Mystery by Jonathan Kellerman Page B

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