“Can’t hurt.”
“You could help with that, no?”
“I can refer you to someone.”
“Great! Have your people call me.” He reached into a pocket of his sweatpants, fished out a billfold, extracted a business card from a wad of cash and credit cards. Stiff cardboard, matte black, peach-colored lettering.
Design by Massimo
Fashion and Lifestyle Consulting
Gmail, no phone or street address.
He said, “I build gorgeous formal and business casual menswear. Are you married?”
I shook my head.
He appraised me head-to-toe. “You have decent taste, easy to fit, okay, I give you a discount.”
“Appreciate the offer.”
“I mean it, sir. Get married, I fix you up gorgeous. Dressing up’s a good way to start a relationship.” Another glance at the mustard-colored box. “You want me to keep an eye on her?”
“That would be great.” I patted my pockets. “Don’t have a card of my own, could you spare another of yours?”
“You bet.”
I wrote Milo’s name, title, and number on the back, returned it to him.
He read. “Lieutenant.” Sly smile. “For you, I could design something with a little bit of the uniform vibe, you know?”
“Keeping it official,” I said.
“Fun, Lieutenant. It’s all about fun.”
—
Milo had exited the car, too, but he hadn’t strayed from the passenger door.
From the look on his face, no fun had transpired.
I said, “More stonewall?”
“North Korea’s got nothing on these guys but some progress.”
He got back in. I started up the engine.
He said, “I finally got the name of a guard who worked that particular visitors area for the past few years. Of course, they can’t promise he knows anything. Of course, he’s on vacation. I called, left a message. Let’s get back to the office, maybe I can find some more info on him and interrupt his recreation. What were you doing?”
“Impersonating a police officer.”
I drove past Massimo. He waved.
“I leave you alone for a minute and you make a new friend?”
“Maybe a useful friend. The Maltese Mynah.” I told him about the van in Sylvester’s driveway. “Months ago fits the waiter’s time line.”
“The old guy’s wheels. Okay, one baby step closer. If it means anything. Thanks.”
A block later, he said, “Mini but still a van. You know what I’m thinking.”
“Ideal for transporting bodies.”
“But let’s not be morbid.” A beat. “On the other hand, let’s.”
CHAPTER
36
The guard’s name was Herman Montoya. His Facebook page advertised eighteen pals, all family members. Thirteen of whom were vacationing with him in Sedona, Arizona, in celebration of the eighty-fifth birthday of the matriarch, Montoya’s grandmother, Estrella.
Details of the trip were courteously laid out.
Milo said, “Now everyone on the planet knows their houses are vacant. He works with scumbags all day and gets this careless?”
Everyone also knew the Montoya family’s mode of transportation from Colorado to Arizona: a caravan of rented RVs, scenic stops along the way.
Arrival date, yesterday. One of Montoya’s daughters was kind enough to list the mobile home park hosting the caravan as well as the creature comforts it provided.
Snackbar and even WiFi hookups!!! for streaming
Orange is The New Black for Patti and
Lorna and me, Breaking Bad and sports for the guys
Nick for the kids!!! Yeah!!!.
Milo said, “If the information age keeps growing, detectives will be redundant.”
“You’ll always be needed,” I said. “Personal charm and all that.”
He grunted and phoned the desk at Red Rock RV Lodge.
—
The manager was an agreeable woman, had no problem walking over to check Herman Montoya’s patch of asphalt. After being reassured by Milo that none of the clan was suspected of anything.
“Salt of the earth,” he said. “He’s in law enforcement.”
“Awesome,” she said. “We love law enforcement. Okay, shouldn’t take long, I’ll get back to you.”
Five minutes later, Milo’s cell played a Sousa march.
A soft, wary voice said, “Herman Montoya. This really LAPD?”
Milo repeated his name and rank and Montoya said, “Okay, what’s up?”
“Thanks for calling back. Sorry to interrupt your vacation.”
“Vacation,” said Montoya. “How much red rock can I look at? Also, the jewelry’s outrageous but of course they all have to have some. You got me curious. What can I do for LAPD?”
Milo told him.
He said, “Sure I remember her. Name was DeeDee, last year or so she was there every couple months to see Bakstrom.”
“Not Waters.”
“Just Bakstrom.”
“DeeDee what?”
“Hmm…those were her initials, Dee something, Dee something…sorry, that’s what I remember, she called herself by the initials. Hi, I’m DeeDee. Cheerful, like that. She’d get all wiggly, the hips, you know? Had a pair of boobs on her, whoa. But like I care. What I care, honey, is you don’t slip him something that’s going to hurt me.”
“Bakstrom was violent?”
“No,” said Herman Montoya. “Just talking generally, every visitor’s a potential problem. But she was okay, except for too friendly with the staff. I don’t like ’em too friendly, usually means they’re hiding something.”
“Friendly and wiggly.”
“God gave her a bod and she sure used it,” said Montoya. “Premium bod. Face, too. Good-looking chick. Not what we usually get.” He laughed. “By that I mean she had all her teeth. Dee…what the heck was her name…?”
“Something with a ‘D,’ ” said Milo. “How about Drancy?”
“Nope.”
Too-quick answer. Milo sagged. His lips formed a silent obscenity.
Herman Montoya said, “Dee…I’m having a senior moment…maybe Diane, maybe Deena…Debbie. Something with a darn ‘D.’ ”
Milo said, “Duchess?”
“Ha,” said Montoya. “Now you’re kidding me. It was a while back, sorry.”
I said, “Demarest?”
Milo stared at me.
Herman Montoya said, “Who was that?”
Milo said, “My colleague, you’re on speaker.”
“Oh. Didn’t hear what he said.”
“Could the last name be Demarest?”
“There you go! Demarest. Now I remember. Damn I’m losing it. I used to make a joke to myself when she’d flip the hair, wink and wiggle and tell me I didn’t need to bring a female guard to search her. I’d tell myself, ‘Give it a rest, Demarest. I don’t care how cute you are, honey. My deal is getting out by end of shift not on a gurney.”
Noise piled up in the background. Montoya said, “Hold one sec.”
A few seconds of dead air before he returned. “Wife and sister and daughters and granddaughter have jewelry to show me. Anything else I can help you with?”
“Did DeeDee visit anyone else but Bakstrom?”
“Just him. His cellie, Waters, no one came to see him. The two of them were always discussing something. Bakstrom and Waters.”
“Any idea about what they talked about?”
“You know cons,” said Montoya, “too much spare time. For all I know they were setting up a political party and planning to run for office.”
“Any discipline issues for either of them?”
“Nope,” said Montoya. “They did their time and piled up the behavior points and now you guys have to deal with them—Deandra! That’s her first name, it just hit me.”
“Deandra Demarest.”
“Yup, D and D.”
“Terrific, Offic
er Montoya. Thanks a ton.”
Montoya said, “So what’d these jokers do in L.A.?”
“Killed a bunch of people.”
“Killed? A bunch? Geez,” said Montoya. “Killed…” Soft whistle. “Nothing like that with us, like I said, no problems with either of them. But we’re like a separate society, the smart ones figure out the rules and adapt. Then they get out and break your rules.”
—
Deandra Katrine Demarest, thirty-nine, had two arrests that showed up in NCIC.
Age nineteen, armed robbery, in Louisville, Kentucky.
Age twenty-nine, writing bad checks in Ossining, New York.
I said, “Every ten years. She was due.”
“Those are the two she got caught for,” said Milo. He looked up the details, read, printed, passed over the info.
The robbery, of a jewelry store, had been committed by two ex-cons. One, Demarest’s boyfriend, had done the gun-waving and the looting, the other drove the getaway car. Deandra, sitting in the backseat, claimed she’d known nothing about the vehicle being stolen or plans to rob. She’d pled down to accessory before the fact, got a year in prison, most of which was consumed by time served.
The bad check earned her probation and community service at a local preschool, due to “the absence of prior arrests and exigent circumstances.”
Milo said, “Her and toddlers, there’s a smart move.”
I said, “Isn’t Ossining where Sing Sing is?”
“Sure is. Another con-romance, huh?”
“Good bet,” I said. “With Louisville on her record, why no priors, there?”
He said, “Shitty record keeping, no one talks to each other. Also ‘exigent circumstances’ is D.A.-speak for ‘I’m letting you off, honey.’ Maybe she got wiggly and impressed some prosecutor. Preschool. Brilliant.”
He pointed to the pair of mugshots. “She does have the equipment to impress.”
Mugs bring out the worst in their subjects; even movie stars come across desperate and eroded. Deandra Demarest’s smile said the booking process was just another modeling session.
Both times she’d held her head up high, rotated her face to create a flattering contour, squared her shoulders, flashed perfect teeth. Her smile was a strange mix of wholesome and sinful.
The kind of blitheness that comes with getting away with too much for too long. In her case, biology helped: perfect oval face, cute cleft in her chin, widely spaced blue eyes with enormous irises that would make her appear appealingly confused when she was anything but. All of that crowned by a creamy sweep of wavy hair—brunette at nineteen, blond at twenty-nine.
They say eyes are the true mirrors to the soul but Deandra Demarest’s eyes projected a softness that did nothing but lie. The kind of earnestness and implied vulnerability that could sell anything.
The photos offered no view of the body she’d worked to impress Montoya but the stats said plenty: no change in over a decade: five-five, one hundred nineteen, “slender build.”
A lithe structure free of scars, tattoos, or distinguishing marks. Eschewing ink because she knew what she had, wanted to keep it pristine.
Milo said, “In both shots she looks younger than her age.”
I said, “Easy to preserve yourself when others are doing the dirty work.”
“No aliases or nicknames, she must’ve added the Duchess bit later.”
He ran a DMV search; no license or registered vehicles. No employment history, per Social Security. “Guess preschools don’t report.”
I said, “For all we know she’s doing the same thing here under an assumed name.”
He shook his head. “DeeDee Demarest. So much for the Drancy hypothesis.”
I said, “Wrong family but the correct theory. I wonder how she sprouted on a cop’s family tree.”
CHAPTER
37
Information on LAPD Commander Raynard Gordon Demarest was easy to come by.
In 1951, at age fifty, the former “high-ranking police official and one-time driver for Mayor Frank Shaw” had been arrested, tried, and sent to prison the next year. Every local paper had covered the story.
Milo said, “A tree with rotten roots.”
A ragout of charges had been leveled at Demarest, creating a legal tsunami that washed him to San Quentin on a thirteen-year sentence. Notable lack of character references, pre- or post-conviction, including by family members.
No mention of family, period, and recently appointed Chief William Parker’s characterization of Demarest as “exactly the kind of morally degenerate character we’re striving to eliminate from our midst” hadn’t helped.
Neither had a parade of victims with grievances stretching to Demarest’s early days as a Central Division patrolman and chauffeur for Shaw, the most corrupt mayor in L.A. history.
“Numerous business owners” recalled how Demarest had strong-armed them for protection money. “Citizen witnesses testifying behind barriers for fear of recrimination” remembered being physically threatened and intimidated. Several “colored and Mexicans” accused Demarest of racially motivated beatings.
Violence didn’t appear in any of the indictments but as an assemblage they were damning. Larceny, fraud, perjury, obstruction, false report by peace officer, false affidavit, peace officer misconduct, contempt of court, conspiracy.
I said, “Appealing all that would take years. Someone wanted him gone.”
“Classic Bill Parker,” said Milo. “Upright and merciless. Shaw represented everything he hated and Demarest having anything to do with Shaw made him an obvious target.”
I said, “The kind of degenerate who’d go along with a jewel-grab.”
“Easily.”
“Demarest was probably chosen to write the report because he was involved in the confiscation. The handwriting on the back could’ve been a note he wrote to himself because the ruby was missing and he intended to look for it. First step would’ve been pressuring Thelma. Luckily for her and unfortunately for him, Parker went after him first.”
He said, “If the bastard did go looking, he was out of his element.”
“How so?”
“Too much time strong-arming, not enough learning how to detect.”
—
The final article on Demarest covered the day he was shipped off to San Quentin. Identical LAPD photo in every paper: tall, broad, fair-haired man in jail clothes, head-down and cuffed, escorted by two plainclothesmen to the van that would transport him to Northern California.
Shortly before Christmas of 1952. Some holiday.
Milo said, “Let’s find out what happened to him.”
County records told that story.
Not Marin, where the prison sat. L.A., where the body of Inmate Raynard Gordon Demarest had been shipped to a mortuary in Boyle Heights.
He’d served less than a year of the thirteen before expiring in the prison, due to “cranial injury following a fall.”
I said, “Prison showers can get slippery. Especially when it’s the prison housing Hoke. If Demarest was behind the jewel confiscation and tried to pressure Thalia, it wouldn’t have sat well with her true love.”
“The long arm of Leroy,” said Milo. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Shades of Drancy’s tumble off that building.”
“But his clan didn’t care about revenge. Or the ruby.”
“Or he had no family to speak of. But Demarest’s relatives passed down a fable: Grandpa wasn’t a corrupt bully, he was a knight errant on a quest for a priceless jewel who’d been railroaded. Marinate it over enough generations, they’d start believing they were entitled to the ruby as reparation.”
I tapped Deandra Demarest’s mugshots. “Like I said, it took until now for the right descendant to come along. Even with that, Deandra needed to ripen criminally. She also had to track down Thalia. Not easy—even if she did have a copy of Demarest’s report, she’d be looking for Thelma Myers. Things fell into place once she learned the name of Hoke
’s lawyer. That led her to Jack McCandless’s granddaughter, who either succumbed to pressure or was recruited willingly.”
He re-read Deandra Demarest’s arrest record. “Her first bust. Back at nineteen she had a thing for jewelry.”
I said, “And she did that with a pair of cons who ended up bearing the brunt. Sound familiar?”
“On the other hand,” he said, “the bad-check thing was a solo act.”
“So she’s versatile. Or the records are inaccurate. Either way, she’s developed a talent for manipulating men and discarding them.”
“No bets on Bakstrom’s longevity, huh?”
“Not an insurance policy I’d write. The same goes for Ricki Sylvester. We saw how emotional she can get and that makes her unreliable. If she complained to Deandra that you’d come by again and displayed anxiety, she might already be gone.”
He said, “Manipulating men…the older guy Sylvester had dinner with. He could turn out to just be a blind date or he is another piston in DeeDee’s engine. This femme is way past fatale.”
He went out to the hall, paced up and down, came back. “Now I’m visualizing Cutie Pie all by herself on that Gulfstream to Arabia. Hell, she could have her sights on some emir—oh, man, the owners of the hotel. You think the plan could include them? Who better to buy a rock like that?”
I thought about it. “Doubt it. There’d be no reason for them to risk murdering an old lady for a gemstone when they could just buy one. That doesn’t eliminate an under-the-table sale. But DeGraw’s behavior—sneaking around, preparing to leave the country—says he was going behind his bosses’ backs. He knew he’d be out of a job soon, was trying to augment his severance pay.”
“Hope you’re right, amigo. The case expands to potentates, I’m cooked. Unlike Duchess, who’d like to think she’s a poobah but is eminently arrestable.”
That made my head throb. “Who goes with a Duchess?”
“A male poobah—”
“A Duke.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Waters’s landlord, Phil Duke. An older guy. Maybe I’m reaching but—”
He swiveled so fast his chair tipped and he fought to keep it stable. Pounding the keyboard with big, white-knuckled hands, he said, “Oh, my.”
Heartbreak Hotel Page 26