“We know Steven Stills,” said Armand. He strummed air. “By reputation. Something’s happening here and it sure ain’t clear.”
“How long have you guys been living here?”
“Three months.”
“Rent or own?”
Armand said, “If we had a record deal and the dough to own, it wouldn’t be a dump like this.”
Sandy said, “Bel Air’s the place for me. Be a Bel Air hillbilly.”
Black said, “Trust me, it’s overrated.”
“That’s ’cause you grew up there.”
Milo said, “Who’s the landlord?”
Sandy said, “Some company.”
“Could you be a little more specific?”
“What did
“Name of the company, please.”
Sandy said, “Lisa?”
“Zephyr Property Management,” said the girl. “I’m the primary on the lease.”
Sandy said, “The bass player always gets the best roles.”
Milo said, “Do you have a number for them, Lisa?”
Use of her name made the girl flinch. “Sure, hold on.” She went inside the house, returned with a business card.
Leonid Caspar, Property Manager, cell phone area code that told you nothing about geography, P.O.B. in Sunland.
I said, “When you moved in, was anything left behind?”
Sandy smirked. “Like a clue?”
“A clue would be great.”
Lisa said, “Don’t pay attention to them. No, sorry, Officer, it was empty and freshly painted. The guy from Zephyr said the last tenant had stiffed him for three months’ rent.”
“Boo on Steven Mermaid,” said Armand.
“A pox on Steven Mermaid,” said Sandy.
Lisa said, “Stop being assholes, guys. Both of you go shower.”
The boys bowed and turned to leave.
Armand said, “The bass reigns supreme. In Paul McCartney we trust.”
Leonid Caspar answered with a hoarse, “Yeah?”
Milo filled him in.
Caspar said, “That one. No employment history to speak of, credit rating worse than the State of California. So why’d we rent to him? Because we’re stupid. Plus, he gave us a year of rent up front and damage deposit.”
“Once that ran out, he split.”
“What can I say, Lieutenant.”
“How many months did he stiff you for?”
“Two—no, says here three. Almost four, really, my son can’t add. Oh, boy. So why’d we let him go that far? ’Cause we screwed up, let him slip through the cracks. We manage twenty-six buildings here and in Arizona and Nevada, all of them thirty units minimum, except for that dump on Russell. My wife inherited it from her grandfather, it was his first investment, helped him start up the company so it’s like a family big-deal. Up to me, we’d sell it but she’s sentimental.”
“Did Muhrmann leave anything behind?”
“Let’s see … says here just trash. Lots of trash, we had to pay for hauling. So technically, he owes us for that, too.”
“Did you ever meet him, Mr. Caspar?”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“How’d he connect with you?”
“We advertise in local papers, on Craigslist, other onlines. What’d he do, scam someone else?”
“Who in the company dealt with him?”
“You sound serious. More than a scam?” said Caspar. “He did something serious?”
“We’d just like to talk to him, sir.”
“So would I. I put it out to collection but no one can find him.”
“Was the year’s worth in cash?” said Milo.
“That’s what it says here. I know what you’re thinking but it’s not our responsibility to figure out how they come up with payment.”
“Cash literally or a money order?”
“It’s listed as cash.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Rental was eight a month, times thirteen is ten four, we rounded off the damage deposit to six, made it eleven even.”
“Eleven thousand in cash,” said Milo.
“You’re trying to tell me he’s a dope dealer?” said Caspar. “I get cash from all types. Unless someone tells me there’s a problem, it’s none of my business.”
“To qualify he had to give you prior addresses. Could I have them, please?”
“We didn’t bother with priors because he told us up front his credit was zero.”
“What about references?”
“Let me check … yeah, there’s one. C—as in cookie—Longellos.” He spelled it. “Says here she confirmed he worked as personal assistant, was honest, faithful, true-blue.”
“She,” said Milo.
“My note says Ms. C. Longellos.”
“How about her number, Mr. Caspar?”
Caspar read off a 310. “You find him, I wouldn’t mind if you let me know.”
“Happy to help,” said Milo. “I’d be even happier if one of your employees actually met him face-to-face and called me by the end of today.”
“Sure,” said Caspar. “Quid pro whatchamacallit.”
C. Longellos’s number placed her in Pacific Palisades.
Not in service.
No current DMV records for that address existed but the data bank coughed up the two-year-old DUI conviction of a woman named Constance Rebecca Longellos. Forty years old, P.O.B. in Encino.
I said, “Another under-the-radar devotee. Maybe Harriet Muhrmann’s instincts were right and alcoholic misery loved company.”
He flipped through his pad. “Stevie’s most recent rehab was about two and a half years ago, place called Awakenings, in Pasadena.”
He consulted his Timex. “Traffic’s gonna be unfriendly all the way east, but we could make it out there in maybe an hour, catch dinner before heading back. Remember that fish-and-chips joint on Colorado I was looking for last year when we worked the dry ice murder, turned into Thai, I was bummed? I’ve been back there and it’s pretty good Thai. You game for driving?”
“Sure.”
“Be sure to put in your gas voucher.”
“You’re into quaint rituals, huh?”
“What?”
“I haven’t gotten reimbursed for the last three batches I sent in.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It seemed petty,” I said.
“Shit. I was assured by the His Arrogance’s office that you’d be fast-tracked.” He snapped his phone open. “Bastards.”
