Guzman ignored him.
Milo continued his march.
“That’s him?” said Guzman. “Is he kinda ticked off or something?”
“That’s his thing.”
“Being ticked off?”
“Making people wonder.”
—
Milo’s greeting was a nod-grunt combo followed by taking out his little notepad. Daylight enhanced the acne scars and lumps decorating his face. Up close, the gray suit was unpleasantly silvery. Pretending to be sharkskin but ending up closer to mullet-belly. The collar of his white wash-’n’-wear shirt rode up on one side and curled on the other. A skinny strip of olive-green polyester necktie ended well above his belt. At the bottom of the stilt legs were the ritual desert boots, this pair, tan soiled to brown, with red rubber soles.
Barker and Refugia were watching us. He cocked a head at Guzman and held his hands out, again. Guzman pretended not to notice.
Milo said, “Good morning, Firefighter Guzman. What does ‘C’ stand for?”
“Christopher.”
“So, Christopher. You’re the one who first suspected something out of the ordinary.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So how come your partner over there is clueless? Downright surprised to see me.”
“Paramedic Barker and I haven’t conferred yet, sir.”
“Because…”
Guzman flushed.
Milo said, “You’re all business, he’s monkey business, huh? He seems real eager to get out of here. Any particular reason for that?”
“Sir, Paramedic Barker’s probably a little hungry because we’ve been on since five, it’s coming up on our lunch hour. If we don’t get another call.”
“Hungry? Yeah, that’s not a fun feeling. All right, let’s see if we can get you out of here in time for a burrito or something.” Out came a pen. “What exactly tipped you off this might not be a natural death, Christopher?”
“Like I told the doctor, the first thing was ocular petechial hemorrhaging, sir. That got me looking for other signs of asphyxia and I found suspicious facial bruising around the nose and under the chin. Dr. Delaware agrees it’s suspicious.”
“Clamping the airways shut.”
“That’s what it seemed to me, sir. Want me to show you?”
“I’ll see for myself. Who’s the victim?”
“Name’s Theda Mars, sir. Hundred-year-old white female.”
Milo stared at him.
I said, “Thalia Mars.”
“Oops,” said Guzman. “Sorry, yeah, Thalia.”
Milo’s bright-green eyes shifted to me. “A hundred?”
I said, “She would’ve been, in three weeks.”
“And she was your patient?”
Guzman studied my response. Back in Mr. Curious mode.
I said, “I saw her once, yesterday. Got here for a second appointment just before ten A.M. and found Paramedic Guzman with the body.”
Guzman frowned. I hadn’t answered the question. But Milo said, “Ah,” as if that explained it. “That maid over there said she discovered the body. Either of you pick up anything iffy about her?”
I shook my head.
Guzman said, “Me neither, but I guess anything’s possible.”
“Want to make a guess as to time of death, Christopher?”
“That’s not my expertise, sir—”
“That’s why I said ‘guess.’ ”
“Well, sir, rigor’s set in and the room’s not particularly cold.”
“So probably three to eight hours,” said Milo. “Makes sense, if I was up to nasty, I’d do it in the dark. I didn’t notice any cameras on the path. You see any security in the bungalow, itself?”
“No, sir. But I wasn’t looking.”
“Maybe I’ll get lucky and the hotel conceals them.” The notepad tapped his thigh. “All right, Christopher, if there’s nothing else you want to tell me, I’ll take it from here, go get some nutrition.”
“Thank you, sir.” Guzman lifted the case and the defibrillator and headed toward Barker. Barker greeted his arrival with a rapidly moving mouth. Rudimentary lip reading clarified the greeting: “What the fuck?”
Guzman kept going. Barker took a final look at Refugia and followed his partner out of eyeshot.
Refugia started to leave. Milo curled a finger and she hurried over.
When she got to us, he slumped a bit. Making himself smaller, the way he does when he’s trying not to intimidate. From the look in the young maid’s eyes, not successful.
He said, “Thanks for sticking around, Ms. Ramos.” As if she had a choice.
She managed a sad-looking smile. Dark eyes had misted.
Milo said, “It had to be tough walking in and seeing that.”
“Oh, God, so terrible, sir. She was a beautiful person. Here, I mean.” Tapping her left breast.
“You knew her well.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve done her cleaning and her room service since I started working here.”
“How long is that?”
“Three years, a little more,” said Refugia.
“She’s been here that long?”
“Longer. She lives here, sir.”
Milo looked at me.
I said, “Her description was ‘forever.’ ”
Refugia Ramos said, “I got her by accident—they sent me here with her breakfast and she liked me so she asked for me the next day. They didn’t do it right away but she kept asking and the schedule worked out so they put me on permanent breakfast and high-tea delivery to The Numbers.”
“The Numbers?”
I said, “The bungalows.”
“Uno,” said Milo. “But it’s not Los Numeros?”
“No, sir, we’re instructed during orientation that it’s The Numbers. ‘Continental breakfast at Cuatro.’ ‘Cocktails at Ocho.’ ”
“So she’s been here forever.”
“Everyone says that, not just her. She used to say, ‘I’m a fixture, Refugia. Like one of the faucets.’ Then she’d laugh. She liked to laugh.”
“Happy person.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Is longtime residency pretty common for the hotel?”
“No, sir, she’s the only one.”
He turned and peered up the pathway. “No other longtimers in The Numbers or anywhere else?”
“The Numbers don’t get used much,” said Refugia. “They don’t have air-conditioning and they’re far away from the parking lot. No WiFi, everybody wants WiFi.”
“Ms. Mars didn’t care.”
“She liked to read and watch regular TV.”
“The rest of the hotel has WiFi?”
“Not in all of El Ori-hi-nal—the older wing—just some. Mostly people stay in The Can.”
Milo smiled. “That sounds like an outbreak of intestinal flu.”
“Pardon—oh, no, no, sir, The Can’s the new wing. The big tower, looks like a can? The hotel doesn’t call it that but the staff does because of the shape.”
“Bungalows, Spanish, The Can. Interesting place,” said Milo.
“El Ori-hi-nal’s what’s left of the old hotel, most of it fell down in an earthquake a long time ago. I guess they kept it because…” She frowned. “I don’t know why.”
Milo said, “With The Numbers not being popular, Ms. Mars would have had plenty of privacy. Was she happy being by herself back here?”
“Very happy, sir. It’s her home.”
“How much did that cost her?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Who’s the hotel manager?”
“Mr. DeGraw,” she said. “Should I get him?”
“In a minute. What time do you come on shift?”
“Seven A.M.”
“And you go off…?”
“If I’m working a single, at three. If it’s a double, I stay till eleven.”
“You do a lot of doubles?”
“Maybe five, six a month.”
“Pretty full sche
dule.”
“I like to work. I came to America to work.”
“From?”
“Manila.”
“Any family here in L.A.?”
“Oh, yes, my sister and her husband. They’re registered nurses. I live with them.”
“Where, Ms. Ramos?”
“North Hollywood.” As Milo took down the address, Refugia’s mouth screwed up. “Where I live is important, sir?”
“Probably not, but just a few more questions. How long have you been in the U.S.?”
Refugia blinked. “Four years. First I worked as a health aide at a retirement home, then I got this. I like this better.”
“More enjoyable.”
“Working with healthy people is better, sir. That’s why when I got assigned to Miss Thalia, her being so old, I wasn’t so…but she was great. Not like the people in the home.”
“In good shape.”
“She had a little trouble moving around but her brain was young, she was smart and funny.”
“Almost a hundred,” said Milo. “Pretty impressive.”
Refugia sniffed and dabbed her eyes. “May I ask a question, sir?”
“Sure.”
“Are you here because you think someone did something to her?”
“Don’t know, yet.”
“Rob—Mr. Barker told me his partner’s got a crazy imagination, sees bad stuff everywhere.”
“Could be,” said Milo. “So all the other Numbers are currently unoccupied?”
“No, there’s a couple staying in Cinco, from Europe somewhere—the Birken-somethings—Birkenherr, Birkenharr, something like that. This morning I brought them coffee then they called for a paper but they must’ve gone back to sleep because they didn’t answer. So I rang the bell and left it in front of the door.”
“Cinco,” said Milo. “No one else.”
“There was a family in Dos. Tourists from Korea, but they moved out two days ago. Seven people. They used the couches for sleeping and they put sleeping bags on the floor. They complained about the A.C. not working and I told them there wasn’t any and they started talking in Korean. Next day I had to clean the whole place.”
“They left instead of transferring to The Can?”
“I don’t know, sir, I only work the ground floor of The Can, if they were on a higher floor, I’d have no idea.” Tears formed in her eyes. “She looked so peaceful but then I couldn’t wake her.”
Milo said, “Sorry you had to go through that. Did Miss Mars leave her front door unlocked?”
“Just the porch door.”
“But not the main door.”
“No, sir.”
“Did you find it locked?”
Wide eyes. “No, sir, it was open.”
“That didn’t bother you?”
“I figured she opened it, like she usually did.”
“Okay,” said Milo. “Anything else you want to tell me?”
“No, sir.” Tight voice.
“Then now would be a good time to get Mr. DeGraw.”
“His extension is—”
“Would you mind going over and telling him in person?”
“Okay. Sure.” She took a few steps, stopped and pivoted. “If someone did hurt her, it’s not fair.”
She hurried out of view.
I said, “Those background questions. You’re wondering about her?”
“She found the body and she’s been on duty for four hours, which could be within the time frame. Sometimes the ones who get emotionally involved get involved, right? She bother you?”
“Not at all. When I got here she was pretty broken up.”
“She didn’t seem broken up when she was flirting with Barker.”
“Good point.”
“Am I saying she’s a sociopath with shallow emotions, Alex? Like you always tell me, insufficient data. But yeah, I’ll check her out for a criminal history.”
He scanned the surrounding greenery, then the high wall behind the bungalow. “The Numbers. Sounds like a racket—so what were you doing treating a hundred-year-old?”
I told him.
He said, “Impressed by the stuff we do? Not just a bored shut-in wanting to make small talk with a suave shrink?”
“That might’ve been a reasonable assumption, yesterday,” I said. “Can we go inside?”
He laughed. “This is a switch.”
“What is?”
“You getting to a scene first.”
CHAPTER
5
I waited by the bedroom door as he gloved up and entered. He scanned the space, inspected Thalia’s eyes, then the bruises around her nose and chin.
“Yeah, this is wrong. Gold star for ol’ Chris. Though any C.I. would’ve spotted it—Jesus, she’s a twig.”
Lumps the size of cherries formed along his jaw. “Anything out of place from yesterday?”
“I wasn’t in here yesterday. Talked to her on the porch and in the living room.”
“Ramos said she had trouble moving around. I don’t see any cane or walker.”
“She managed,” I said. “Halting but mobile. Lost her balance a few times and I helped her.”
“A hundred years old in three goddamn weeks,” he said. “And some asshole decides to ruin her birthday.”
“Guzman wondered about assisted suicide.”
He looked at me. “Do you?”
“Not from what I saw. She was in good spirits.”
“But now you’re wondering because…”
“Just being thorough.”
He gave the room a second scan. “Neat and clean, everything in place. Makes it creepier…maybe she did pay someone to off her painlessly. Let’s see what comes up after the C.I. clears the body and the techies toss the room. Meanwhile, let’s get some fresh air and you can give me the details of your one and only session with my victim.”
—
Out in front of the porch, Milo assaulted fresh air with a cheap panatela. He does that when bodies reek, but no serious odor had polluted Thalia’s bedroom other than the slight sourness backing up French perfume.
I told him everything I could remember, wondered out loud if Thalia had a specific psychopath in mind.
He dropped the cigar to the dirt, ground it out. “Her not being ready to spill everything at once could mean someone she cared about. Like a relative. But if we are right about it happening in the middle of the night or early morning, you see her opening the door for anyone? Particularly if she couldn’t move well.”
I said, “Someone with a key?”
“Ergo my interest in Ms. Refugia and everyone else who works here.”
“Or someone Thalia gave a key to because there was a closer relationship.”
He said, “As in potential heir with an obvious motive.”
“Maybe that’s why she called me. At her age, the issue of inheritance wasn’t theoretical. She was concerned about leaving assets to a lowlife.”
“Maybe serious assets, Alex. We’re talking someone able to live full-time in a fancy hotel. First thing I’m going to look for is a will.”
We stood in silence for a while.
I said, “Any time my name appears in the paper, you get ink. If she was worried about criminal kin, I could’ve been just her stalking horse and her real goal was making contact with you.”
“Why not contact me directly?”
“A centenarian phones and tells you she’s worried about a nasty psychopathic heir? What would you have done?”
“Suggested she hire security…Okay, if there is some reprobate behind this, it gives me somewhere to look…at her age, a son or a daughter would be in their seventies, late sixties at the youngest. Why wait that long and then snuff Mommy?”
“Circumstances change,” I said. “Seventy-year-old son marries a younger woman, she wants bangles. But sure, we could be looking for a middle-aged grandkid.”
“Hell, Alex, we could be talking about an evil great-grandbaby. Go all the way: great-great.” He fr
owned. “Or just a sweet little maid who’s been cleaning up after her for four years and knows where the goodies are stashed.”
His eyes swung past me. “Here’s our manager, why do they wear that stupid color, reminds me of old blood.”
A man in a liver-red blazer and gray slacks walked our way, hands laced in front of him, as if stretching sore wrists. Middle height, thin and pigeon-toed with a limp, sandy hair and a goatee, he had the round-shouldered posture of someone laden with too much responsibility.
That made me think about Thalia, hunched by a century of responsibility. What had her good cheer concealed?
The sandy-haired man reached us. “Officers? Kurt DeGraw.” Slight accent, hard-edged, Teutonic. The beard was neatly trimmed, shaped to a point.
Milo handed him a card, introduced me as “Alex Delaware,” with no explanation.
DeGraw didn’t crave one. Corporate-savvy, he kept his attention on the boss.
“Lieutenant, may I assume Miss Mars is deceased?”
“You may.”
“The maid who came to get me told me something bad happened, the police had been called, but when I asked her for details, she ran out, crying.” DeGraw looked at the bungalow. “Sad but not surprising. Are you aware she was a hundred years old?”
“In three weeks,” said Milo.
“We’d have baked her a cake,” said Kurt DeGraw. “As we always do. Now, if you could tell me when we’ll be able to clean the unit—”
“Not for a while, Mr. DeGraw.”
“Oh? Is there a problem?”
“There’s reason to believe Miss Mars’s death wasn’t natural.”
DeGraw stared. Plucked at his necktie, stamped a foot. “Unnatural in terms of…”
“Possible homicide.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Nothing but serious, sir.”
“She was a hundred years old, Lieutenant. Why would anyone bo— Why would they do that?”
Why would anyone bother?
Milo said, “Why, indeed?”
“For what reason do you believe it wasn’t natural?”
“Can’t discuss that, sir, and I imagine you don’t want rumors to circulate.”
“No, no, of course not.” DeGraw glanced at the bungalow again. “All right, do what you need to, but if you could give me a fairly accurate estimate as to when we’ll be able to begin—”
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