“The owner doesn’t hear from the tenant. It’s a managed property.”
“Your company.”
“Now it is us.”
“Who was it before?”
She named a competitor.
Milo said, “Owner’s not happy with their performance.”
“Not at all. The tenant left without giving notice. Two months’ unpaid rent. At least he left it clean.”
Milo rubbed his face. “Have you cleaned it further?”
“Yesterday,” said Soraya Hamidpour. “The usual.”
“Vacuuming?”
“Carpet shampoo, to make it look extra-good. It’s scrubbed down pretty nice. Most of the rooms don’t even look as if they were lived in.”
“Who’s the owner, ma’am?”
“He lives in Florida.”
Out came the notepad. “Name, please.”
Soraya Hamidpour scrunched her lips. “It’s a little… tricky.”
“How so?”
“The owner likes to stay private.”
“Hermit?”
“Not exactly.” She turned back to the sign, scraped something from a corner.
“Ma’am-”
“Do we need to get into that?”
“We really do, ma’am.”
“The problem with the house is…”
“The tenant’s not a nice person.”
“I see… my problem is the owner… a certain type of exposure, he likes. But…”
“Loo?” A big, blond cop wearing an untucked denim shirt and jeans waved from ten feet away. As he got closer, the shirt’s flap billowed, exposing his sidearm.
Soraya Hamidpour seemed entranced by the weapon.
Milo said, “What’s up, Greg?”
“Sorry to bother you but calls are getting heavy and watch commander wants to know how long you’ll need us.”
“One car stays for right now, the rest of you go. Call for a crime scene team. We’re going to tear this place apart.”
“Tear?” said Hamidpour.
Greg said, “The warrant-”
“Signed, sealed, delivered.” Wink wink hidden from the Realtor’s view.
Greg grinned. “You got it, Loo.” He hustled back to the convoy.
Soraya Hamidpour said, “You can’t tear it up.”
“This could be a crime scene, ma’am.”
“Oh, no. Couldn’t be, it’s so clean-”
“We’ve got chemicals that go beyond the surface.”
“But I already have someone interested-”
“We’ll be as quick as possible, ma’am.”
Soraya Hamidpour threw up her hands. “This is a disaster.”
“Tell you what,” said Milo. “If we could speak with the owner, get some details on the tenant, it might mean less of a-”
“The owner is – I can get you details but the owner doesn’t like…” She took a deep breath. Recited the name of an A-list movie star.
Milo said, “Did he know Mr. Heubel?”
“No, no, never. It’s managed. He lives in Florida.” Cupping her hand around her mouth. “Something to do with community property. The last divorce. Also, he gets a place to park his airplane.”
CHAPTER 30
A call to the company that had leased the house to Nicholas Heubel firmed up the details.
A-List Leading Man had owned the property for five years, purchasing it as part of a divorce settlement with his fourth wife. The plan had been for her to live there, but she’d changed her mind and moved to Colorado with a younger actor, where A-List bought her a ranch. Upon the advice of his business manager, the house had been converted to a rental.
Since then, three tenants had been in residence.
Two young families with “industry connections” and, for the past twenty-two months, Nicholas Heubel.
Heubel had cold-called the company, representing himself as a freelance investor, produced a bank account “more than substantial enough to qualify.” He’d paid first and last months’ rent plus a damage deposit with a twenty-four-thousand-dollar money order.
The leasing agent, still miffed about being fired, promised to fax over Heubel’s rental application and any other paperwork in the file.
Milo said, “Time to talk to Tony Mancusi.”
As we set out on the drive to Hollywood, he phoned Sean Binchy. “Forget the paint-and-chrome stuff. Here’s something real you can do.”
Spelling out the precise wording of a warrant for the vanilla house, he named a judge likely to speed things along. “See if you can get a current photo of Heubel. Asshole’s a shape-shifter but maybe we can get a decent likeness… Yeah, it is weird. And all your fault, Sean… I’m kidding. You did good.”
Tony Mancusi’s Toyota remained where we’d last seen it.
No answer to the bell ring.
We squeezed through a cramped walk-space narrowed further by ragged planting and made our way to the back of the building. A slim rear door looked out to a Dumpster-lined alley. Garbage overflowed the containers and specks of trash had blown up the asphalt.
I said, “This reminds me of something. The back of Leonora Bright’s salon.”
“That so.” He scrutinized the alley, stepped to the door.
Solid-core, hefty deadbolt.
Please Keep Locked at All Times sign affixed dead center.
The knob turned easily. The door swung open.
Mariachi music from somewhere upstairs was loud enough to soundtrack the hallway. Bright white hallway, carelessly painted blue doors.
As we reached Tony Mancusi’s apartment, a woman stepped out of another unit carrying two see-through plastic bags.
She shot us a look, continued toward the front door.
“Ma’am?”
She stopped.
The badge made her flinch. Fiftyish, short and solid, with nutmeg skin and black hair tied in a tight bun. The bags held party favors and bags of candy.
Milo pointed. “¿Señor esta aqui?”
She shook her head, left hurriedly.
Milo ’s knock on Mancusi’s door fought the beat of the music. No reply. Harder rapping followed by “Mr. Mancusi, it’s Lieutenant Sturgis,” had all the effect of a foam hammer.
He put his ear to the door. “If he’s in there, he’s keeping it quiet.”
The front door swung open and the woman with the bags came back in.
“¿Señora?” said Milo.
“I speak English,” she said. “Sorry for not answering, but you scared me. How’d you get in?”
“Back door was unlocked, ma’am.”
“Again. Just what we need.”
“You’ve had problems with break-ins?”
“Someone upstairs got robbed a few weeks ago. I think they were drug dealers because they never called the police and right after they moved out. Before that, there were a couple more incidents. Every time I see the door open, I lock it. But other people don’t bother.”
Milo asked her name.
“Irma Duran.”
“Looks like someone’s having a party.”
“My grandson’s class. Reward for reading accomplishment. I’m a teacher’s assistant at his school, on my way over there. Reason why I came back is someone else was looking for that guy. His mother, she seemed worried.”
“His mother,” said Milo. “When was she here?”
“When I came out to take my grandson to school – around six thirty. Raymond goes to a magnet in the Valley, we need to leave early. She asked the same thing you did – had I seen him. Said she was his mother and he hadn’t called when he was supposed to. I told her I hadn’t seen him and she looked concerned and left. Is he okay?”
“You know Mr. Mancusi?”
“I see him once in a while, we’ve said hello, that’s about it. Mostly he keeps to himself.”
“What did his mother look like, ma’am?”
“I really didn’t get a good look at her, because I was busy with Raymond and his backpack, getting him to eat his sweet roll and drink his milk. She sounded worried, I felt sorry for her. That’s why I came back. So you could contact her.”
“Appreciate it, Ms. Duran. She didn’t by any chance leave a number?”
“No, sorry.”
“Do you remember anything about her appearance?”
“Um… tall. And she had a nice car. White Lexus, I saw her driving away. That was a little surprising.”
“What was?”
“Her having money. Because he looks like he shops at a thrift store. Now that I think about it, she was just the opposite.”