Milo pointed to the row of vehicles. “Which is yours?”
“The Hyundai.”
“That your only drive?”
William stopped chewing. “You were expecting a stretch Escalade, sir? With a gangsta lean and a fur hat on the headrest?”
“Why would I expect that?”
“You know how it is, sir.”
“Did you know Tara Sly?”
“No, sir. Before my time.”
“When did your time start?”
“Obviously after this person you’re asking about left Madame’s employment.” Teeth flashed like strobes. “You know what, sir, I’m not feeling these questions and the law says I don’t have to answer them. You take care, now.”
He strode back to the barn.
By the time I started the Seville, Milo had run his name, found nothing beyond the address.
“Cleanest bunch of felons I’ve ever met.”
“They sell furniture,” I said.
“And I’m an Olympic ice-skater. Okay, let’s get out of here.”
As I turned onto La Cienega, he said, “What’d she whisper in your ear?”
“Sweet nothings.”
“Seriously.”
“She really likes my chest hair.”
“The old charm never fails. You give her your number?”
“Oh, sure,” I said. “Dinner and a movie.”
“Be a new experience for you,” he said.
“Cheating on Robin with an elderly psychopath? Gee, that’s enticing.”
“Personal sacrifice in service of the department.”
“Unlike Muhrmann, I’ve got limits.”
“Mr. Bad Behavior,” he said. “And he goes way back with Tara—Tiara. Yeah, it firms him up as my prime.”
He pulled out his pad and pen. “Time to fill in the time line before she snared Mark Suss. She splits from Santa Fe after her third arrest, which would be no longer than nine, ten years ago. Travels around, heads west. Maybe she even landed in those places she told Olga. A couple of years later, she’s in L.A., probably low and grubby because she gets nabbed off the bus, works the street. A year later she signs up with Olga, becomes a high-priced spread, lasts three then she retires at the ripe old age of twenty-six. After meeting Muhrmann and maintaining some sort of relationship. Am I missing anything?”
“I find it interesting that she stopped paying her rent right around the time her mother died.”
“What, traumatized into fiscal irresponsibility?”
“Maybe that motivated a life change.”
“Skipping out on the rent is psychological growth?”
“Starting to save up for the future could be,” I said. “She was ready for a move. Did she go somewhere between the time she cut out and the time she was found?”
“Shacking up with someone?”
“Or living by herself.”
“Where?”
“Good question.”
“I’ve already been through real estate records and she doesn’t own anything. If she had a new landlord, you’d think they’d call in if they saw her face on the news.”
I said, “Unless whoever she was living with had a vested interest in not calling.”
“Muhrmann. Or Connie Longellos. Or both. There’s a secret fun-pad somewhere.” Frowning. “Or neither. Time to follow the money trail.”
We grabbed jet-fuel coffee from the big detective room, walked to his office, and played computer games.
With no legal way to access bank and brokerage accounts, the best bet was real estate records.
Philip Suss and Connie Longellos-Suss owned four commercial parcels in L.A. County plus the house in Encino and a Huntington Beach condo. Property taxes had been paid faithfully, no liens or major encumbrances. A warehouse in the toy district and a Tarzana facility rented to a sports club carried mortgages, but nothing substantial compared with assessed value.
Milo toted up the most recent appraisals and whistled.
“Twenty-four million bazoongas.”
I said, “It’s probably an underestimate because the properties haven’t been assessed for years.”
One property had been sold last year: the building housing Connie Longellos’s art gallery. Forty percent short-term loan on that one, but profit from the transaction had taken care of that and Phil and Connie had netted just short of a million dollars.
“Connie didn’t go under,” he said, “she wanted to clean up on the real estate. Oh, man, there goes my motive for her, goddamn rich people, yet another reason to hate ’em.”
He switched to Franklin and Isabel Suss’s holdings, came up with the house on Camden Drive, an office- condo on Bedford Drive where they both saw patients, a second home in a gated community in Ventura, a six-unit apartment building in West L.A. Mortgages on everything except the primary residence, but once again, nothing crippling. Value of the package: nine million.
“Nice,” he said, “but only about a third of what his brother’s worth. Frankie goes to med school, Philly ends up the tycoon?”
I said, “Med school, internship, and residency create years of lost income. Phil could’ve used the time to be entrepreneurial. Or Frank’s motivated by something other than amassing money.”
“Like?”
“Practicing medicine.”
“A straight line between two points? Talk about far-fetched.” He laughed.
“For all we know, Frank’s just as rich as Phil but he has his money in other investments, like the stock market.”
“Maybe … hey, what if they look good on paper but one of them recently blew some serious dough on the market or some other scheme?”
“If either of them was in acute trouble, you’d expect them to sell off properties or take out additional loans. Neither is mortgaged to the hilt and most of Phil’s properties are flat-out paid for.”
He rubbed his face.
I said, “Even if they are financially secure, there could be a non-economic motive. Tiara decided to squeeze the family and they opted for damage control.”
“Defending the castle.” He logged off. “I need to find a way to get closer to these aristocrats.” Placing a palm against a pitted cheek, he grinned. “Maybe I should start with the doctors. Go in asking about dermal sandblasting or whatever the hell they do with a train wreck like this. Hell, maybe liposuction, too, if they’ve got industrial hoses.”
I said, “Mr. Rogers loves you just the way you are.”
“Plus my health insurance doesn’t cover demolition and renovation and Connie Longellos is a drunk who hung with Muhrmann, so let’s start with the goddamn obvious place.”
“Straight line between two points.”
“No longer far-fetched, lad.”
“Why’s that?”
“I said so.”
We drove back to Encino. The house on Portico Place was pretty under afternoon sun, ocher face kicked down to a serene buttermilk hue, trowel marks lending depth to the finish, bougainvillea blossoms glowing like
