Mystery (14 page)

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.”

Before he could punch in the chief’s speed-dial code, an incoming call was heralded by a few bars of
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
. This year, classical, last year, seventies rock.

“Sturgis.”

A young male voice said, “You’re a policeman?”

“Last time I checked.”

“Oh … you’re sure?”

“This is Lieutenant Sturgis, what can I do for you?”

“My name is Brandon Caspar, my father said I should call you about a tenant at our property on Russell.”

“Steven Muhrmann,” said Milo.

“Yes, sir.”

“Appreciate the call, Brandon. What can you tell me about Mr. Muhrmann?”

“I only met him once,” said Brandon. “When I gave him the key. That was almost a year and a half ago so I don’t remember much, except he was a little … I don’t want to say scary, more like not friendly. Kind of … trying to act like a tough guy.”

“Act how, Brandon?”

“It’s nothing I can put into words, know what I mean? He just snatched the key out of my hand, didn’t want me to give him the information about the unit we usually give. Where the circuit breaker is, the water main, the meter. He said he’d figure it out. When I tried to tell him I always explained to new tenants he said, ‘Well, now you won’t.’ Not joking about it—like he could kick my butt if he wanted, you know?”

“Hostile,” said Milo.

“He
could’ve
kicked my butt,” said Brandon. “He was big—not fat, buffed, like he lifted. This big, big neck.”

“Was he alone?”

“Yeah, in the house he was,” said Brandon Caspar. “But later, when I left him with the key, I saw a girl in a car, parked in front. I wasn’t sure she was with him but I thought maybe she was ’cause she seemed to be just waiting. So when I drove off I looked in my mirror and she got out and went into the house. Then I started wondering if we had something to worry about. The terms of his lease were pretty strict because it was a cash deal: solo residency, we didn’t want to get into a crash-pad situation.”

“Or a dope house.”

No answer.

Milo said, “Your father was concerned Muhrmann might be a drug dealer because Muhrmann paid eleven thou up front in cash.”

“I know, I’m the one took the money.”

“He handed it to you?”

“No, it got dropped off at the office. But I found it in the mailbox.”

“Dropped off by who?”

“We assumed him, I mean that kind of money you’d want to handle it yourself, right?”

“That kind of money I wouldn’t drop it in the mailbox.”

“It’s a locked box,” said Brandon. “Goes right into the office.”

“What kind of car was the girl sitting in?”

“Some little compact, didn’t notice the brand.”

“What did she look like?”

“Hot.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“Long blond hair, great body. Kind of like Scarlett Johanssen. Or another one, an old one Dad likes. Brigitte something.”

“Bardot?”

“Yeah.”

“Scarlett or Brigitte.”

“Hot and blond,” said Brandon. “I only saw her from a distance.”

“But that was enough to know she was hot.”

“Some girls, you know, they’ve just got the look, you can spot it from far away.”

“If I fax you a picture would you be able to tell me if it’s a match?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there anything else you remember about this girl, Brandon?”

“Nope. Why?”

“We’re curious about her. Nothing.”

“Nope, sorry.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I did have an impression, though, sir. About both of them. You interested in impressions?”

“I sure am, Brandon.”

“With him being all pumped and her being hot what kind of flashed in my head was porn stars. We get that all the time. Offers for short-term rentals, mostly at vacant apartments out in the Valley. The money’s great, but Dad won’t go for it, too religious.”

“But Dad doesn’t pay much attention to the house on Russell.”

“You got that right,” said Brandon. “Calls it his albatross. To Mom it’s some kind of shrine, but she doesn’t have to deal with renting it or fixing it up.”

“You wondered if Muhrmann was renting the place for shoots, that’s why all the cash up front.”

“My dad would be pissed, so I drove by around a week later to see if anything weird was going on, but it wasn’t.”

“What were you looking for?”

“Lots of cars, vans, people going in and out, anything weird. I even asked Vlatek—the guy who owns the body shop. He said nothing different was going on since Muhrmann moved in, he never even saw Muhrmann.”

“Sounds like you did a little detection work,” said Milo.

“I was curious,” said Brandon. “Dad likes me to be curious.”

s we headed for Pasadena, I said, “Muhrmann told his mother he was trying out for a movie and C. Longellos had a P.O.B. in the Valley. Maybe the kid’s instincts were good.”

“Maybe it’s my day for insightful citizens. Let’s see if your fellow mental health pros are half as good. If they are, we celebrate with Thai.”

The address listed for Awakenings, A Healing Place, was a triad of whitewashed fifties ranch houses turned into a compound by vinyl picket fencing, not far from the Santa Anita Race Track. Deadbolt and buzzer on the gate, drought-friendly plants in the yard.

No signage. Milo double-checked the address. “The numbers match.”

We got out of the car. The drive had taken over an hour. Both of us stretched. Quiet block of well-tended apartment buildings and a few other single dwellings. Did the neighbors have any idea?

The faintest odor of equine sweat and waste spiced the cooling air.

I said, “Maybe they also treat compulsive gambling.”

“Drop your line where the fishies are swarming? Smart marketing. But with all the fancy outfits claiming to fix your head, you’d think Ms. C. Longellos would want something swankier.”

“Green acres, tai chi, therapeutic massage, past-lives regression?”

“Toss in vegan cuisine and I’m sold.”

I said, “On the other hand, a profile this low could be perfect for people with serious secrets.”

We waited to be buzzed through the picket gate, walked up a brick path that led to the center house, and entered a tight, uninhabited lobby backed by a pebble-glass reception window. The receptionist who’d let us in had kept the window shut. To the left, a black door was fitted with security hinges.

Tight procedures because the clientele was unpredictable?

The lobby smelled sweet and acrid and frightening, like a public health clinic during a mass vaccination. Hard uninviting furniture sat atop rust-brown linoleum. The walls were tongue-and-groove wood painted cigarette-ash gray. Seeping through the chemical aroma was the rancid bite of greasy food left too long in steam tables.

A whiteboard to the right of the window listed an all-day schedule of group and individual therapies, psychological and physical.

The session of the moment:
Face Your Self with Focus: Constructive Mindfulness, Beth E. A. Manlow, M.D., Ph.D
.

Milo muttered, “My butt’s falling asleep out of empathy.” He tapped the window.

A lock turned, the pane slid open. A pretty Asian woman, hair tied back in a blue-black bun, said, “How may I help you?”

Milo’s badge flash was followed up by Steven Muhrmann’s photo. “Recognize this fellow?”

“Sorry, no, I’ve only been working here two months.”

“Could we please speak to someone who’s been here awhile—say, two or three years?”

“May I ask what this is about?”

“A serious crime.”

She touched her phone. “How serious?”

“Serious enough to bring us here. Who’s the boss around here?”

“I’m going to page our director, Dr. Manlow.”

“Says on the board she’s in session.”

“If she is, she won’t answer, and we’ll just have to see what to do. I’m still learning the regulations, so bear with me.”

She took care to slide the window back in place softly. A few seconds of muffled conversation preceded her reemergence. Smile of relief. “Dr. Manlow will be down in a moment. If you’d care to take a seat.” Motioning to the hard chairs.

Before our butts lowered, the black door swung open. The woman who marched through was forty or so with thick, wavy chestnut hair, wide aqua eyes, and a longish face of a porcelain hue and consistency that suggested sun phobia. Full lips, thin beakish nose, a smidge too much chin for ideal beauty.

An attractive woman made more so by confident posture.

She wore a cinnamon cashmere sweater, muted brown plaid slacks, bitter-chocolate crocodile pumps. A leather day planner matched the shoes. So did the leather pen case hanging from her waistband, along with a cell phone and two beepers, one topped by a strip of red tape.

Enough gear to give her the cop swagger but she strode forward without an errant twist of hip or leg.

No jewelry. The risk of being snagged?

“I’m Dr. Manlow.” Glassy, girlish voice but authority in her inflection.

“Thanks for seeing us, Doctor. Milo Sturgis, Alex Delaware.” He handed his card over. Most people skim. Double-Doctor Beth E. A. Manlow put on gold-rimmed glasses and read carefully before slipping the card into her day planner.

“Homicide. Who’s been murdered?”

“A woman we’re still trying to identify.” Milo showed her the sketch of Mystery née Princess.

Manlow said, “Sorry, she’s not one of our patients. At least not for the past five years since I’ve been here.”

“You remember all of your patients by sight?”

“I’ve got an eye for details and it’s only been five years. I saw this rendering on the news, it didn’t ring any bells then and that holds for now. Annie said you showed her a picture of a man.”

Milo produced Muhrmann’s photo.

She stared, removed her glasses, shook her head. Resignation, not denial.

“What’s his connection to your case?”

“You know him.”

“Tell me the name you’ve got for him.”

“Steven Muhrmann.”

She nodded.

Milo said, “What can you tell me about him?”

“Why are you interested?”

“He knew the victim.”

“He knew her, that’s it?” she said. “Or are you saying he’s your suspect?”

“Would that make a difference, in terms of how much you’re going to tell us, Doctor?”

Manlow tapped a foot. Pulled a thread from her sweater, frowned as she coiled it around her fingers. “Let’s talk in my office.”

The black security door opened to a narrow hallway that terminated in a transparent window laced with steel mesh.

A red
No Admittance Without Authorization
sign hung below the uppermost of two deadbolts. Just in case you missed that, a white placard read
Personnel and Inpatients Only Beyond This Point
.

Manlow’s office was just inside the door. As we entered, I glanced through the mesh, caught a glimpse of another, longer corridor paneled in knotty pine. A woman sat on the floor reading. Another woman worked a crossword puzzle. At the far end, a man stretched, touched his toes, rotated his neck.

Everyone in street clothes, nothing clinical about the ambience. But something about the way the three of them moved—slow, measured, mechanical—said frivolity had long been left behind.

Manlow’s office was modestly proportioned, walled with bookshelves, file cabinets, and a collection of mounted diplomas. Elizabeth Emma Allison Manlow had earned a B.A. from Cornell when she was still Elizabeth Emma Allison, an M.D. from UC San Francisco, and a Ph.D. in neuropharmacology from Stanford. Internship and psychiatry residency had both been served at Massachusetts General. A fellowship certificate in cognitive behavior therapy had been granted by an institute in Philadelphia.