He made it past six houses. Stopped. Pointed.
Taking out his weapon, he held it close to his pants. Dark pants, the gun was barely visible. Brief stop at the front door and a bell ring.
The inevitable silence. He walked around the side of the house. A similar foray last year had resulted in a date with a shotgun.
I sat there.
He reappeared, shaking his head. Weapon back in the holster.
Cell phone in his palm. He punched it hard enough to kill it.
Ten minutes later, a white Jaguar drove up to the house and a short, dark woman in an eggplant-colored pantsuit got out.
Milo greeted her. “Ms. Hamidpour?”
“I am Soraya. You are the lieutenant?” Straightening the
“Lieutenant Sturgis, ma’am. Thanks for coming.”
“You say there is a problem with the house, I come. What is the problem?”
“How long has it been for lease?”
“Two days.”
“How long has it been vacant?”
“The owner doesn’t know exactly. What is the problem?”
“When’s the last time the owner heard from the tenant?”
“The owner doesn’t hear from the tenant. It’s a managed property.”
“Your company.”
“Now it is us.”
“Who was it before?”
She named a competitor.
Milo said, “Owner’s not happy with their performance.”
“Not at all. The tenant left without giving notice. Two months’ unpaid rent. At least he left it clean.”
Milo rubbed his face. “Have you cleaned it further?”
“Yesterday,” said Soraya Hamidpour. “The usual.”
“Vacuuming?”
“Carpet shampoo, to make it look extra-good. It’s scrubbed down pretty nice. Most of the rooms don’t even look as if they were lived in.”
“Who’s the owner, ma’am?”
“He lives in Florida.”
Out came the notepad. “Name, please.”
Soraya Hamidpour scrunched her lips. “It’s a little… tricky.”
“How so?”
“The owner likes to stay private.”
“Hermit?”
“Not exactly.” She turned back to the sign, scraped something from a corner.
“Ma’am-”
“Do we need to get into that?”
“We really do, ma’am.”
“The problem with the house is…”
“The tenant’s not a nice person.”
“I see
“Loo?” A big, blond cop wearing an untucked denim shirt and jeans waved from ten feet away. As he got closer, the shirt’s flap billowed, exposing his sidearm.
Soraya Hamidpour seemed entranced by the weapon.
Milo said, “What’s up, Greg?”
“Sorry to bother you but calls are getting heavy and watch commander wants to know how long you’ll need us.”
“One car stays for right now, the rest of you go. Call for a crime scene team. We’re going to tear this place apart.”
“Tear?” said Hamidpour.
Greg said, “The warrant-”
“Signed, sealed, delivered.” Wink wink hidden from the Realtor’s view.
Greg grinned. “You got it, Loo.” He hustled back to the convoy.
Soraya Hamidpour said, “You can’t tear it up.”
“This could be a crime scene, ma’am.”
“Oh, no. Couldn’t be, it’s so clean-”
“We’ve got chemicals that go beyond the surface.”
“But I already have someone interested-”
“We’ll be as quick as possible, ma’am.”
Soraya Hamidpour threw up her hands. “This is a disaster.”
“Tell you what,” said Milo. “If we could speak with the owner, get some details on the tenant, it might mean less of a-”
“The owner is – I can get you details but the owner doesn’t like…” She took a deep breath. Recited the name of an A-list movie star.
Milo said, “Did he know Mr. Heubel?”
“No, no, never. It’s managed. He lives in Florida.” Cupping her hand around her mouth. “Something to do with community property. The last divorce. Also, he gets a place to park his airplane.”
CHAPTER 30
A call to the company that had leased the house to Nicholas Heubel firmed up the details.
A-List Leading Man had owned the property for five years, purchasing it as part of a divorce settlement with his fourth wife. The plan had been for her to live there, but she’d changed her mind and moved to Colorado with a younger actor, where A-List bought her a ranch. Upon the advice of his business manager, the house had been converted to a rental.
Since then, three tenants had been in residence.
Two young families with “industry connections” and, for the past twenty-two months, Nicholas Heubel.
Heubel had cold-called the company, representing himself as a freelance investor, produced a bank account “more than substantial enough to qualify.” He’d paid first and last months’ rent plus a damage deposit with a twenty-four-thousand-dollar money order.
The leasing agent, still miffed about being fired, promised to fax over Heubel’s rental application and any other paperwork in the file.
Milo said, “Time to talk to Tony Mancusi.”
As we set out on the drive to Hollywood, he phoned Sean Binchy. “Forget the paint-and-chrome stuff. Here’s something real you can do.”
Spelling out the precise wording of a warrant for the vanilla house, he named a judge likely to speed things along. “See if you can get a current photo of Heubel. Asshole’s a shape-shifter but maybe we can get a decent likeness… Yeah, it is weird. And all your fault, Sean… I’m
Tony Mancusi’s Toyota remained where we’d last seen it.
No answer to the bell ring.
