Mystery

Milo said, “Gave him a Breathalyzer.”

“Bingo,” said Connie Suss. “Random, my butt. There must be some manual you people have about harassing honest, taxpaying citizens. Luckily, Phil passed. Even though he had three glasses of Riesling. He weighs a lot more than I do and I guess the time lapse helped. In the end, Phil convinced them not to take me to jail but I got a ticket and had to do community service. I ended up giving classes in art appreciation to some inner-city kids. You guys promised me my record would be wiped clean. What, you lied? Figures.”

She picked up her fork, plucked a tine, and set off a tiny musical tone. “Now I’ve told you about the most humiliating experience of my life. Now you can leave.”

Milo said, “Sorry you had to go through that.”

“Don’t apologize, just give me some peace and quiet.”

Milo hung his head.

Connie Suss said, “What are you so sullen about?”

“The questions I have to keep asking.”

“Good Lord, now what?”

“Your name came up as a patient at a rehab program. Where Steve Muhrmann was also in treatment.”

Her hands gripped the table. “This is psy-cho-tic. Where is this supposed place?”

“Pasadena. Awakenings.”

“The only thing that takes me to Pasadena is the Rose Bowl, and the last time we attended the game was four years ago. This has to be an identity theft thing.” Her brow furrowed, then smoothed. “Maybe it’s one of those Medi-Cal frauds, where they bill for services that never take place? I will swear on a stack of Bibles that I have never ever been in any kind of rehab, nor do I have a drinking problem, nor do I know any of my father-in-law’s sluts by name, nor have I rented a post office box.” Pausing for breath. “The same goes for any relationship with a Mer-Man.” Giggling. Shrill. She turned a hand into a swooping jet plane. “Watch out, Tokyo.”

The chef peered our way.

“Hilarious,” said Connie Suss.

Milo said, “Tiara Grundy’s face was on the news.”

“I never watch the news, too depressing.” She patted Milo’s cuff. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“For—”

“Totally eradicating my appetite, I’ve been trying to take off a few pounds, you made it easy.”

Sliding bills from an alligator purse, she walked over to the chef. “It was delicious, Francoise, but I’m going to take this home.”

“Certainly, Connie.”

Francoise took the plate into the kitchen. As Connie Suss waited, she kept her back to us.

Milo said, “Thanks for your time, ma’am.”

No answer.

As we left, she said, “You should thank me. It’s people like me who finance this comedy routine you pretend is a job.”

series of calls to Valley Traffic confirmed the details of Connie Suss’s DUI.

“I hate when they’re credible,” said Milo. “You feel anything deceptive about her?”

“Anyone can be fooled,” I said, “but she seemed real.”

“So scratch one family member. Along with the whole damn case I’ve been building. Maybe she’s right and it’ll come down to a scam—and that psychiatrist Manlow was in on it. She also seemed straight, but like you said.”

I said, “If Manlow was involved in fraud why would she let on that someone using Connie’s name had entered the program?”

“She actually didn’t come out and say it, Alex, she just didn’t deny it.”

“Basically, she told us without having to come out and say it.”

“That could be because we caught her off guard. Or she’s one of those liars who figures it’s best to sprinkle in partial truths.”

He phoned the medical board, got voice-mailed to the ethical complaints section. Nary a gripe about Elizabeth Allison Manlow.

I said, “Someone could’ve registered and paid as Connie without Manlow’s knowledge. As long as insurance wasn’t billed, there’d be no reason to check I.D.”

“That much cash,” he said, “means someone with plenty to spare. Like any of the Susses.”

“Using someone else’s name would be a good way to hide the fact you’re getting treatment. But it’s also an act of aggression, so maybe we should look for someone who resents Connie.”

“Could be anyone.”

“Families are emotional cauldrons but posing as a woman almost certainly means a woman,” I said. “That leaves Leona and the sister-in-law—Isabel. I don’t see Leona putting herself at that kind of risk. Isabel’s also a doctor. Easy access to drugs and that could’ve translated into addiction. And as a physician, exposure could’ve meant losing her license, so she’d have good reason to hide her identity. And like Connie, she’d be familiar with Mark’s sexual hijinks.”

“She checks herself in under Connie’s name, makes friends with Muhrmann, tells him about her crazy family.”

“Rehab encourages confession. A guy like Muhrmann would hear Big Money Old Guy Young Chicks. He flashes on Tiara, says, I’ve got a great idea.”

“Naughty Dr. Isabel.” He pressed both hands to his temples. “Or we’re all wet and the fake Connie could be someone outside the family who knew enough to make trouble. Like a staff member, Lord knows how many people it takes to run those households. Some maid or butler thinks he can rake in a few thou, that could be enough motivation.”

“Millions beats thousands.”

“Stick with the family, huh?”

“Maybe it’s my occupational hazard, but that feels right.”

He called the medical offices of Drs. Franklin and Isabel Suss. After enduring a recorded mini-lecture on sun exposure recited over new age music, he reached a human voice.

“Doctors’ office.”

“I’d like a consult on some dermabrasion.”

“Are you a patient, sir?”

“No, but I might wanna be. Anything tomorrow?”

“Let’s see … Dr. Frank’s booked but Dr. Isabel’s got a cancellation at three.”

“Perfect.”

“Could I please have your insurance information?”

“Don’t have it with me but I promise to bring it.”

“Please do, sir. It’s important.”

He clicked off. “This could turn bad if Connie’s already bitching to the rest of the family about her screwed-up dunch.” He snorted. “Traffic geniuses sure primed the pump for me. One-tenth of a percentage and they treat her like a criminal.”

“Put rules in place and some people stop thinking.”

“Ain’t that the truth, amigo. Rick and I know a guy, used to be a tennis pro, developed heel pain so his doctor prescribed a handicapped parking permit. A few weeks later, the heel gets better but Jean-Georges is still putting his Jaguar wherever the hell he pleases. Meanwhile, some poor guy with one arm and a screwed-up leg has to borrow a pal’s wheels and parks in a handicapped slot. When he comes out, the parking Nazi’s writing him up. Fair enough. But what’s the chance the Nazi, seeing the one arm and the screwed-up leg, tears up the ticket?”