Heartbreak Hotel

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Sometimes,” said Tatiana. “She goes for coffee with Doctor.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “I dun know, maybe…months? Is she gonna be okay?”

  “Afraid not,” said Milo.

  Tatiana’s hand flew to her mouth. “Polize.” As if the fact had just processed. “I go get her. Only one patient in the Sick room, it’s a virus, fluids and rest, she’ll be done soon.”

  The glass slid shut. Milo leafed The Cat in the Hat. Two more croupy coughs sounded. “Can viruses get through drywall?”

  He switched to Oh, the Places You’ll Go! Smiled faintly, as if remembering something. The door opened and a woman in her fifties shuffled out, red-eyed and sniffling.

  White hair was carelessly cut in a pageboy. A white coat several sizes too large tented a gray-blue dress. Support stockings, sensible shoes, round unlined face. Not young-looking but oddly child-like.

  Dr. B on her tag, along with a daisy drawn in red marker.

  “My assistant said Thalia is dead.” Whispery voice, curiously lacking in inflection.

  “Unfortunately, Doctor.” Milo held out his card.

  Belinda Wojik was looking at the floor and didn’t notice it. The fingers of her right hand beat a rapid tattoo on her chin. Her lips turned down. Nostrils pulsed. Cheeks began to flutter as she exhaled slowly.

  “Thalia,” she said. The fingers on her chin rose to her forehead, slapping softly. Then up to her hair, scratching, pulling.

  She sat down heavily.

  Through all of it, not a moment of eye contact. Not, I sensed, the evasion of the guilty. This was something else.

  Milo said, “Could we talk a bit, Doctor?”

  “You’re a homicide detective,” she said. “Are you Dr. Delaware?”

  “I am.”

  “Know of you. Read your work in oncology. Sorry for not calling you back. Didn’t understand why you wanted to talk about Thalia. I wanted her permission. Was going to ask her. I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

  Clipping segments of speech like links of sausage.

  She raised her head. Close-set hazel eyes struggled to find their bearings, failed, and aimed down at the floor. “Very sad to hear about this. Who’s the perpetrator?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Doctor.”

  “You think I could tell you?”

  “We’re talking to everyone who knew Thalia.”

  Rapid nodding. “I knew her. Since I was a child. My grandfather…” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Not relevant. After you leave, I’m going to the hospital to see a poor little thing with cystic fibrosis. Not a pulmonologist. I handle general issues in concert with a pulmonologist.”

  Milo looked at me.

  I said, “Makes sense.”

  She inhaled slowly. “I know. I just sounded strange to you. I know. Give me a second. I’ll explain.”

  Several more breaths. “I’m of ambiguous diagnosis but let’s say spectrum. I like to think mild. I function well on a professional level. Not Asperger’s, I’m not even sure I believe Asperger’s is a bona fide diagnosis. Even if it is, not me, no obsessive hobbies, I like people, I just don’t—I love my work, the children. They don’t mind.”

  Plaintive expression. “Did that explain it or have I confused you more?”

  I said, “You’ve explained perfectly.”

  “With my littlest patients I don’t need to explain. With grown-ups, as long as the children are happy. When I’m exposed to anxiety-provoking stimuli, I have to work harder. Like now. This is anxiety provoking. I can be more conventional when I’m not anxious. This is…I’m in denial, first stage like anyone.”

  I said, “Sorry we had to tell you—”

  “You have your jobs like I have mine. I can’t think of anyone who didn’t like Thalia.”

  Milo said, “Your grandfather was her money manager. How far back did they go?”

  “William P. Wojik,” she said. “That’s how you found me.”

  I said, “Actually, Ruben told me you’d sent Thalia to him.”

  “She asked me for a worthy cause. Ruben’s a good man doing good work.”

  Milo said, “About your grandfather—”

  “I don’t like to talk about my grandfather. He loved me. But he associated with criminals.”

  Milo and I looked at each other. Belinda Wojik continued to stare at vinyl.

  “That was a long time ago,” I said.

  “It was,” she said. “He wasn’t a criminal himself. At least I don’t know anything to the contrary. If there’s anyone I grant analytic caution it’s Grampa. He was always good to me. Even though I confused him. I confused everyone but only Grampa took the time…do I need to talk about him?”

  I sat down next to her. “If you could, we’d appreciate it. We know so little about Thalia so any link could be valuable.”

  Long silence. One leg began to pump up and down. She crossed her arms.

  “Thalia considered Grampa a good friend. She told me. After I told her he was nice. Even though I confused him. He was socially smart. What you’d call charming. He lived to ninety-five. Died eleven years ago in his sleep. That’s a good way to go. Even when he was old, he was social. He grew a beard, looked like a thin Santa. When I was a child, he dressed up like Santa and put pillows under his costume. Because I was afraid to go to Bullocks Wilshire. Where the real Santa was. The real fake Santa.”

  She frowned.

  I said, “Your grandfather understood you.”

  “It was my father who told me. My father didn’t approve of his father. They didn’t get along. Father and I didn’t get along. Grandfather and I did get along. Grandfather always said, ‘Common enemy, Belle.’ Then he’d laugh and give me a candy. He gave me extra when Father said no sweets.”

  I said, “A rebel.”

  “You’d have to be,” she said. “Associating with criminals.”

  Milo said, “Which criminals?”

  She shook her head. Drummed faster. “I don’t know but my father never lied. He was a dentist and very honest. He did work for the studios. Fixing stars’ teeth and he didn’t lie. Even though he said that business was all lies. He was religious, Presbyterian, thought of being a minister but chose dentistry. After Mother died, I don’t remember her, he raised me. Dr. William Wojik, Junior. Same name as Grandfather but different. It happened because of candy. Grampa gave me some and he got angry. Pulled me out of Grandfather’s house and took me home. In the car, he said, ‘You think he’s a great guy, Belle? He associated with criminals, okay?’ And then he drove too fast.”

  Her hands settled in her lap. “That’s how I learned about it. I was curious so I asked Thalia about it. Because she knew him for a long time. Knew me through Grampa. It was here in the office. She came to have coffee, she sometimes did if she was shopping in Beverly Hills. I finished my last patient. Asthma attack, I prescribed albuterol plus comprehensive allergy tests with Dr. Epstein, he’s my consulting allergist. The patient had a Level Three reaction to horsehair and was riding horses. The reaction took a while to manifest. Allergic load had to build up but then it did and all the wheezing and constriction and congestion increased. I had her stop riding and everything was fine…that’s the day Thalia came by for coffee. I remember it that way, Thalia-asthma. It’s like a bookmark. It was also the day after the anniversary of Grampa’s death. It made me sad, remembering. I told Thalia. Then I told her what my father said. He’s dead, too, had an accident, skiing. Hoping she’d contradict Father and say no, Bill never did anything like that. She smiled and said, ‘People have pasts, Belle. If I told you about mine, you might not want to have coffee with me.’ Then she winked. The next time I saw her, she asked me for a worthy cause and I said, Dr. Ruben Eagle. He does good work.”

  I said, “You met Thalia through your grandfather.”

  “At Grandfather’s house. Several times when I came to visit Grandfather, she was there. Often she had a briefcase with her. When I came in, she alwa
ys said, ‘I’ll give you two your special time.’ She smiled at me, patted my head, said I was cute, then she left. Later, when I was an adolescent, she didn’t pat my head.”

  “A briefcase,” said Milo.

  Belinda Wojik knitted her hands. “Grampa was social but it was probably business. Grampa invested money for people. From his office but also from his home. He had a huge house in Hancock Park with an office full of books.”

  “Where was his office?”

  “Encino. I didn’t believe Father. But then Thalia didn’t deny it and she hinted and winked about herself. That’s when I started to believe it. It bothered me. But I loved him. I still don’t know how to process it.”

  She looked at us. “Was Thalia murdered because of something Grampa did?”

  Milo said, “No reason to believe that.”

  “I hope you’re right, Lieutenant. At Grampa’s funeral, Thalia came up to me and said feel free to call if I needed someone to talk to. So I called her the next week and we had coffee. I talked to her about becoming a physician. It seemed a crazy idea but I couldn’t get rid of it. Thalia encouraged me. I gave up the idea, anyway. Years later I came back to it. I was forty-one and didn’t think I’d get into medical school. I tried anyway because I didn’t want to work anymore as a secretary for an extremely hostile movie producer, Marvin Redman.”

  A tear stream ran down her cheek. “I did it. I told Thalia. She kissed my cheek and we had coffee.”

  I said, “The cemetery you visited—”

  “Hollywood Legends. It’s close to Western Pediatric Medical Center. I stop in on Grampa’s anniversary. I don’t go other times. I might get into a habit. I have to maintain a structured schedule. By point of illustration, when you’re finished with me, I’ll drive straight to the hospital and see my CF patient. I’ll drive past the cemetery but I won’t stop.”

  “When Thalia told you she’d participated in criminal activities, what was her affect?”

  Her eyes returned to the floor. “Discerning other people’s emotions is difficult. It’s like a foreign movie. Unless I’m paying strict attention and watching for subtitles, it passes me by.”

  “Did she seem to take it lightly?”

  “She didn’t laugh,” said Belinda Wojik. “She didn’t cry, either. She was…somewhere in the middle. Then she looked away. I interpreted that as wanting to change the subject. Then she said she was looking for a worthy cause. Oh, I remember something: She said she was looking for a cause because she was as old as Methuselah’s wife and wished to do good with her money. May I go, now?”

  Milo said, “Soon, Doctor. Do you recognize either of these men?” Showing her Waters’s and Bakstrom’s mugshots.

  She said, “Obviously, they’re criminals.” She shuddered. “Their eyes are blank. They scare me. Are you saying Thalia associated with them?”

  Milo said, “Not necessarily.”

  “You’re showing me these pictures for a reason.”

  He smiled.

  Belinda Wojik said, “You’re telling me nonverbally to shut up so I will. May I go now?”

  —

  As we walked out to Bedford Drive, Milo said, “That was different. How the hell does she work with kids?”

  “She’s nonjudgmental and kind of child-like, herself.”

  “Beverly Hills parents would dig that?”

  “She probably has a sparse outside life and is available twenty-four seven.”

  “A slave with an M.D.? Yeah, that would do it,” he said. “So Gramps might’ve moved money around for thugs and Thalia ’fessed up to being a bad girl.”

  I said, “This goes way back. Time to learn more about Gramps. Ricki Sylvester’s, too.”

  He said, “Your place. Faster computer plus catering.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  Twenty minutes later, we were in my office. I expected Milo to commandeer the keyboard but he slumped on the old leather couch. “Go for it.”

  William P. Wojik was mentioned in several newspaper articles from 1940 and 1941, all to do with Leroy Hoke’s tax evasion trial. As Hoke’s “accountant” he’d been subpoenaed to testify, no record of what he’d said.

  Several papers added another label: “reputed mob moneyman.”

  “Reputed” in order to avoid a libel suit. I kept scrolling, found no evidence Wojik had ever been charged criminally. Following Hoke’s conviction, he avoided the public eye until 1975, when he, along with other alums, had been honored at a Yale Club of L.A. gala.

  New tag: “esteemed financial consultant and philanthropist.”

  A photo from the party showed a white-haired man with a toothbrush mustache and an easy smile. A chubby girl clutched his arm and gazed up at him. Eleven or twelve, pigtails, glasses, a frilly pink dress that threatened to consume her.

  The round, perplexed face of a young Belinda Wojik.

  Milo said, “His dinner companion. Like he told her, common enemy.”

  I keyworded jack mccandless.

  Even more coverage on him. A “mob lawyer.” “Reputed” not necessary because the facts were clear. Formerly from Chicago, McCandless had defended “Capone soldiers and other organized crime figures” before moving to San Francisco, where he’d served as the “legal mouthpiece of union bosses and political figures accused of corruption.”

  Living in L.A. by the midthirties, McCandless had faced a “potential conflict of interest due to his work on behalf of both jewel-theft victim Count Frederick LaPlante and the chief suspect in the case, mobster Leroy Hoke. However, with no one ever charged in the heist, the necessity of making a choice was avoided.”

  I kept scrolling.

  Similar to William Wojik, public attention on McCandless had faded soon after Leroy Hoke’s imprisonment. I came across a few anniversary trial rehashes then nothing until a twenty-year-old obituary in the American Bar Association Journal.

  McCandless was lauded, in memoriam, as a longtime ABA member who’d served on numerous committees, including several that dealt with professional ethics. Another “noted philanthropist.” He’d died at age ninety-six “peacefully, in his sleep.” Interment at Hollywood Legends Memorial Park, in lieu of flowers any sort of charitable donation was appreciated. Predeceased by his wife and son, Mark McCandless. Survived by his granddaughter, Richeline Sylvester, also an ABA member.

  Milo said, “Mob moneyman makes ninety-five, mob lawyer goes him one year better, Thalia pushes a hundred. Maybe the good die young because they bore God.”

  I laughed, switched to an image search. “Well, what do you know.”

  Half a dozen color shots, like Wojik’s, all in formal garb. Planned Parenthood benefit, same for the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, three for the art museum, the zoo.

  Even in old age, Jack McCandless had been a forbidding presence, well over six feet tall and three hundred pounds or more, with a hairless bullet head and crushed features. Tiny porcine eyes aimed like handguns intent on demolishing the lens. Or the photographer.

  One black-and-white shot, decades older, was familiar: Perino’s, Hoke and a tiny blonde. McCandless the hulk we’d assumed to be a bodyguard. That one traced to an eBay auction featuring “classic L.A. restaurant images,” this one peddled as “Rich folk enjoying the Beverly Hills high life.”

  Not quite; Perino’s had occupied a stretch of Wilshire five miles from B.H. No surprise, on any given eBay day, you could bid on a five-hundred-dollar Stradivarius.

  Milo said, “Even as a geezer he looked like a gangster.”

  I said, “That could’ve worked for him in court, the power of intimidation. In Hoke’s case, there was an added benefit: Compared with the lawyer, the defendant looked harmless.”

  “Didn’t do the defendant any good.”

  “But obviously Hoke didn’t hold the conviction against McCandless. Continued to employ him, using Thalia as a surrogate the way he did with Wojik. What I find interesting is McCandless working for both Hoke and LaPlante aka Drancy.”

  He
said, “Backs up the collaboration scenario.”

  “Big-time. Drancy and Hoke planned the whole thing together, the jewels got fenced or sold to other buyers with loose standards, the consignors ate the loss. If we’re right about Hoke continuing to operate from behind bars, he could’ve been involved in Drancy’s New York art scheme. The same goes for Thalia. But that one didn’t work out well for Drancy, he got busted. Maybe his descendants believe he was sold out. Or hadn’t gotten a fair share of the take.”

  “Criminal genetics,” he said. “Seventy years later, Thalia pays the price.”

  I said, “Tying her to any of it would be tough unless you were related to a criminal insider and had heard stories about Hoke’s number one girl. The person he entrusted with his fortune.”

  Milo walked over to the computer. “Look for a link between Drancy, Bakstrom, and Waters. That doesn’t work, toss in McCandless and Wojik. Hell, do a goulash.”

  I tried every combination. Nothing.

  “My luck,” he said, “anonymous Ms. Cutie will turn out to be the killer kin…okay, I’m gonna lean on Lev—the guy at the archive.”

  “What about Bakstrom’s and Waters’s visitors list?”

  “Still looking.”

  “Quentin coughs up Thelma Myers and they can’t give you anything?”

  “Data’s ‘in flux.’ They got a federal grant to go completely digital and something screwed up, big surprise.”

  He sat back down.

  I said, “Waters and Bakstrom have been in L.A. for a while but apart from Bakstrom’s pickup construction job, neither seemed to have stable employment. What if they freelanced? Nothing violent. Fraud, bunco, something to tide them along while they planned the big job. Using the same name they gave the hotel.”

  “The Birkenhaar brothers,” he said. “That’s got to come from somewhere—maybe it’s Girlie’s real name.”

  “We already searched and came up with zero. But the name of a suspect in an ongoing investigation might not make it to the Web.”

  “I’ll ask around about scams.” He glanced at his Timex. “Grampas and the little girls who admire them. Dr. Wojik’s an odd bird, I don’t see her consorting with serious bad guys. Ricki Sylvester, on the other hand, is a lawyer, which in my book is at least one strike against her. Let’s inform her what we’ve learned about ol’ Jack, see what she has to say.”