Mystery (12 page)

ilo splashed truffle oil into the pan. Thirty bucks for a two-ounce bottle. He’d entered the house flourishing the receipt and announcing the price. Then he showed me a photocopied driver’s license.

Eight eggs from my fridge, scrambled with milk and chives and mushrooms, reacted to the enrichment with a quick, sharp sizzle. The earthy aroma of upper-echelon fungus filled the kitchen.

I said, “First time you’ve ever cooked.”

“I’m that kinda guy. Emotionally flexible.” Humming. “Too bad Robin’s not here. It’s really her I owe, but we might as well fuel up.”

It was nine in the morning. He’d arrived freshly shaved, hair slicked, wearing his version of haute couture: baggy blue suit bought for a funeral ten years ago, white wash-’n’-wear shirt, discouraged blue tie, black-leather oxfords in lieu of the colorless desert boots.

Dividing the eggs into two heaps, he carried the plates to the table, was chomping away before he lowered himself into a chair.

I was more interested in the license.

Black Suit aka Steven Jay Muhrmann. Six two, two fifty-five, brown, blue, a P.O.B. in Hollywood that Milo had marked
defunct
.

“His latest utility bill was sent to Russell Avenue in Los Feliz, but he’s got no registered vehicle, no record of recent employment that I can find.”

The picture had been taken five years ago when Muhrmann was twenty-nine and favored a dark mullet. The license had been suspended one year later and never reinstated.

Angry glare. No one likes waiting in line at the DMV but Steven Muhrmann’s bullnecked scowl suggested more than a long queue was at play.

I said, “Friendly fellow.”

Milo put his fork down. “Julius Child offers you tableside service and you don’t even lift a fork? This is a celebratory breakfast, as in I now have a suspect with a real-life name. Eat before it gets cold.”

I took a bite.

“And?” he said.

“Delicious. No job, no car says Muhrmann’s an un-solid citizen. Any criminal history?”

“Coupla DUIs lost him his license, at the second he also had what the arresting officer thought was traces of meth in a Baggie but turned out to be steroid powder. Despite the unfortunate absence of violence, I like him. Because he makes his mommy nervous. She’s the one tipped me off. Phoned this morning at seven and said the girl on the news was someone her son might know. I didn’t need to press her for details but she sounded like she wanted to get something off her chest, I figured an in-person would be better. What I did get was that she’d last seen him eight months ago, was calling himself Ste-
fahn
.”

Pronouncing it exactly as Gretchen had. Before Milo showed up, I’d been wondering how to deal with her tip. Some deity was kind.

He said, “This
is
the guy you saw, right?”

I nodded. “Mommy sells out Junior. What’s this world coming to?”

“More important, Mommy’s pretty sure she saw Princess with Junior. Princess never actually came in the house but when Mom walked Ste
fahn
to the car, she was there. He introduced her as ‘Mystery.’ Mom said she thought it was ‘Ms. Terry,’ but Stevie corrected her. Girl never said a word, Mom thought she looked a little sad. Or maybe just shy.”

“Any guns registered to Stefan?”

“Nope and I didn’t press Mom, didn’t want to overload her before we meet in person. Which is due to happen in an hour, she lives out in Covina. That gives us just enough time to wolf down this repast. Ingest, lad, ingest.”

East Dexter Street in Covina was a thirty-minute cruise on the 10E followed by half a dozen quick turns onto sun-bright residential streets. Harriet Muhrmann’s house was no different than most of her neighbors’: a one-story fifties ranch the color of coffee laced with too much cream. White-painted lava rock girdled the width of the structure. Crescent-shaped windows were cut into the brown door of the double garage. Eight monumental date palms columned the driveway. The rest of the landscaping was velvet lawn and neat little pockets of impatiens and begonias. The block was silent.

A sisal mat trumpeted
Welcome!

The woman who stood waiting for us in the doorway was trim with mannish gray hair, a long pleasant face, and soft eyes behind gold-framed glasses. She wore a cinnamon turtleneck, brown jeans, white deck shoes.

“Ms. Muhrmann?”

“Harriet.” She looked up and down the street. “Better come in, we don’t want to alarm anyone.”

The door opened directly into a twelve-by-twelve living room. Brown-velvet couches compressed grape-colored carpeting. The TV, stout and gray-screened, was a borderline relic. A bookshelf held paperback bestsellers, souvenirs from theme parks, a collection of ceramic deer, framed snapshots of cute little kids.

Harriet Muhrmann walked to her picture window, parted the drapes an inch, peered through. “Make yourselves comfortable. Coffee or tea?”

Milo said, “No, thanks. Are you worried about something, ma’am?”

She continued to look out the window. “This is a nice block, everyone’s concerned about their neighbors. Anything different gets noticed.”

We’d arrived in the Seville.

“Does your son visit often, Ms. Muhrmann?”

The curtain slipped from her fingers. “Stevie? No, but when he does, sometimes people do ask me about it.”

“Stevie concerns them.”

“They’re concerned
for
him.” She turned, gnawed her lip. “Stevie’s had his problems. I should tell you that right after I called you, I had my regrets. What kind of mother would involve her son with the police? I respect the police, my husband was an MP in the army, but … I don’t know why I did it. But seeing Stevie’s face on the news. That girl. I just felt it was my duty.”

“We appreciate that.”

“If it
was
her.”

“You seemed pretty sure it was.”

“I know I did,” she said, “but now I’m not sure. There are so many girls like that.”

“Like what, ma’am?”

“Beautiful, skinny, blond—the kind who want to be actresses.” She moved away from the window, picked up the smallest ceramic deer, put it down. “Have I gotten Stevie in massive trouble?”

“Not in the least, ma’am. Our goal is to identify our victim and if Stevie can help us with that, he’d be doing us a giant favor.”

“So you don’t suspect him of anything.”

“We had no idea who he was until you called.”

“Okay,” she said. “That makes me feel better. But I have to tell you, she still could be someone else. You see them everywhere, gorgeous girls. Gorgeous people, period, I don’t know where they come from. Doesn’t it seem to you as if people are getting better looking?”

“In my job,” said Milo, “I don’t see people at their best.”

Harriet Muhrmann flinched. “No, of course not—you’re sure I can’t get you something to drink? A snack? I’ve got honey-roasted peanuts.”

“No, thanks, ma’am, we just ate. So people in the neighborhood worry about Stevie when he comes to visit. Has he been ill?”

“Do we need to talk about Stevie, Lieutenant? The main thing is that girl might—or might not—be the girl I saw him with the last time he was here.”

“Eight months ago.”

“About. It wasn’t a scheduled visit, Stevie just dropped in.”

“And she waited out in the car.”

“Some girl did. I didn’t even know he was with anyone until I walked him out.”

“He called her Mystery.”

“Obviously that’s not her real name. To be honest I thought it sounded like a stripper name. But I didn’t say anything, just ‘Pleased to meet you’ and held out my hand. Her fingers barely grazed mine. Like she didn’t want to be touched.”

“Did she say anything?”

“Not a word, all she did was smile. Kind of a spaced-out smile.”

I said, “As if she was on something?”

Her mouth twisted unpleasantly. “The thought occurred to me.”

“You’ve noticed that before in Stevie’s friends.”

She trudged to a chair, sat down. “You’re cops, you knew right away what I meant about the neighbors worrying. Stevie’s had a substance abuse issue since fourteen. His dad spotted it, Glenn thinks like a cop, maybe too much like a cop. He’s in Eye-rack now, as a contractor. Doesn’t even tell me what he does.”

I said, “Glenn knew what to look for.”

“I used to think he was being paranoid but he was right. He confronted Stevie immediately and there was hell to pay.” Slumping. “It wasn’t an easy time for our family. Stevie wasn’t the least bit remorseful. His excuse was everyone did it. Including Brett—his older brother. That got Brett mad and the two of them nearly beat each other senseless. Glenn watched, I nearly fell apart.”

She hugged herself. “Our dirty laundry doesn’t matter to you.”

Milo said, “Sounds like Stevie was a bit of a challenge as a kid.”

“The funny thing is, he started off as the easy one. It was Brett who gave us conniptions, he was a hellion from day one and Stevie was so sweet and quiet. When Stevie was little, I used to say thank God I’ve got one who
sits
. So now Brett’s an optometrist in San Dimas, has four kids, doing great. Sometimes I think they’re programmed from conception and we have no control over what happens to them.”

I said, “When did Stevie fall in with the wrong crowd?”

“Junior high. A
real
wrong crowd, it was like someone flipped a switch.” Her mouth trembled. “Unfortunately, we could never figure how to flip the switch back. And it wasn’t for lack of trying. Or expense. One thing that really irritates Brett is all the money we’ve spent trying to help Stevie get his life together. So maybe that’s where Stevie met that girl.” She laughed. “Sorry, that was kind of confusing.”

I said, “Maybe he met her in rehab.”

She stared. “Yes, that’s what I meant. Glenn says it’s the dumbest thing, making a rehab buddy, druggies need to get away from other druggies. But the way she looked that day—spacey. Maybe, don’t you think?”

“Sure. How many rehabs have you paid for?”

“Three. After the third didn’t take, we said enough, Stevie needed to take responsibility.”

“Has he?”

“Well,” she said, “he seems to be supporting himself. He’s bright, you know. Tested way above average except for some problems paying attention. The high school counselor wanted to put him on Ritalin but Glenn said no way, the last thing a druggie needs is legal dope.”

Milo said, “What kind of work does he do?”

“All kinds of things. Glenn had a friend worked at the Wilmington docks who got Stevie a tryout unloading ships—that was a couple of years after high school, when Stevie was drifting. Stevie’s always been super-strong, we thought it would be perfect and everything seemed to be going great. Then Stevie’s supervisor found him smoking pot while driving a forklift. After that he … what did he do? … construction. He’s worked a lot of construction jobs. I’d say construction’s been his main thing.”

“Carpentry?”

“Framing, digging ditches, driving a trash truck.” She smiled. “He did some door-to-door sales—magazines, that kind of thing. Sold clothing that he bought at thrift shops to vintage stores. One time he got hired by a company that guards shopping malls. They put him in uniform and a hat. His hair—he had real long hair back then—had to be bunched up in the hat and he looked like he had an oversized head. Glenn used to say putting a doper in that position was having the fox watch the chicken coop. But Stevie was okay as a guard, he never got into trouble. I guess he got bored with it ’cause he quit. Bored with us, too. One day he just picked up and moved to L.A.”

“When was that, ma’am?”

“Six, seven years ago.”

“Until then he was living with you?”

“He came and went.” Her eyes compressed “Why all these questions about Stevie if you just want to find that girl? Who I’m not really sure, now, was the same one.”

“A man fitting Stevie’s description was seen near the girl on the night she was killed.”

Harriet Muhrmann gasped.

“Ma’am, I’m being truthful when I say that does not make Stevie a suspect. But we would like to talk to him in case he can identify her. Because right now, she’s just a Jane Doe and that makes our job really tough.”

“I’m sure it does but there’s nothing more I can tell you about her.”

“At the very least, we can rule Stevie out and be out of your hair.”

“Well, that would be nice but there’s nothing more I can tell you.”

“That time—eight months ago. Was it a social call?”

She bit back tears. “I can’t hide anything from you guys, can I? No, Stevie needed money.”

“Did you give him any?”

She picked at a cuticle. “His father
cannot
know.”

“There’s no reason for us to talk to his father unless he can supply details you haven’t.”

“He can’t, Glenn’s been in Eye-rack for two years, on and off. And trust me, all he’d tell you is Stevie’s a doper and a disappointment.” Her eyes misted. “Glenn’s a good man but he’s not always a kind man. But I understand where he’s coming from.”

That sounded strangely detached. What I’d heard from so many parents of troubled kids after hope gave way to despair.

Milo said, “So you gave Stevie some money.”