Obsession (24 page)

The new chief was a new golf buddy of Stu’s ophthalmologist father but few people carped. The amoral misanthrope Stu replaced had been shot to death by a jealous wife in a parking garage; three cops had attended the funeral, all out of obligation. Combine that with Stu’s street experience, his rep for backing up his colleagues, and an ability to work the brass without wholesaling his soul, and the honeymoon seemed durable.

As Stu’s former junior partner, Petra was in good shape for a promotion into administration. So far, she was sticking with detective work.

He filled his mug with water, sipped, and leaned back in his chair. “Your timing couldn’t be better, in terms of leaning on Fortuno. He’s become a person of exceptional interest to the federal government and no one wants a trivial matter like murder to get in the way. We’re not talking public knowledge but I called San Luis Obispo where he’s officially incarcerated, found out he was picked up a month ago by FBI agents and a U.S. Attorney and transferred to the downtown detention center. When I called
there
, I got a bunch of silence then a referral to the Feebie office at the Federal Building. A special agent I know played coy but finally let on that Fortuno’s been spending the month in a hotel at taxpayer expense.”

Milo said, “Spilling big-time.”

“I can only imagine.”

Petra said, “Thought Fortuno was into all that code of silence stuff.”

Milo said, “A little cell time can adjust your attitude.”

“You bet,” said Stu. “Assistant warden at San Luis said he bumped up against some genuine bad guys.”

Petra said, “I thought San Luis was a country club.”

“They’ve got tennis courts and dorm rooms, but it’s still prison. The idiots who kidnapped the Chowchilla school bus are up there and so’s Charleton Jennings.”

Milo said, “Cop killers get to play tennis?”

“They do after they work their way through the system for thirty years.”

Cop silence, all around.

Petra said, “Did you get any idea about who Fortuno’s going to spill on?”

“I got off-the-record semi-hints,” said Stu. “If my religion allowed me to bet, my wager would be on master manipulators of the defense attorney and showbiz honcho species.”

Milo whistled. “Straight to the top of the food chain.”

Stu said, “It’s definitely going to get interesting. Fortuno’s babysitters aren’t pleased about sharing him with us but they can’t risk us derailing them by leaking to the press. The deal is you can see him tonight at seven, one hour, no extensions. I put all three of your names down, figuring you might want Dr. D to analyze the guy.”

I said, “A hotel means a couch, why not.”

Petra said, “Which hotel?”

“Don’t know yet. Someone will call me at six and I’ll call you.”

She waved her hands. “Ooh, high intrigue.”

Stu said, “Helps federal types forget that mostly what they do is push paper.” Passing the flat of his hand over his own clean desk, he grinned. “As opposed to.”

Petra said, “Anytime you miss the gore.”

“Be careful what you ask for.” Stu stood, shrugged into his suit jacket. Smooth drape. “Got a budget meeting downtown. Talk to you at six, Petra. Good to see
you
guys.”

He held the door for us. As I passed through, he said, “I know you can’t say anything, but thanks again for Chad.”

Loews Beverly Hills was the usual case of Westside false advertising, located on Pico and Beverwil, half a mile south of the glitzy city. We took separate cars, parked with the valet, met in the lobby.

The same earth tones we’d seen at the Hilton.

Petra’s artist eyes picked up on it right away. “Welcome to Beige World, check your imagination at the door.”

No one paid us any attention as we crossed to the elevators. No sign of any special security, and when we were disgorged on the eleventh floor, the corridor was clear.

Petra’s knock on the door of Suite 1112 was met by silence. Then, padded footsteps. A chain held the door less than an inch ajar. Barely wide enough to see the expanding pupil of a light brown eye.

“I.D.,” said a boyish voice.

Petra showed her badge.

“Everyone’s.”

Milo flashed his credentials. My snap-on badge produced a “What’s that?” but no comment on the expiration date.

“Dr. Delaware is our behavioral consultant,” said Petra.

“This isn’t a profile case,” said the voice.

Another voice, from behind, shouted, “Let ’em in, I’m
lonely
.”

The door slammed shut. Muffled voices rose in pitch, then silenced.

We stood in the hall.

Milo said, “Shoulda brought my Aston Martin with the ejection seat, shot myself right through the goddamn win—”

The door opened wide. A young sandy-haired man in a gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie said, “Special Agent Wesley Wanamaker.” His face matched the boyish voice. He took another look at our I.D.’s, finally stepped back.

Two-bedroom suite, with nary a hue brighter than ecru. Ambiguous art dotted easy-care walls. Blackout drapes killed an eastern view Avi Benezra would’ve appreciated. The air was saturated with pizza and sweat. A greasy Domino box sat on an end table.

A pale, white-haired man waved from a stiff beige couch in the center of the living room. Sixty or so, narrow shoulders, widow’s hump bristling the hairs on the back of his neck. He wore a black cashmere V-neck, cream slacks that looked new, black Gucci loafers without socks. In his hand was a glass of something orange. As we approached, he winked at Petra and the same voice that had urged our admission said, “Long time, guys. And gal.”

Petra said, “Real long time, Mr. Fortuno. As in ever.”

Mario Fortuno said, “When you’re in love, everyone’s your friend.”

“Well then, since we’re all buddies, I’m sure you’ll be happy to tell us what we need to know about Peterson Whitbread aka—”

S.A. Wesley Wanamaker stepped between her and Fortuno. “Before we go any further, we need to get the rules straight. Mr. Fortuno is a convicted felon in custody of the FBI. As such, his movements and conversations are to be monitored at all times by the FBI. No inquiries regarding pending federal investigations will be allowed. You will have one hour to speak with Mr. Fortuno about approved topics…” Unbuttoning his coat, he drew out a pocket watch. “…three minutes of which have passed. Acknowledged?”

“
Yessir
,” said Petra.

Behind Wanamaker’s back, Milo mouthed, “Asshole.”

When Wanamaker turned to face him, he said, “Ditto, Agent W.”

“Doctor,” said Wanamaker, “I need explicit acknowledgment from you, as well, seeing as you’re serving in the service of local law enforcement.”

“I acknowledge.”

Mario Fortuno said, “Do you believe this guy? Like I’m important.”

Wanamaker’s hand drew back his coat and revealed his shoulder weapon. Another eye flick at his watch: “Four minutes gone.”

Petra said, “May we start?”

Wanamaker stepped away. Fortuno picked his nose.

No chairs in sight, so we stood in front of him. His jaunty smile was dimmed by green-tinged jailhouse pallor. His white hair was thin, greased back, curling behind his ears. Puny, pocked chin, a bulb nose embroidered with gin blossoms. Squinty, hyperactive eyes the color of cigar ash were dragged down by pouches of skin. He fooled with his nose again, ground his index finger against his thumb.

Another lazy smile, off kilter and saurine. The offspring of a human-iguana mating.

Petra said, “Mr. Fortuno, we’re here about Peterson Whitbread aka Blaise De Paine. Please tell us everything you know about him.”

“Who says I’m cognizant of anything?” said Fortuno. Flat, mid-western inflection. Hint of emphasis on “cognizant.” As if he’d just memorized the word.

“You recommended him for tenancy at a house on Oriole Drive.”

“When was this?”

“Shortly before you went to jail.”

“Boy, my mind must be slipping.” Fortuno pointed at the pizza box. “Maybe too many carbs.”

Petra turned to Wanamaker.

He said, “Nonfederal matters don’t fall under compliance regulations.”

“Meaning,” Milo said, “he can jerk us around while you time us.”

Fortuno said, “God forbid.”

Petra said, “If you’re going to be uncooperative, Mario, let us know right now and we’re out of here.”

Fortuno tensed. Forced a smile. “A feminist.”

Petra turned heel. We followed.

When she reached the door, Fortuno said, “Ease up. There’s no free lunch.”

Milo said, “Spoken by someone getting federal babysitting at a four-star hotel.”

Wesley Wanamaker frowned.

Fortuno said, “Don’t fret, Ms. Pro-Choice. I don’t want a meal, just an
amuse-bouche—
that’s ‘hors d’oeuvre’ in French. And I’m not talking The Ivy or Le Dome or Hans Rockenwagner’s place, I love that place.”

Wanamaker said, “Food again? We’ve been through this. Our per diem budget is preset and no one but the FBI is authorized to—”

“I’m not talking cuisine, Mr.
Literal
.” To us: “These guys have no clue about metaphors and similes.”

“An English major,” said Milo.

“Journalism,” said Fortuno. “City College of Chicago, did a year until all the perfidy and falsehood got to me.”

Petra touched the doorknob.

Fortuno said, “I’m crushed. You just got here.”

She turned the knob and had a foot out in the hall when Fortuno said, “Let me talk to the shrink.”

S.A. Wanamaker said, “The door must remain closed at all times.”

Petra said, “No solo interviews, Mario.”

“Oh boy,
another
literal one,” said Fortuno. “What is it, all the TV and video games and microwaves in the brain, no one reads the classics anymore?” He waved. “Come back, honey, don’t let me rile you, I’m really a sociable person.”

“Plastique and machine guns in your office is sociable?”

S.A. Wanamaker said, “That topic is off limits, Officer.”

Fortuno’s arrest had been in the papers for weeks.

“Close the door, Officer.”

Petra complied, shot Fortuno a long, dark look.

Fortuno said, “You’ve got gorgeous melting eyes. No offense, I’m avuncular not lecherous. What I’m trying to get across here is I can possibly offer you some satisfaction vis-à-vis your subject. But the shrink’s the one who can make
me
happy.”

Wanamaker said, “Nine minutes down.”

Petra ignored him and moved closer to Fortuno. “You can
possibly
help us?”

“Let’s upgrade to probably.”

“What do you want from Dr. Delaware?”

“Come closer, dear,” said Fortuno. “Conversing so far away makes my throat hurt. All the artificial coolants in the AC system, dries up the sinuses, they won’t let me open the window. Or the curtains, I’m living like a gopher.”

Wanamaker said, “It’s dark, anyway. Stop complaining.”

Petra said, “How do I know you can help us?”

Fortuno said, “How’s this: The individual under question is a no-talent punk kid who purloins other people’s songs and cobbles them together in what the popular parlance terms ‘mixes.’”

The three of us returned to our former positions facing the couch.

Fortuno said, “Dr. Alexander Delaware, you’ve got street cred for helping kids. Anxieties, phobias—I like that paper you published on sleep problems. Could’ve used that with a few of mine, I have eight. From five wives, but that’s another story.
Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease
—July, five years ago. Is my memory serving me well?”

My name had been given to the feds a few hours ago. Fortuno had managed to research me.

I said, “What can I do for you?”

“One of my progeny, the youngest, Philip, he’s six. Quiet, a very quiet boy, know what I mean?”

“Shy?”

“That, too. Extremely
quiet
. Sits and draws, doesn’t go outside to play, doesn’t like sports. His mother’s young, not too experienced in the parent department. With Philip, she’s a pushover, spoils him completely. He used to go to private school but now he’s in public school, due to the fact that I’m temporarily inconvenienced financially. Am I making myself lucid?”

“Philip’s having problems in his new school.”

“The other kids,” said Fortuno, “do not appear to appreciate him. In public school, you’ve got some tough little rats. A tough kid—a resilient kid—could cope. Philip, being
quiet
, does not cope so well. If I was there, perhaps I could aid him, but I am not and that makes me feel regretful. His mother tells me Philip comes home crying. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep well.” Throat clear. “He has also started to have…accidents. Number one
and
number two. Which does not help his popularity with his peer group. I, being out of the picture, feel partially culpable for all this. Then I find out you will be visiting and lo and behold I experience epiphanization: Saint Agnes has sent me someone who can help the problem.”

“I’ll be happy to see Philip.”

“As I said, my financial resources are limited. However, I do see that changing some time in the future and when that time comes you’ll be recompensed ably.”

“I understand.”

Fortuno clapped his hands, as if summoning a servant. “Excellent. When will you see Philip?”

“Have his mom call me.”

“She will do that. They live in Santa Barbara.”

“That’s ninety miles away. Maybe the best thing would be for me to find you a referral there.”

Fortuno’s mouth tightened and his eyes were black lines. “Maybe not.”

“It’s a long drive for a young chi—”

“
You
drive to
Philip
,” he said. “When I am in a position to do so, I will compensate you for your fuel and your time—portal-to-portal, like what lawyers get. Like what
I
used to get. I’m not talking long-term Freudian or Jungian psychoanalysis. One visit, maybe two, three four—a consultation. In one of those articles you wrote, you said a lot of child therapy can be done short-term.
Journal of Clinical and Consulting
—”

“I can’t guarantee that in every case, Mr. Fortuno.”

“I’m not asking for a guarantee, Dr. Delaware. Two sessions, maybe three, four. After that, if you feel Philip’s needs are best served by a local expert, I will accept that. But
you
start the ball rolling, Dr. Delaware. Meet my son face-to-face and give me feedback. He’s a very
quiet
boy.”