Obsession (19 page)

“That can happen with addicts, if they live long enough,” said Petra. “Where did Lester’s financial support come from?”

Iona Bedard poked her chest. Waved dismissively. “Go on, you people, I’ve done your work for you. All you have to do is find the bastard.”

We didn’t move.

“Please,” said Bedard, making it sound like an order.

Petra said, “Does the name Robert Fisk mean anything to you?”

“There was a Bobby Fisk in my class at Atherton Prep. Flight surgeon in the navy.”

“What about Rosie?”

“The Riveter?”

“Blaise De Paine?”

Iona Bedard patted her coiffure. Laughed.

Petra said, “Something funny, ma’am?”

“
That
, young lady, is
not
a real name. Now go on, do your
job
.”

On the ride down, we had the elevator to ourselves. Petra fanned herself and laughed. “
That
must’ve been one lousy prenup.”

Milo said, “If voodoo worked, ol’ Myron would be frying in oil.”

“She gives us no evidence he has anything to do with Lester, but on her say-so we’re supposed to track him down in Europe.”

“Hatred’s a great motivator.”

“I’m sure he adores her, too. After fifteen minutes,
I’m
ready to strangle her. But so what? For ten years Jordan’s been out of his life.”

I said, “As opposed to all those disreputable ‘minority’ types who shared Jordan’s lifestyle but were nothing like him.”

“Talk about denial,” said Petra. “One thing she’s probably right about. ‘De Paine’ is a moniker.”

We crossed the lobby in silence. Milo and I had parked in the hotel lot but Petra had left her Acura on Walden Drive across Wilshire, and we walked her over.

She unlocked the car and tossed her purse onto the passenger seat. “Any parting thoughts, guys?”

“It was me, I’d keep it basic,” said Milo.

“Concentrate on Fisk, anything else is a distraction. In terms of your Ms. Bigelow, I’m not seeing any stunning link. Even if she did channel hospital dope Jordan’s way, that’s also ancient history.”

“Seems to be,” said Milo.

“You have doubts?”

“The only sticking point is one day we’re talking to Jordan about Patty and soon after he gets dead.”

“The only possible connection would be he tipped someone off about some secret so big and bad he had to be silenced. Like what?”

Neither of us had an answer.

“Either way,” she said, “the key is finding Fisk.”

Milo said, “Dancing hit man. There’s a network show for you.”

I said, “Jordan was an ex–horn player. It keeps coming back to music.”

Petra said, “Jordan hadn’t played for years. The only music connection I can see is dope.”

“Or an
anti-
dope thing. As in Jordan pushing product on the wrong person.”

“Who’s the wrong person?”

“How about a music-biz honcho’s kid.”

“Daddy puts the hit on Lester for supplying his prodge? Great, I’d love to haul in more suspects, maybe Fisk will fink once we have him in custody. I got DMV on his wheels, from the lapsed files. ’Ninety-nine Mustang, red at the time, registration fees six months overdue. I also put in a rush subpoena on his phone records, let’s see what comes up. If I’m lucky maybe I can haul him in before Cruella phones the brass and trash-talks about us middle-class peons not following her
cultivated
instructions.”

Milo said, “Gonna cover your butt and look for her ex?”

She swung her purse. “I’ll sic Raul on it, give him some training in long-distance sleuthing.”

“Smart guy?” said Milo.

“Smart but real new. Quiet, though. I like that. See you, guys.”

We returned to the Hilton parking lot.

I said, “One thing meeting Iona was good for. Now we understand Patty’s housing choices.”

Milo said, “A thousand a month in cash for three years makes thirty-six K she didn’t have to declare. Then ol’ Myron moves her to Hudson and she’s raised to two grand. How long did she stay there?”

“Around two years.”

“Another forty-eight, for a grand total of eighty-four thou. Toss in her salary at the hospital, plus five years of free rent, and it’s a nice six-figure haul. Talk about a sweet deal, Alex. The downside was no job security. The old man dies, sayonara.”

“She moved to Fourth Street,” I said. “Nicest place yet, but she stayed less than a year. Maybe paying full rent was jarring. Or she was determined to save her cash now that she had some. Eighty-four thousand even at a conservative rate of interest could double in ten years. If she participated in the stock-market boom, she could’ve done significantly better. Downshifting to Culver Boulevard meant living in a dump but it got her to homeownership. Without the windfall from Myron Bedard, she might never have pulled it off. Her portfolio’s what started me wondering about dope, but maybe it’ll boil down to savvy investing.”

“Helped along by a little tax evasion.”

“That, too.”

Isaac Gomez’s e-mail read:

Hi, Dr. D. We’re in Bangkok and I’m writing this from an Internet café but the connection’s tenuous and we’re moving on so don’t bother responding. I woke up thinking about that crime trace and realized I’d made a methodological error by limiting myself to cases classified as homicides, as opposed to manslaughter, aggravated assault, or anything else that could’ve developed into murder but wasn’t reclassified. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about it right now but when I get back in a few weeks, I’ll dig around the data a bit more and see what I can come up with. Hopefully, I haven’t missed anything crucial. Heather says hi. Best, IG

I thought about that, decided Isaac was parsing too meticulously. Patty had said she’d killed a man. Everyone was dancing around that, but I couldn’t forget it.

I was sitting on the couch, contemplating a warming shot of Chivas, when Blanche waddled into the office and nuzzled my shin. When I stood, she danced around a bit, then raced out the door.

I followed her down the hall, across the kitchen, to the back door. She sped with surprising agility down the stairs to the pond. Zeroed in on the locked bin that held the koi chow and began butting it with her flat nose.

“You’re into seafood now?” I scooped out a few pellets and offered them to her. She turned her head in disdain.

Head-butted the bin some more. Stared up at me.

When I tossed food to the fish, she swiveled and watched. Panted.

Gave a hoarse bark until I threw more pellets.

“Altruism?” I said.

I know the experts will label it anthropomorphism but she smiled with pure joy, I’ll swear to it.

Robin found the two of us by the water. Blanche jumped off my lap and greeted her. The fish swarmed, as they do when footsteps sound on the stone pathway.

“They’re starving,” she said. “I’ll go feed them.”

I said, “They’ve already dined. Extensively, because Blanche has appointed herself Official Caterer.”

“I know,” she said. “She did it yesterday, too. Any progress finding Fisk?”

“Not yet.”

“I networked some more on Blaise De Paine. The only thing I can add is that maybe possibly
could
be his house in the hills is on one of the bird streets. But don’t put much faith in it, hon. The person who told me wasn’t sure where he’d heard it or even if it was De Paine and not some other crook and he had no idea which bird. No one’s heard of Fisk or Rosie, though there is a black guy named Mosey, does some deejay work.”

“Last name?”

She shook her head. “He’s probably not who you want. The person who met him said he was a nice guy.”

“Where’d he meet him?”

“She. Some party, she was one of the dancers, hired by an agency in the Valley, she couldn’t recall the name.”

“Memory problems?”

“Maybe a bit blurred by recreational substances.”

“The bird streets,” I said. “Fog upon L.A., friends losing their way.”

“Poor George. Remember when I met him?”

“Ten years ago, fixing the Rickenbacher.”

“Sweet man,” she said. “So gifted, so modest.”

She sat down, rested her head on my shoulder. Blanche watched us kiss. Trotted back to the stairs and observed us with serenity.

An almost parental joy.

Robin said, “Let’s go inside. Spread our wings.”

By four p.m., Robin was sketching and I was at the computer running a search on
mosey deejay
.

One hit, no images.

Moses “Big Mosey” Grant was cited in a long list of people thanked for contributing to the success of a hospital fund-raiser.

Western Pediatric, where I’d trained and worked.

The party had been thrown a year ago by the Division of Endocrinology, the cause was juvenile diabetes, and the person offering thanks was the head, Dr. Elise Glass. Elise and I had worked together on several cases. I had her private number on file.

She said, “Hi, Alex. Are you back to seeing patients or is it still that police stuff?”

“As a matter of fact.” I asked her about Moses Grant.

“Who?”

“The deejay at your benefit last year.”

“Mosey? Please don’t tell me
he’s
in trouble.”

“You know him personally?”

“No, but I remember him. Huge but gentle and really good with the kids. Am I going to be disillusioned?”

“He’s not in trouble, but he’s been seen with someone who is. I’m sure it’ll turn out to be nothing.”

“I hope so. First he cut his fees, then he insisted on working for free, stayed extra hours. He understood what we’re about.”

“Diabetic relative?”

“Diabetic himself. Unfortunately, he doesn’t seem to be controlling it well. Toward the end of the evening, he was fading fast and I had to get him some juice.”

“How’d you come to hire him?”

“The Development Office hired him. He really seemed like a teddy bear, Alex.”

“I’m sure he is. Do you have a number for him?”

“That would be over in Development, too. Hold on, I’ll have Janice connect you.”

I waited as a recorded voice lectured me about nutrition and exercise.

“Development, this is Sue.”

“This is Dr. Delaware. I’m planning an event and heard you use an excellent deejay named Moses Grant. Do you know how I can reach him?”

“Hmm, let me check that.”

A new recorded message filled me in on the virtues of charitable giving. “We got him through a broker—The Party Line. Here’s the number.”

Valley exchange. Before I tried it, I plugged
Moses Grant
into the search engines and brought up a genealogy site and a lone reference to a miner who’d died in West Virginia a hundred and five years ago.

At The Party Line’s number, a hoarse male voice answered, “Agency, Eli Romaine.”

“I’m looking for a deejay you handle. Moses Grant.”

“Don’t handle him anymore,” said Romaine. “I’ve got better people. What kind of party are you doing?”

“Sweet sixteen,” I said. “I was told Grant’s one of the best.”

“It’s not rocket science, he knows how to push buttons. What kind of sweet sixteen are we talking about? Kids acting their age or pretending to be twenty-one? I’m asking ’cause the music’s different, depending.”

“These are just normal kids.”

Romaine’s laugh was a nicotine bark. “Okay, I’ve got guys who can go either way. Girls, too, but sweet sixteens always want guys. Preferably hot guys. I got a couple who could be on soap operas and also know how to push buttons. I also got dancers, I recommend some blond girls, to get the action going. It’s not that much more.”

“Grant wasn’t that good?” I said.

“Do you want someone who’s going to show up or not?”

“He flaked out.”

“Six months ago, so what kind of setup do you want?”

“Let me think about it.”

“Oh, Jesus,” he said. “This isn’t about sweet sixteen. What, he owes you money? Don’t waste my time.”

Click.

I reached Petra’s cell and gave her Moses Grant’s name.

She said, “Thanks. I’m on my way to San Diego. Robert Fisk’s Mustang showed up not far from the long-term parking lot at Lindbergh Field. I may have to go through the airlines one by one. This is handy, I can also search for Grant’s name on the manifests.”

“Good luck.”

“If Fisk flew bye-bye, I’ll need it. Bye.”

I put that aside and thought about Grant dropping out of sight half a year ago. Same time Robert Fisk had left his apartment and turned invisible.

Had Grant stopped taking party jobs from Romaine because he’d found a better gig? Altruistic teddy bear or not, doing the club scene with Blaise De Paine or some other music-biz remora could be more enticing than spinning Raffi and Dan Crow for sick kids. Or dealing with sixteen-year-olds yearning for twenty-one.

Or maybe Grant’s disappearance hadn’t been voluntary. A diabetic who failed to monitor his blood sugar could face all sorts of complications.

I decided to start with hospitals and if that didn’t pan out, move on to emergency rooms and long-term-care units. The information I was after was confidential and I’d have to lie my way through layers of medical bureaucracy. Blitheness and my title might help.

Grant’s 818 number said the logical place to start was the Valley. Then I remembered a hospital where I could be truthful.

Rick said, “I’m walking to my computer as we speak. There’s an overall billing file for inpatients. Outpatients I’m not sure about, they may be classed by department. So you think this Grant person might have something to do with Patty and that guy Jordan?”

“Grant was seen in the company of Jordan’s murderer.”

“The kickboxer who left the fingerprints.”

“Milo’s filled you in.”

“I’ve been bugging him to keep me posted. I don’t know if you’ve sensed it, Alex, but he’s done a total turnaround on Patty. At first it was all I could do to get him to take Tanya’s concerns seriously. Jordan’s murder changed his mind, he’s convinced it’s tied to Patty. He’s also convinced it’s his fault because it happened right after he talked to Jordan.”