Obsession (17 page)

“My mind at ease? This is just—my God, it’s so
weird
!”

Milo said, “I don’t have to check if you don’t want me to.”

“No,” she said. “Do it, I want to know. Please.”

“As long as we’re here, does the name Robert Fisk mean anything to you?”

“No. Who is he?”

“An unpleasant fellow whose palm print was found on Lester Jordan’s windowsill.”

“You
got
him?” she said.

“No, we’re looking for him. Identifying him should speed things up.”

“Robert Fisk,” she said. “Has he killed other people?”

“Not that we know about.”

“Is there a good chance you’ll find him?”

“We’ll definitely get him.”

She turned away.

Milo said, “This whole idea of your mother doing something terrible has to be pretty upsetting. I’m sure it’ll come down to nothing.”

She focused past him, stared at the fireplace tiles.

He said, “Tanya, coming forth in the first place was extremely courageous. But like I just said, if you don’t want to continue, no harm, no foul.”

“That wouldn’t make you upset?”

“Not in the least. Officially, I’m on vacation. Give me the word and I go for the Hawaiian shirts.”

Her smile was feeble.

“Lester Jordan’s murder will be investigated fully by Hollywood Division, but anything to do with your mother has been and will continue to be unofficial.”

Silence.

“Whatever you want, Tanya.”

“I don’t know what I—” She turned, faced us. “I’m so sorry, I thought I could handle anything that came up but now that someone—two people—have actually been killed…”

“That is a tough reality, but there’s no reason to connect it to your mother.”

Her eyes filled. He handed her a napkin, eyed the cookies.

She said, “But what if something did happen?”

“Everything I’ve heard about your mother tells me she was a terrific person. The chances of her doing anything that could be remotely considered criminal are pretty godda—they’re darn low.”

Tanya dabbed a tear, bounced the heels of her hands together, let her arms drop. “When she told me, I felt her reason was protecting me. I only wish I knew from what.”

“Quite possibly nothing, she was sick,” said Milo.

Silence.

“We’re here to protect you now.”

She hung her head.

I said, “Tanya?”

“I was thinking of myself as a self-sufficient person—I’m sorry, thank you. Thank you so much. Would you like a cookie, too?”

“Sure.”

She passed the tray to me, then Milo. He began to refuse, changed his mind. The third cookie went down in one bite.

“Another?” said Tanya.

“No, but they’re delish. Can I ask you a question about Kyle?”

She put the tray down. “What?”

“Did you end up talking to him again and if so, did he say anything about his uncle?”

“We spoke briefly. I had a class and he had an appointment with his dissertation chairman. He told me he couldn’t honestly grieve because he barely knew Jordan. He felt his mother might take it hard because Jordan was her only sibling, but he wasn’t sure, because she never mentioned Jordan. We talked some more about that—the whole sib thing—and then I had to go.”

I said, “Some more?”

“That’s what we discussed during our first lunch. Kyle’s an only child, just like me. There were aspects we both liked, others we didn’t. For me the bad part was not having someone to play with. Kyle feels he’s at risk for being selfish so he makes an effort to be altruistic—feeding the homeless, giving a portion of his trust fund to charity each year.”

“Nice guy,” said Milo, gobbling a fourth cookie. “These are great.”

“It’s just a mix.”

“Hey,” he said, “take all the credit and none of the blame.”

Her smile was weary.

“You okay here, by yourself?”

“I’m fine,” she said, looking to me for support.

I said, “Tanya’s good at asking for help when she needs it.”

Milo said, “Smart thinking. But if you need help, just ask.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

At the door: “You’re a good person, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

Color spread under Milo’s ears.

Tanya said, “Is it still okay for me to talk to Kyle?”

“Unless he gives you a reason not to,” said Milo.

“Like what?”

“If he gets weird. Has he asked you out?”

“No, nothing like that. You really think you’ll find this Fisk pretty soon?”

“Everyone’s looking for him. Speaking of which, here’re a couple of other names: Rosie and Blazer Pain.”

“Who are they?”

“Two guys Fisk hung out with.”

“Blazer Pain? That sounds more like a band than a person.”

I said, “Robert Fisk considers himself a dancer and his pal Rosie deejays, so maybe there is a music connection.”

“A dancer?” she said. “But he killed someone?” Shuddering. “Once you’ve done something like that, how could you ever live with yourself?”

Milo reached for the doorknob. “I imagine it could be tough.”

Placing the gun box in the trunk of the Seville, he slumped in the passenger seat.

“Dropping the whole Patty thing is like putting toothpaste back in the tube. What’s the official shrink position on falsehood and perfidy?”

“Cops are allowed to lie.”

“There’s a direct answer for you.”

I said, “No sense alarming her, what’s the choice. Have you convinced yourself Jordan’s death was related to Patty?”

“No, but the more I think about it, the more I lean that way. We get a match on that gun, it’s gonna be harder to fib to the kid. Though I guess she doesn’t need to know unless we turn up some sort of threat to her.”

“Try keeping it from her,” I said. “And what we don’t tell her, Kyle might.”

“Feeds the homeless—think that was a line?”

“Don’t know.”

“Tanya’s got a crush on him, right? Go figure.”

“You don’t approve?”

“He’s a slob, kind of nerdy, no? She’s a good-looking girl.”

I drove.

Two blocks later: “Ol’ Kyle better be as righteous as he claims.”

I said, “When are you planning to ease up on her curfew and let her wear makeup?”

He glared at me. “You can really be that hands-off?”

“One part of me wants to take her home and have Robin mother her.”

“And the other?”

“The other reminds me of the value of boundaries.”

“Must be nice to have those.” He folded his arms across his gut. “That duplex is nice, but it’s kind of eerie, she’s like a kid playing house. At her age, I was living in a dorm. Total mess, psychologically, but at least there wasn’t all that silence pounding my head. You’re saying she can really be okay doing a solo act?”

“I’m keeping an eye out.”

“I’m gonna talk to Kyle again. Just to let him know.”

“Know what?”

“That I’m an interested party.”

Robin was in the living room, curled on a couch, thumbing through Gruhn and Carter’s
Acoustic Guitars
.

I sat down and kissed her. “Getting new ideas?”

She put the book down. “Appreciating why the old ones work so well. My day was good, how was yours?”

I gave her the basics.

She said, “Blazer Pain. Are you sure you don’t mean Blaise De Paine?” Spelling it.

“You know him?”

“I’ve heard that name at recording sessions and not in a friendly context. He’s a sampler—snips digital segments of other people’s songs, patches together club mixes. First musicians had to deal with synthesizers, now this.”

“Your basic techno-thievery.”

“But tough to pin down. Samplers use tiny bits that can’t be identified easily. Even if the sample can be documented, who says anyone can claim ownership over a combination of tones? And how would you arrive at a royalty fee? Guys like De Paine are everywhere but no one goes after them because they’re a minor annoyance compared to the serious bootleggers.”

“Maybe he sells other products,” I said. “Ever hear of any dope connection?”

“No, but it wouldn’t shock me. The whole club scene’s all about X, oxycodone, the thrill of the week.”

“Maybe a retro thrill. Lester Jordan was an old-fashioned junkie.”

“I wouldn’t call heroin retro. It never goes out of style completely.”

“Blaise De Paine,” I said. “No way that’s on his birth certificate.”

“I’d bet not, my dear. Want me to ask around?”

“That would be good.”

She got up.

I said, “I didn’t mean right now.”

“No time like the present.” She fluffed her hair, held up a fist. “Look at me, girl detective.”

Blaise De Paine
pulled up twenty-eight cyber-hits, twenty-five of them rants on a chat line called BitterMusician.com. The remaining three consisted of De Paine’s name embedded in lists of partygoers.

Two club openings and the premiere of an indy film I’d never heard of.

The griping musicians grouped De Paine with “the usual cabal of digital scumbag thieves” but didn’t single him out.

An image search produced four blurry photos of a slight young man with spiky, blond-tipped black hair and oversized teeth that drew your eyes away from a forgettable face. In each shot, Blaise De Paine favored long fitted coats over a bare chest and gold jewelry. He might’ve been wearing mascara. The group shots featured pretty young faces.

No sign of a scowling Robert Fisk or any black men. Combining
Robert Fisk
and
Rosie
with De Paine’s name brought up nothing.

The images were still on screen when Robin came into the office. “That’s him? Looks young, but that makes sense, it’s a kid’s business. I made more calls and from what I can gather De Paine’s mixes are a small-time hustle, probably not his main source of income because he hasn’t been seen lately around the clubs and someone thought he’d heard that De Paine had a high-priced house in the hills, above the Strip. Dope
could
be his other line of business.”

“He dresses flamboyantly, so he loves attention. Wonder why he doesn’t have a Web site.”

“That is weird. Everyone has a Web site.”

“You don’t.”

“I like my privacy and my clients know how to find me.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“Ah,” she said. “This unearthing stuff gets interesting, doesn’t it?”

The next morning I introduced Blanche to a lightweight leash.

Twenty minutes of exercise was enough for her: When I carried her back to the house, she tucked her head under my chin.

The phone rang as I set out her water bowl.

Milo said, “The bad news is no sign yet of Robert Fisk, the other bad news is no one in any of the divisions has heard of Blazer Pain or Rosie.”

“That’s ’cause it’s Blaise De Paine.” I gave him the details.

“Music cheat, I’ll pass it along to Petra. The final bad news is the evidence room is still having trouble locating the bullets used on Leland Armbruster. In the theoretically positive category, Iona Bedard—Kyle’s mom—is in town to talk to Petra about Brother Lester. She’s staying at the Beverly Hilton, we’re invited to co-attend at ten a.m. If you’re interested, meet me in front at five to. Dress nice. Class consciousness, and all that.”

The lobby of the Beverly Hilton was a bright, vast amalgam of original fifties construction and postmodern, earth-toned upgrades.

Tourists waited to check in. Sharp-eyed executives and frightened minions wearing
Hi I’m…
badges hurried to meetings. Milo sat off to the side on a chocolate-brown sofa designed for someone thin, drinking coffee and watching people with the suspiciousness that never leaves him.

“Dressing nice” was a broad-shouldered suit one shade lighter than the couch. Some miracle fabric with a coarse weave that resembled shredded wheat. His shirt was barley yellow, his tie peacock blue. No desert boots; glossy brown oxfords I’d never seen before.

I said, “Nice spit shine.”

“These are older than Tanya. Can’t wear ’em anymore. Bunions.”

He rubbed the offending bulge.

I said, “Nevertheless…”

“Protect and serve and suffer. Once a Catholic…”

A voice said, “Hey, guys.”

Petra Connor strode toward us wearing a brown pantsuit one shade darker than the couch and carrying a big beige purse.

“Oh, boy,” she said, eyeing Milo. “The Mud City twins.”

“Except for Dr. Nonconformist,” said Milo.

She touched the sleeve of my gray flannel jacket. “Thanks for rescuing us from gag-me, Alex. Thanks also for the Blaise De Paine info but if he owns a house in the hills, we can’t find it, and there’s no auto reg under that name. I’m not sure if I want to put too much time into him, the key is Robert Fisk. Lester Jordan’s autopsy is scheduled in three days but the initial screen came through. Massive amounts of opiates plus three cocktails’ worth of alcohol, no big surprise there, we found a nearly empty gin bottle in Jordan’s fridge. And that’s the longest speech I’ve delivered in a long time.”

We shared an elevator with a stunned-looking Swedish family. Iona Bedard’s suite was at the south end of the sixth floor. A black-haired woman shoved the door open, said, “You’re on time,” turned her back on us, and marched to an easy chair. Propping her feet on an ottoman, she reclaimed a smoldering pink cigarette from an ashtray.

The living room was bright, wide, and cold, with a long gray view of Century City. Furnished with the same ecru-to-topsoil formula as the lobby. Petra muttered, “Now I’ll be invisible,” and shut the door.

We stood around as Iona Bedard puffed and gazed at a chalky sky. An end table was piled with fashion magazines and glossy monthlies that pushed high-priced toys. Atop the stack was a sleek platinum lighter. A tray near her feet held a pitcher of iced tea and an empty glass. Iona Bedard didn’t invite us to sit and we stayed on our feet.

Petra said, “Thanks for meeting with us, ma’am.”

Bedard sucked in smoke and let it trail out of her nose. Midfifties, tall and leggy, she had wide, dark, heavily lined eyes that matched her ebony bouffant. Her black-and-pink houndstooth jacket and gray jeans were tailored to a bony frame that shouted self-denial. Her skin boasted of nicotine and sun exposure. The exception was a flat, glossy brow. That and the odd paralytic tilt along the outer edges of her eyelids screamed Botox.