Mystery

“What? I hurt your feelings? No, I called you because someone I trusted said you were righteous and knew your business. Then I thought of you and Sturgis and hit on a new idea. Which, now that I think about it, you’re obligated to go along with. ’Cause Chad’s your patient and this is about Chad and if you fail to protect him, what does that say about your ethics?”

I thought about how to answer that.

She said, “It’s not that complicated. Your job is to help my kid, so do it.”

“I don’t see Sturgis having that kind of influence but if it comes to that, I’ll do my best.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“On the grave of Freud?”

“Adler, Jung, and B. F. Skinner, too.”

“If it comes to that, tell Sturgis I was a good mother. Otherwise he finds out I’m gone, he’ll go have a six- course meal.”

“I doubt that, Gretchen.”

“What, he’s a sensitive, mushy-hearted marshmallow, not a big fat bully who ruined my lunch and all I was trying to do was recuperate from prison?”

“I’ll do everything I can for you, Gretchen. Promise.”

“Fine. Now go tell him SukRose was a baby step, it’s time to look for a scumbag named Stefan.”

Pronouncing it Ste-fahn.

I thought: Stefan who?

I said: Nothing.

She said, “Don’t you want to know his last name?”

“I’m sure Sturgis does.”

“Man, you’re a tough one, got those balls of titanium. Ever consider donating sperm?”

ilo splashed truffle oil into the pan. Thirty bucks for a two-ounce bottle. He’d entered the house flourishing the receipt and announcing the price. Then he showed me a photocopied driver’s license.

Eight eggs from my fridge, scrambled with milk and chives and mushrooms, reacted to the enrichment with a quick, sharp sizzle. The earthy aroma of upper-echelon fungus filled the kitchen.

I said, “First time you’ve ever cooked.”

“I’m that kinda guy. Emotionally flexible.” Humming. “Too bad Robin’s not here. It’s really her I owe, but we might as well fuel up.”

It was nine in the morning. He’d arrived freshly shaved, hair slicked, wearing his version of haute couture: baggy blue suit bought for a funeral ten years ago, white wash-’n’-wear shirt, discouraged blue tie, black-leather oxfords in lieu of the colorless desert boots.

Dividing the eggs into two heaps, he carried the plates to the table, was chomping away before he lowered himself into a chair.

I was more interested in the license.

Black Suit aka Steven Jay Muhrmann. Six two, two fifty-five, brown, blue, a P.O.B. in Hollywood that Milo had marked defunct.

“His latest utility bill was sent to Russell Avenue in Los Feliz, but he’s got no registered vehicle, no record of recent employment that I can find.”

The picture had been taken five years ago when Muhrmann was twenty-nine and favored a dark mullet. The license had been suspended one year later and never reinstated.

Angry glare. No one likes waiting in line at the DMV but Steven Muhrmann’s bullnecked scowl suggested more than a long queue was at play.

I said, “Friendly fellow.”

Milo put his fork down. “Julius Child offers you tableside service and you don’t even lift a fork? This is a celebratory breakfast, as in I now have a suspect with a real-life name. Eat before it gets cold.”

I took a bite.

“And?” he said.

“Delicious. No job, no car says Muhrmann’s an un-solid citizen. Any criminal history?”

“Coupla DUIs lost him his license, at the second he also had what the arresting officer thought was traces of meth in a Baggie but turned out to be steroid powder. Despite the unfortunate absence of violence, I like him. Because he makes his mommy nervous. She’s the one tipped me off. Phoned this morning at seven and said the girl on the news was someone her son might know. I didn’t need to press her for details but she sounded like she wanted to get something off her chest, I figured an in-person would be better. What I did get was that she’d last seen him eight months ago, was calling himself Ste-fahn.”

Pronouncing it exactly as Gretchen had. Before Milo showed up, I’d been wondering how to deal with her tip. Some deity was kind.

He said, “This is the guy you saw, right?”

I nodded. “Mommy sells out Junior. What’s this world coming to?”

“More important, Mommy’s pretty sure she saw Princess with Junior. Princess never actually came in the house but when Mom walked Stefahn to the car, she was there. He introduced her as ‘Mystery.’ Mom said she thought it was ‘Ms. Terry,’ but Stevie corrected her. Girl never said a word, Mom thought she looked a little sad. Or maybe just shy.”

“Any guns registered to Stefan?”

“Nope and I didn’t press Mom, didn’t want to overload her before we meet in person. Which is due to happen in an hour, she lives out in Covina. That gives us just enough time to wolf down this repast. Ingest, lad, ingest.”

East Dexter Street in Covina was a thirty-minute cruise on the 10E followed by half a dozen quick turns onto sun-bright residential streets. Harriet Muhrmann’s house was no different than most of her neighbors’: a one-story fifties ranch the color of coffee laced with too much cream. White-painted lava rock girdled the width of the structure. Crescent-shaped windows were cut into the brown door of the double garage. Eight monumental date palms columned the driveway. The rest of the landscaping was velvet lawn and neat little pockets of impatiens and begonias. The block was silent.

A sisal mat trumpeted Welcome!

The woman who stood waiting for us in the doorway was trim with mannish gray hair, a long pleasant face, and soft eyes behind gold-framed glasses. She wore a cinnamon turtleneck, brown jeans, white deck shoes.

“Ms. Muhrmann?”

“Harriet.” She looked up and down the street. “Better come in, we don’t want to alarm anyone.”

The door opened directly into a twelve-by-twelve living room. Brown-velvet couches compressed grape- colored carpeting. The TV, stout and gray-screened, was a borderline relic. A bookshelf held paperback bestsellers, souvenirs from theme parks, a collection of ceramic deer, framed snapshots of cute little kids.

Harriet Muhrmann walked to her picture window, parted the drapes an inch, peered through. “Make yourselves comfortable. Coffee or tea?”

Milo said, “No, thanks. Are you worried about something, ma’am?”

She continued to look out the window. “This is a nice block, everyone’s concerned about their neighbors. Anything different gets noticed.”

We’d arrived in the Seville.

“Does your son visit often, Ms. Muhrmann?”

The curtain slipped from her fingers. “Stevie? No, but when he does, sometimes people do ask me about it.”

“Stevie concerns them.”

“They’re concerned for him.” She turned, gnawed her lip. “Stevie’s had his