“Or he’s got over-the-top dominance needs and decided to get rid of a complication.”
“And then Susie became a complication? What, she failed an achievement test? Forgot to put on her body shaper?”
“Or he simply got bored with her,” I said. “He was ready to end it but she wasn’t, because to her the relationship was more than romance. It represented what she thought was a new life. Feeling smart. That garage doesn’t look like full-time lodgings. She probably drifted back and forth between it and The Brain’s place. But then he kicked her out permanently. She found out he was going to the wedding and decided to confront him—”
“Or he was part of the wedding party.”
“Garrett?” I said. “Fine, either way. She threatened to show up, he said, No prob, see you there, wear that sexy red dress, we’ll have fun, discuss our issues. Instead, he sent Mike Lotz to take care of her. A junkie who also ended up replacing Pete Kramer. That can’t be coincidence, Big Guy. Maybe The Brain had something to do with Lotz being hired.”
“What kind of influence would he have?”
“He could be a longtime resident, comfy cozy in a penthouse, with access to vulnerable students like Cassy Booker.”
Maybe Amanda Burdette; I kept that to myself.
Milo said, “Older guy, gets all intellectual with younger women, gets into their pants…until he ditches them.”
“Easy to see why Lotz had to die. Addicts aren’t known for discretion so once he carried out his mission, he became a liability.”
“Or Mr. Cerebral just gets off on killing people.”
“They’re not separate issues,” I said. “View the world as your solo stage, everyone else becomes a prop.”
He returned to staring at the street. “Goddamn building. That obsequious little bastard Pena still isn’t returning calls. Same for the woman he gave me in Columbus—Masio—and everyone else I’ve tried at Academo. CCTV’s rarely a big deal. These people are starting to smell bad.”
Turning the ignition key violently, he revved the unmarked’s engine. “What to do before I get to death-knock poor Mrs. Koster has just made itself obvious.”
“Onward to the wilds of Westwood Village.”
“You are quite the brain, yourself.”
CHAPTER
35
Staying on the Glen to Wilshire, he headed west, gliding along the Wilshire Corridor, a stretch of wannabe New Yorkish high-rises between Comstock and Westwood Boulevard.
As he entered the Village, he said, “The way you put it before, housecleaning. That’s cold, kiddo. You’re supposed to be the sensitive guy but you talk about the worst stuff like it’s business as usual.”
Interesting point. Working with him had probably armored me with a carapace of sorts.
I said, “If you’d prefer, I can dredge up a pout and some tears.”
He laughed again, softer, less corrosive, covered the distance to the Strathmore complex far too quickly.
Parking illegally across the street, he said, “You’re getting one more chance to do this politely, Bob,” and tried Pena’s number. No answer.
I said, “Maybe he’s on vacation. Enforced or otherwise.”
“Or worse.” He groaned and put his palms together. “Merciful God, please don’t tell me Bob’s also been housecleaned by The Phantom of Westwood.”
We got out and headed for Building B. Just as we arrived, the doors opened and two girls emerged.
U. sweatshirts, short-shorts, lace-up boots, long hair swinging in rhythm with spangled smartphones.
“I’ll be penniless in New York,” said one. Enjoying the notion.
“I’ll be penniless in Los Gatos,” said her friend, equally buoyant.
They hurried off, laughing. Milo shook his head and reached for the door.
I was closer and caught it.
He muttered, “Reflexes,” strode past me, crossed the entry, and beelined to a ground-floor door marked Manager.
No resistance from the knob. He stormed in, leaving me to catch the door.
Bob Pena was sitting at an ugly woodite-and-chrome desk, eating a sandwich. As Milo charged toward him, his eyes bugged.
“Bon appétit, Bob. Don’t choke. Yet.”
Pena put down the sandwich and gaped. Homemade meal resting on a bed of waxed paper: bologna on white, sliced carrots, potato chips, plastic-wrapped cheese saltines, a cluster of green grapes. Can of Fresca to wash it down, the top not yet popped.
“I—how’d you—”
“Get in here? Obviously your security leaves much to be desired. Why haven’t you returned my calls, Bob?”
Pena shrank back. Atop the desk was a black-bound ledger, a copy of Sports Illustrated, and a standing calendar in a cheap turquoise plastic frame. Soft-focus photo of Academo’s home office in Columbus, a columned heap of colonial bricks fit for a mortuary.
Milo said, “That was a real question. Bob.”
“I—I—I had nothing to tell you.”
Milo cracked his knuckles and settled a haunch on a corner of Pena’s desk. Brushing aside the ledger and the magazine, he studied Pena the way a snake examines a mouse. Pena scooted his chair backward but there wasn’t much by way of escape space before he collided with a metal file cabinet.
Milo said, “I’m genuinely puzzled, Bob. CCTV footage comes up all the time when we’re working cases and everyone we ask is happy to help.”
Pena looked at his lap. “I’d like to help.”
“But?”
“The decision isn’t mine.”
“The company has a problem cooperating with law enforcement.”
“I gave you the name of someone—”
“Yeah, yeah, Sandra Masio. Problem is, she doesn’t answer my calls, either. No one at Academo does.”
“I’m sorry,” said Pena, sounding as if he meant it.
“I mean it’s not a controversial thing. Bob. All we want to know is did the late Mike Lotz leave the building on a certain day. We’re talking a dead junkie janitor. I can’t imagine why the company would give a shit.”
Pena’s arms stretched forward, hands braced along the edge of the desk. His cheek muscles twitched and one eye sagged.
Milo inched closer and drew himself up. Beer keg with legs tilting forward, about to topple.
Pena’s knuckles blanched. “I’m really sorry.”
“A junkie janitor. So it makes us wonder. Maybe someone else is being protected.”
Pena blinked.
“Is that it, Bob? Someone who lives here? A VIP tenant—smart guy, a professor type?”
Three more blinks. Frantic head shake. “I don’t know about that.”
“You’re sure?”
“I don’t know anything about what you’re talking about. I just do my job.” Pena’s voice had weakened. Trying to muster indignation and failing pathetically.
I pointed to the ledger. “Does that list all the tenants?”
“No, no, expenses.” Wheeling forward, Pena flipped the book open, showed us columns of numbers. “For taxes.”
I eased the ledger out of his hand and turned other pages. Itemized costs, no names.
Milo said, “Okay, show us the book that does list the tenants.”
“Can’t do that,” said Pena.
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Can’t. Company policy. If it was up to me, honest, I’d—”
“What’s the big secret?”
“Privacy,” said Pena. “It’s what sets us apart.”
“From?”
“Regular dorms. You got to understand the situation.”
“Educate us.”
“We’ve got rich folk wanting something different for their brat—their kids.”
I said, “Nowadays, brats don’t care much about privacy.”
“Not them, who cares about them?” said Pena, volume rising, sparked by an upsurge of confidence. Quoting policy does that for some people. “It’s the parents. They’re paying the bills, they want their babies protected.”
Milo said, “Then maybe they should find out that people seem to like this place for dying.”
Pena made a gagging noise. “That’s…not true.”
“No? Cassy Booker, Lotz—and, oh yeah, your old buddy Peter Kramer.”
Pena’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“Kramer’s dead.”
“What?” Pena’s right hand began clawing behind his ear.
“You didn’t know?”
“Why the heck would I know?”
“He worked for you, then all of a sudden he’s not here.”