer.”

  “Yeah, it’s natural.”

  “Not a tanning bed, either,” he said. “More like a swimming pool.”

  She relaxed. “I wish.”

  “I’m not saying you own a pool, Lori. You’ve got something better. Access but no maintenance bills.”

  “Huh?”

  “Old Topanga Road.”

  Her eyes fluttered.

  Milo pulled out his pad, searched, read off the address. He knew it by heart but using paper makes it official, can kick up the intimidation level.

  Lori Lennox began playing with the sash of her robe.

  Milo said, “Three p.m. yesterday.”

  No answer.

  “Black bikini. Not that it stayed on very long.”

  She blushed from sternum to brow. I liked her for that. “You have no right.”

  “To what?”

  “Spy.”

  Milo thumbed his chest. “Us? God forbid. Then again, it could be worse. So if you don’t want to talk—”

  “What do you mean worse?”

  “Tara Sly.”

  “Who?”

  “Cute little blond girl.”

  “Lots of those,” said Lori Lennox.

  “Now there’s one less.” He showed her his card. Tapped a finger next to Homicide.

  She gulped. Made a third attempt at smiling, stopped midway, and stood back to let us in.