Mystery (13 page)

“Usually I make him show me a time card or a pay stub, something to show he’s been working. Or at least trying to find work. That time he didn’t have anything but he claimed he was working on getting a part in a movie. As Ste-
fahn
, that would be his stage name. I said what kind of movie? He said an independent production, if everything came together he’d be in great shape, just needed something to tide him over, he’d pay me back with interest.”

She sighed. “He caught me on a day when I was tired and missing Glenn and getting over the flu.”

I said, “How much did you give him?”

“He asked for four, I gave him two.”

“Thousand,” said Milo.

“I know, I know,” said Harriet Muhrmann. “But Ste-
fahn
does sound like a movie name and that girl was pretty enough to be an actress. Actually, that’s what I figured her for.”

“How many times have you seen Stevie since then?”

“None. And yes, he never paid me back. But it was my money, not Glenn’s, so I can do what I want with it, right?”

“Of course.”

“You won’t tell Glenn? Please, that would be horrendous.”

“There’d be no reason to do that. So the purpose of Stevie’s visit was—”

“To use me,” she said. “So what else is new, I’m a mom. But he loves me, he’s always sweet to me. It’s just his problems get in the way.”

I said, “You’re worried the money went for drugs.”

“I didn’t ask, he didn’t tell.” Her eyes clamped shut. “Do you suspect Stevie of harming that girl?”

Milo said, “There’s no evidence of that.”

“He’s never hurt a woman. Never.”

“Do you have a phone number for him?”

“He has no landline, just a cell. But it’s been discontinued.”

“What car was he driving eight months ago?”

“One of those little ones, I can’t tell them apart.”

“What color?”

“Dark? Honestly, I can’t say. It was a long time ago and I wasn’t paying attention to auto paint.”

“Would it be possible to have a list of his rehab programs, ma’am? In case he did meet Mystery at one of them.”

“You’re asking me to betray Stevie’s privacy.”

“It’s about her, not him,” said Milo.

“Hmm. Well,” she said, “Glenn would say absolutely, it’s my duty to help you to my utmost. He’s all for law enforcement, thinks you guys are—okay, hold on.”

She was gone a few seconds, came back with a bowl of peanuts. “To keep you busy while I search.”

Her second absence stretched several minutes. “Here, I’ve copied them all down. Now I have a date in San Dimas to visit my grandchildren, so if you’ll please excuse me.”

Milo said, “Thanks for your time, ma’am. One more thing: The last address we have for Stevie is in Los Feliz.”

“Okay,” she said.

“Is there a more recent one?”

“I didn’t even know about that one so I’m obviously not the one to ask. May I have that address—on second thought, forget that. If Stevie wants to reach me, he knows where to find me.”

At the door she said, “When you see him, give him regards from his old mom.”

s I drove back to L.A., Milo called the Agajanian sisters. Rosalynn said, “We’re still talking to Brian about how best to help you.”

“It just got simpler,” he said, “search for a girl who called herself Mystery.”

“If you already know who she is, why do you need us?”

“What we know is that she called herself Mystery.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I’ll talk to my sister and brother.”

“How about just plugging ‘Mystery’ into your data bank.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“According to Brian?”

“Brian protects us,” she said. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Sooner would be better than later.”

“When I have something to tell you.”

He bared teeth. Ground them. Expelled the next sentence in soft little puffs. “Thank you, Rosalynn.”

“My pleasure, Lieutenant.”

Steven Jay Muhrmann’s last utility bill, still unpaid, had been mailed to a gray frame bungalow on Russell Avenue east of Los Feliz Boulevard. A small, warped, covered porch jutted like a wart on the façade. Dust served in lieu of a lawn. The block was shared by other small houses, most subdivided into flats. The exceptions were Vlatek’s Auto Paint and Body, a Volvo-Saab mechanic, and a peeling black stucco box advertising secondhand clothing. Toxic stink and the sound of metal pounding metal emanated from the body shop. Even under a blue sky the neighborhood would’ve been drab. A late-settling marine layer turned it funereal.

The gray house had no doorbell. Milo’s knock elicited footsteps from within but it took several more raps for the knob to turn.

Three people in their early twenties looked out at us, groggily. The air behind them smelled of body odor and popcorn.

Lanky, faux-hawked sandy-haired man.

Lanky faux-hawked black-haired man.

Pretty bespectacled Latina with massive curls twisted into twin barbells.

T-shirts, pajama bottoms, bare feet. The décor I could see was guitars, amps, a drum kit, heaps of fast-food refuse. A giant bag of U-Pop Movie Corn nudged a Stratocaster.

Milo introduced himself.

Black Hair yawned. Contagious.

“Could you guys step out for a second, please.”

Moving like robots, the trio complied. The girl stepped in front of her companions and tried to smile but ended up yawning. “How could there be a noise complaint, we haven’t even got started?”

“No one complained about anything. We’re looking for Steven Muhrmann.”

“Who?”

He showed them the DMV shot.

Black Hair said, “Mean-looking dude-o.”

“Got that stormtrooper thing going on,” said Sandy.

“I was gonna say he looks like a cop,” said Black. “But that would’ve been rude. Actually, you guys
don’t
look like cops. More like … hmm, maybe
you
do. You’re big enough.”

The girl nudged him. “Armand, be nice.”

Black picked something out of his eye. “Too early to be nice. Are we excused now, Officer?”

Milo said, “Steven no longer lives here?”

“We don’t know Steven,” said the girl.

“We know Steven Stills,” said Armand. He strummed air. “By reputation. Something’s happening here and it sure ain’t clear.”

“How long have you guys been living here?”

“Three months.”

“Rent or own?”

Armand said, “If we had a record deal and the dough to own, it wouldn’t be a dump like this.”

Sandy said, “Bel Air’s the place for me. Be a Bel Air hillbilly.”

Black said, “Trust me, it’s overrated.”

“That’s ’cause you grew up there.”

Milo said, “Who’s the landlord?”

Sandy said, “Some company.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“What did
Steven
do?”

“Name of the company, please.”

Sandy said, “Lisa?”

“Zephyr Property Management,” said the girl. “I’m the primary on the lease.”

Sandy said, “The bass player always gets the best roles.”

Milo said, “Do you have a number for them, Lisa?”

Use of her name made the girl flinch. “Sure, hold on.” She went inside the house, returned with a business card.

Leonid Caspar, Property Manager, cell phone area code that told you nothing about geography, P.O.B. in Sunland.

I said, “When you moved in, was anything left behind?”

Sandy smirked. “Like a clue?”

“A clue would be great.”

Lisa said, “Don’t pay attention to them. No, sorry, Officer, it was empty and freshly painted. The guy from Zephyr said the last tenant had stiffed him for three months’ rent.”

“Boo on Steven Mermaid,” said Armand.

“A pox on Steven Mermaid,” said Sandy.

Lisa said, “Stop being assholes, guys. Both of you go shower.”

The boys bowed and turned to leave.

Armand said, “The bass reigns supreme. In Paul McCartney we trust.”

Leonid Caspar answered with a hoarse, “Yeah?”

Milo filled him in.

Caspar said, “That one. No employment history to speak of, credit rating worse than the State of California. So why’d we rent to him? Because we’re stupid. Plus, he gave us a year of rent up front and damage deposit.”

“Once that ran out, he split.”

“What can I say, Lieutenant.”

“How many months did he stiff you for?”

“Two—no, says here three. Almost four, really, my son can’t add. Oh, boy. So why’d we let him go that far? ’Cause we screwed up, let him slip through the cracks. We manage twenty-six buildings here and in Arizona and Nevada, all of them thirty units minimum, except for that dump on Russell. My wife inherited it from her grandfather, it was his first investment, helped him start up the company so it’s like a family big-deal. Up to me, we’d sell it but she’s sentimental.”

“Did Muhrmann leave anything behind?”

“Let’s see … says here just trash. Lots of trash, we had to pay for hauling. So technically, he owes us for that, too.”

“Did you ever meet him, Mr. Caspar?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“How’d he connect with you?”

“We advertise in local papers, on Craigslist, other onlines. What’d he do, scam someone else?”

“Who in the company dealt with him?”

“You sound serious. More than a scam?” said Caspar. “He did something serious?”

“We’d just like to talk to him, sir.”

“So would I. I put it out to collection but no one can find him.”

“Was the year’s worth in cash?” said Milo.

“That’s what it says here. I know what you’re thinking but it’s not our responsibility to figure out how they come up with payment.”

“Cash literally or a money order?”

“It’s listed as cash.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Rental was eight a month, times thirteen is ten four, we rounded off the damage deposit to six, made it eleven even.”

“Eleven thousand in cash,” said Milo.

“You’re trying to tell me he’s a dope dealer?” said Caspar. “I get cash from all types. Unless someone tells me there’s a problem, it’s none of my business.”

“To qualify he had to give you prior addresses. Could I have them, please?”

“We didn’t bother with priors because he told us up front his credit was zero.”

“What about references?”

“Let me check … yeah, there’s one. C—as in cookie—Longellos.” He spelled it. “Says here she confirmed he worked as personal assistant, was honest, faithful, true-blue.”

“She,” said Milo.

“My note says Ms. C. Longellos.”

“How about her number, Mr. Caspar?”

Caspar read off a 310. “You find him, I wouldn’t mind if you let me know.”

“Happy to help,” said Milo. “I’d be even happier if one of your employees actually met him face-to-face and called me by the end of today.”

“Sure,” said Caspar. “Quid pro whatchamacallit.”

C. Longellos’s number placed her in Pacific Palisades.

Not in service.

No current DMV records for that address existed but the data bank coughed up the two-year-old DUI conviction of a woman named Constance Rebecca Longellos. Forty years old, P.O.B. in Encino.

I said, “Another under-the-radar devotee. Maybe Harriet Muhrmann’s instincts were right and alcoholic misery loved company.”