Mystery (24 page)

We walked past the car, along an oleander-shrouded brick path littered with fronds and seeds and pods and toxic pink petals. The air smelled like Tahiti. If Erno Haldeman was in his front unit, he wasn’t letting on; no one interrupted our progress to B.

Plain wooden door, blinds drawn. The
Welcome!
mat was vacuumed spotless. No one answered Milo’s knock. He called the county assessor and asked who owned the property, scrawled something, and pointed to the front unit.

We retraced our steps to Erno Haldeman’s double-width door, elaborately carved, with an elephant centerpiece that spanned both panels. A brass knocker hung from the pachyderm’s trunk.

Milo used it, four times, hard. The wood—teak or something like it—responded with a dull thud.

He tried again.

A male voice, deep and boomy, said, “Go away.”

“Mr. Haldeman—”

“Not interested in what you’re selling.”

“We’re not—”

“That includes salvation if you’re Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

“Police, Mr. Haldeman.”

“That’s a new one.”

“It’s true.”

“Read off your badge number and I’ll verify with the Sheriff’s.”

“L.A. police, sir. Lieutenant Milo Sturgis.” Reciting his stats.

Ponderous footsteps preceded the crack of the door. A gray eye peered out from a spot well above Milo’s sight line. “For real?”

“Very real, sir.”

“What’s this about?”

“Your tenant.”

“Tara? What’s up with her?”

“She’s dead, sir.”

The door swung open on a mountain of white linen.

Midforties, slope-shouldered, as broad as two men and stretching to an easy six six, Erno Haldeman had hairless pink hands the size of rib roasts, a bullet head shaved clean, a fleshy ruddy nose that drooped to a petulant upper lip, hound-dog cheeks that vibrated as he breathed. Straw-colored eyebrows were big and coarse enough to scour greasy pots. The gray eyes were rimmed with amber, disproportionately small, bright with curiosity.

The linen was a two-piece ensemble that had to be custom: blousy V-neck shirt, drawstring pants. Mesh sandals barely contained massive, prehensile feet. Haldeman’s toenails were yellow and ridged, the consistency of rhino horn, but his fingernails were impeccably shaped and coated with clear polish.

“Tara?” he said. “You’re kidding.”

“Wish we were, sir.”

“What happened to her?”

“Someone shot her, sir.”

“Around here?”

“No, sir.”

“Here I was thinking you caught her doing something illegal, wanted my input.”

“She impressed you as someone who’d engage in illegal activities?”

“I trade grain futures, Lieutenant. Trust isn’t a big part of my emotional repertoire. But no, she was never anything but neat and pleasant when she lived here and someone else was paying the bills. It was after the money ran out and she kept making excuses that I began to wonder. She claimed to be looking for a job but I never saw any sign of that. Not that I was paying attention to her comings and goings and half the time I’m out of town, anyway.”

“When did the money run out?”

“She owes for three months.”

A white shape larger than Haldeman drew our attention to the front of the house. FedEx truck pulling in behind the Mercedes.

He said, “One sec,” signed for the package, returned reading the label. “Great price on a Château Margaux premier cru from a dealer in Chicago, ten years old, should be ready pretty soon. Normally I don’t buy blind but I’m familiar with this bottling and John can be counted on to temperature-control.”

Milo said, “Cheers. So you carried Tara for three months.”

Haldeman shifted the package to one hand, grasping it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a bit of foam.

“Okay, come inside, I’m done making money for the day.”

rno Haldeman lived in a small space set up for a big man. Any nonbearing walls had been eliminated and the ceiling had been lifted to the rafters. Floors were black granite glossy as fresh shoe polish, walls were high and white and bare. Scant furniture, all of it chrome and gray felt. A ten-foot slab of plate glass supported by three metal sawhorses hosted a bank of computers and modems and printers.

Haldeman placed his package on a white-marble kitchen counter.

“Why did I carry Tara for three months? I felt bad for her. And no, it wasn’t because of any personal relationship. I’m happily married and even if I wasn’t, pedophilia doesn’t appeal to me.”

I said, “You saw her as a child.”

“My wife’s an acoustical engineer, has two degrees from M.I.T. I went to Princeton. One gets used to a certain degree of intellectual stimulation. To me, Tara was a child.”

“Dumb blonde,” said Milo.

“Must be the neighborhood,” said Erno Haldeman. “Marilyn Monroe used to live around here when she was starting out.”

“Doheny and Cynthia.”

Haldeman blinked. “A cop versed in Hollywood lore?”

Milo said, “What surname did Tara give you?”

“Sly. Why? It’s bogus?”

“We can’t find anyone by that name.”

“Really,” said Haldeman. “I won’t insult you by asking if you’ve checked all the databases available on the Web.”

“Thanks for that, sir.” Milo sat down. I did the same.

Haldeman said, “Alias, huh? Well, no matter to me, she was a great tenant.”

“Until three months ago.”

“Nothing’s forever. What else do you need to know?”

“Everything about her tenancy.”

“She’s the only tenant I’ve had. My wife and I bought the place three years ago intending to combine the two units. By the time we got estimates, Janice’s work took her overseas. Her firm’s consulting to several of the large European opera houses, including La Scala in Milan, which is where she’s been for most of this year. Then some trades paid off and I bought a condo in Malibu and we figured we’d make that our main home and keep this for rental income.”

He gave a tree-trunk thigh a light slap. Same sonic response as the teak door. “Cutting to the chase, we decided to keep the units separate, converted A to what you see here because it’s larger and the light’s better, put B up for rent. Tara answered the ad, showed up, liked it, didn’t quibble over the rent, and returned the following day with enough cash for six months plus damage deposit. That was more than a year and a half ago. She did the same thing every six months. Twice.”

“How much is the rent?”

“Eighteen hundred a month,” said Haldeman. “She never worked so obviously I wondered, but gift horse and all that. Later, it became clear some old guy was footing the bill because he’d drop in two, three times a week, mostly after dark. Sometimes they’d go out together, sometimes they’d stay in. All night.”

Shrugging. “The walls aren’t that thin, but sound can get through. Maybe she was faking, but he seemed to be doing all right for his age.”

Milo showed him Markham Suss’s picture.

“That’s Daddy Warbucks, all right.”

“You ever talk to him?”

“Hello, good-bye. He was always pleasant, not a trace of embarrassment. Just the opposite, actually. I’d see him leaving and if he noticed me, he’d wink.”

“Proud of himself.”

“Maybe at that age that’s the only score you need to keep. For me, right now, it’s how much money I make.”

“What made you figure he was paying Tara’s bills?”

“All that cash?” said Haldeman. “Plus she never worked but was always decked out in fine duds.”

“Couture,” said Milo.

“I don’t know from couture but she always looked put together. She was into jewelry, too. Old-fashioned stuff, not what you’d think a girl her age would go for. Obviously she was dressing for him.”

“What kind of jewelry?”

“Again, I’m no expert but I did see her put on some serious-looking diamonds. I remember thinking if she ever runs into financial difficulties, I can always hock one of those.”

“But she did and you didn’t.”

“What can I say? She kept promising to come up with the rent. And crying. One look at her and she’d burst into tears. I figured it for histrionics, lost my patience, said, ‘From the way you’re going on, you’d think someone died.’ That really uncorked the dam. That’s when she told me. Her patron had died—that’s what she called him. ‘My patron.’ As if she was Michelangelo and he was a Medici. She just broke down and sobbed for I don’t know how long, said she needed time to get herself together, if I’d just give her time, she’d make it right.”

I said, “Did she ever offer nonmonetary payment?”

“Such as—oh,” said Haldeman. “Yeah, that would’ve been a nice porn script. No, she didn’t and had it come to that I would’ve refused. If that sounds self-righteous, so be it. Janice is my fourth wife and I’m determined to make it work.”

Crossing a leg, he massaged an ankle. “She was good-looking but there was nothing particularly sexy or seductive about her. At least from my perspective.”

I said, “What was her demeanor?”

“Quiet, pleasant.”

Milo said, “Unless her patron came over and the house was a-rockin’.”

“Yup. Till he kicked,” said Haldeman. “Good for him. Getting some fun, I mean.”

“Did Tara have any other visitors?”

“Not that I saw.”

The shot of Steven Muhrmann elicited a head shake. “Looks mean. He’s the one who killed her?”

“We’re not even close to a suspect, Mr. Haldeman. In fact, we were hoping you could tell us her real name.”

“Tara Sly’s what I knew her by.”

“What else can you tell us about her?”

“Nothing. I’m up early to catch the international markets, generally asleep by late afternoon. Weekends I go to my place in Malibu. Once a month I fly to Milan to be with Janice and sometimes I stay longer than I should. If I saw Tara once a week that was a lot.”

“Her mail came to Tara Sly?”

“Whatever she got went into her box, I never saw it.”

“Mystery woman,” said Milo.

“You could make it sound like that in retrospect. To me she was a dream tenant. Minded her own business, paid half a year in advance, never threw a party, never even played music that I could hear.”

“She have a car?”

“BMW—the smallest model. Silver. It had a rental sticker on the bumper.” Haldeman brightened. “Here’s something: It came from the Budget place in Beverly Hills, maybe that’ll help you.”

“Appreciated, Mr. Haldeman. Is the Beemer still in her garage?”

“Oh, no, she cleared out. Not just the car, everything.”

“When?”

“Sometime during my last visit to Italy, which lasted four days—three weeks ago. Janice wasn’t happy about the rent situation and I came home resolved to collect or else, knocked on Tara’s door and when she didn’t answer, I let myself in with my key. Place was empty.” His lips parted. “Was she dead by then?”

“No, sir.”

“So she did rip me off.”

“Place is still empty?” said Milo.

“Completely,” said Haldeman. “Feel free to see for yourselves.”

ilo took the master key from Erno Haldeman’s giant mitt, slipped his own paw into a rubber glove, and turned the doorknob.