Milo’s attempts to get info from the former owners of the Fauborg Hotel proved fruitless. Marcel Jabotinsky’s heirs had relocated to Zurich and New York and London and Boulder, Colorado. The hotel had been unoccupied for two months with most of the fixtures sold at auction and the records dumped. No one knew a thing about the temporary staff who’d worked the bar’s final night.
A niece in Colorado thought the evening had been coordinated by her cousin in Scarsdale. That woman denied any involvement but believed that an uncle in Switzerland had hired an event-planning outfit.
“Waste of money far as I’m concerned, but Hermann’s senile and sentimental.”
Hermann didn’t answer his phone. Cold calls to local event coordinators pulled up nothing.
I said, “Neil said he got the gig through a temp agency.”
Plenty of those on the Westside. Brite-Quick, the twelfth company Milo reached, admitted supplying two people to the Fauborg at the request of Madame Estelle Jabotinsky of Park Avenue.
“She sounded pretty old,” said the owner. “If I’m remembering correctly, the deal was to honor the guy who built the place or something. But she didn’t want to spend anything and all she’d go for was two people.”
“Could I have those two names, please?”
“They in trouble?”
“Not at all.”
“Let me emphasize,” said the owner. “We background-check, they had to come up clean.”
“That’s great. The names?”
Sherree Desmond, 43, bartender, address in Mount Washington.
Nelson Neil Mutter, 22, waiter, Gower Street, Hollywood.
No criminal history for either. Sherree wasn’t fond of paying parking tickets. Nelson who preferred Neil had just applied for a temporary license, requesting reciprocity from DMV Nebraska.
Nebraska said Mutter had been driving since the age of sixteen, maintained a clean record.
“Careful driver,” said Milo. “Given the state of her face, that doesn’t mean much.”
We drove to Mutter’s address on Gower. The building took up a third of the block, rising five off-white stories and shading its neighbors. Newish construction but already shabby, with rain streaks smirching the windowsills and stucco peeling at the corners. Potted plants, satellite dishes, and assorted junk filled narrow balconies. Nearly a hundred units behind the iron security gate. With no alphabetization, it took a while to find
Unit 105, shared with
The door pickets offered a glimpse of a cramped lobby and a red-door elevator. A female voice answered Milo’s button-push. “Yes?”
“Nelson Mutter, please.”
“Sorry, he’s out.”
“This is Lieutenant Sturgis, L.A. Police. Any idea when he’ll be back?”
“Is Neil okay?”
“Far as I know, ma’am. I need to talk to him. Where is he?”
“Um … I think he went to the 7-Eleven to get some drinks. Or something.”
“You’re his roommate?”
“One of them.”
“Could you come out for a second? Or you can beep us in.”
A beat. “I’ll come down.”
The girl was black, gorgeous, with round gray eyes, apricot curls, and a slim body encased in a hot pink unitard. Sweatband just under the hairline. Sweat on her cute little button nose. Her arm muscles glistened.
Milo flashed the badge and she opened the gate.
“Thanks,” he said, “Ms.…”
“Tasha Adams. I don’t really know Neil, we’ve just been rooming together.” Not a trace of irony.
“How long have you been roomies?”
“A little over two months. It’s a one-bedroom, Brenda—my friend—and I share, Neil sleeps on the sofa bed in the living room. We don’t charge him a full third. He’s really neat, so it’s been okay.”
“How’d you guys get together?”
“Craigslist,” said Tasha Adams, as if any other method was prehistoric. “Brenda and I are dancers, we came out from Chicago to audition for
“A temp job he did last night.”
“That hotel.”
“He told you about it.”
“He said he finally got a gig through the temp agency but it was only one night, he might have to go back to McDonald’s or something.”
“When did he leave the apartment this morning?”
“Hmm,” said Tasha Adams. “I’d have to say forty minutes ago?”
“Going to the 7-Eleven.”
“That’s where he usually buys his drinks.”
“Beer?”
“No, soda. Neil’s straight as they come.”
“What time did he come home last night?”
“I’d have to say … eleven?”
“Could it have been later?” said Milo.
“Hmm … actually it was probably earlier … yeah, for sure,
Milo scrawled.
“Is there something you should be telling me?” said Tasha Adams. “He does live with us.”
“A guest at that hotel ran into some trouble last night, Tasha. Neil’s not a suspect, we’re just gathering information.”
“Trouble,” she said. “Like someone—oh, there he is. Hey, Neil, these guys want to talk to you. They’re the police.”
Nelson Mutter in a T-shirt, baggy shorts, and flip-flops stopped short. He studied Milo, then me. Mouthed,
Milo waved him over, shook his hand. “Neil? Lieutenant Sturgis.”
Mutter kept looking at me.
I said, “Nice to see you again, Neil.”
“Chi-vash,” he said, as if downloading a memory file on a balky computer. “Lots of ice. You’re police?”
“I work with the police.”
Tasha Adams said, “It’s about your gig last night, Neil.”
“Huh?”
Milo said, “Let’s all go inside.”
As promised, Mutter’s personal space—what there was of it—was spotless. The sofa bed was closed up, graced with three floral-print pillows. Mutter’s wordly possessions filled two duffels placed to the left of the couch. A glimpse into the single bedroom offered a view of exuberant girl clutter.
Milo said, “Sorry to displace you, Tasha, but we need to talk to Neil alone.”
“Oh. Okay.” Pouting, she entered the bedroom but left the door open. Milo went over and closed it, motioned Mutter to the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable, Neil.”
“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Directing the question to me.
Milo said, “Sit, please,” and when Mutter complied, settled next to him. “Last night you served a woman in a white dress—”
“The princess,” said Mutter. He blushed scarlet. “I mean that’s what I called her. I mean in my head, not out
