Obsession (35 page)

“Or one killing took everything out of her,” said Petra.

Milo said, “Watching a guy fade out could dampen your enthusiasm.”

I said, “And prey on your mind forever. Shortly after Bandini’s death, she moved to Culver Boulevard, a big comedown. Right after, Tanya came to me for the second time. She talked about Patty being nervous, cleaning compulsively in the middle of the night.”

“Anxiety,” said Petra.

“Part of the move could’ve been moving away from Pete’s sphere of operations but maybe there was an element of self-punishment, as well. Eventually, she made some kind of peace with it. Then a decade later, Pete reincarnated as Blaise De Paine shows up in her E.R., recognizes her, tells her something that frightens her. I’ve been assuming verbal menacing of Tanya but what if De Paine threatened to expose her for Bandini’s murder?”

“‘I know what you did that summer’?” said Petra. “But De Paine and Patty were the only two people aware of what happened and self-preservation shut both their mouths. So why would De Paine shake that up?”

“He’s gotten away with crimes his entire life, is impulsive and egotistical enough to think he’s invulnerable. Coming face-to-face with Patty triggered his mouth, he couldn’t resist harassing her. It brought back all those memories she’d fought hard to bury. And terrified her. If De Paine chose to incriminate her, her life would fall apart. Everything she’d worked for would be history. Or even worse, it’s possible De Paine decided to take revenge by coming after her and Tanya. Maybe she tried to ward him off with a counterthreat. ‘I know what
you
did that summer—the missing girls’—and he laughed it off. She realized he was a total sociopath, couldn’t be counted on to be careful.”

“Risky move bringing up the girls,” said Milo. “Be easier just to shoot him.”

“But when De Paine showed up in the E.R., he wasn’t alone. Patty may have eliminated a hungry speed freak but stalking and murdering three apparent bad guys was way out of her league. Maybe she even contemplated ways to do it. But then she got sick. As a nurse, she knew she had very little time left, had to prioritize getting Tanya’s future in order. Once she did that—when her strength had waned to almost nothing—she tried to warn Tanya. Refused her pain meds so she could cling to consciousness. She managed to direct Tanya to me, but I was a stop along the way. It was you she wanted involved.”

“Aw, shucks,” said Milo, grimacing. “Getting terminally ill right after being reminded of your big sin, a religious person could see that as divine retribution. What was Patty’s take on faith?”

“We never discussed it,” I said. “But whatever views she started off with, knowing death is imminent changes everything. She had so much to do in so little time, struggled to sort out what to tell Tanya. Whatever her cognitive state, her worries stayed with her because she was obsessive. Pinpricks in a fading brain.”

He winced at the image.

Petra said, “As she’s trying to figure it out, Tanya brings her those magazines, she leafs through, spots De Paine hobnobbing.
That
could’ve been seen as Cosmic Fate. She decides to tell Tanya about the terrible thing with an eye to warning her, but is too sick to get it all out?”

“That and she didn’t want Tanya handling it alone.”

“She sows, we reap.”

Milo said, “Let’s talk about Brandy and Roxy. Two girls vanish from a nice neighborhood without being missed?”

Petra said, “I put a call in to Stark’s father, haven’t heard back. Stark Junior does seem to be right about no MP report being filed. So what do we do now, put an ad out about two strippers who haven’t been seen for a decade? Girls in that business can lead transient lives. Maybe they did move out in the middle of the night—escaping debt. Left the Vette behind for the same reason. For all we know, the car was days from the repo man.”

“Maybe they weren’t strippers,” I said. “Became Mary Whitbread’s tenants through a work connection.”

“Porn actresses.”

“It would explain the irregular hours.”

“Daytime shoots,” said Milo, “and nighttime’s the right time for some extra-cash escorting. Being a Hollywood person, you know anyone in the biz, kiddo?”

Petra said, “Hey, that’s Valley stuff.”

“If the two of them made films ten years ago,” I said, “they might be listed on some video Web site.”

“Ah,” said Milo. “The rigors of research.”

Petra said, “I don’t think I should do that on the department computer. Things are so jumpy around here since Fortuno went into protective that even a righteous porn search is going to look sleazy.”

I said, “Speaking of which, Fortuno might remember the girls.”

Petra pulled out S.A. Wanamaker’s card, punched the number. Hung up. “Disconnected. If I have time, I’ll try his superiors and if that doesn’t work, I’ll talk to Stu. But my gut says the Feebies have cooperated as much as they’re going to. You guys mind surfing a few dirty sites?”

“I’d do it,” said Milo, “but my delicate constitution and all that. Also, there’s actual detecto-stuff I’d like to try, like harassing various Vice personnel around town to find out if Brandy and Roxy ever got busted on their turf.”

They both looked at me.

“Sure,” I said.

“Hey,” said Milo, “if you enjoy it, all the better.”

At seven thirty, I took Robin out to a quiet dinner at the Pacific Dining Car in Santa Monica. By nine, we were back.

She said, “Want to play Scrabble or something?”

I said, “Sorry, got to look at filthy pictures.”

Vivacious Videos’ Web site had logged five million viewers during the last three months. Videos and DVDs on sale, special offers if I acted
NOW
!

User-friendly site, just plug in the names and catch an eyeful.

Brandee Vixen
and
Rocksi Roll
had co-starred in eleven movies, all girl-on-girl, filmed during a one-year period.

Ten years ago.

The films were classified as “old-school classics.” The director and producer were proud enough to list their names.

Darrel Dollar and Benjamin Baranelli, respectively. Maybe Baranelli wasn’t a pseudonym.

His name pulled up twelve hits and three images. Little knob-nosed, white-haired man in his seventies, presenting the award for best oral scene at the Adult Film Convention in Las Vegas to a six-foot blonde in pigtails.

She was topless. Baranelli wore an amethyst velvet dinner jacket, tomato-red turtleneck, chest medallion the size of a dessert plate, and grotesquely wide denture smile.

I switched to various yellow-page sites. No business listing under Baranelli’s name. I tried 818 information on a lark, was stunned to get a residential hit.

Baranelli, Benjamin A., Tarzana, no address.

A wheezy, dry old man’s voice answered, “Yeah?”

I rattled off a fast, ambiguous introduction, threw in Brandee and Rocksi’s names.

Baranelli said, “Finally you idiots do something.”

“Which—”

“You cops. They were gorgeous girls, what, they just walked off the face of the earth? I called, over and over, got nowhere. Because of jobism.”

“Jobism?”

“Discrimination cause by what they did for a living. This was some so-called straight actress who sucked cock and did weekly bukkake to get her sitcom job and then pretended she was born without a pussy, the SWAT team woulda come out in force. You guys are fucking puritan hypocrites.”

“What can you tell me about—”

“I can tell you those girls had a bright career. No way—no
fuck
ing way—would they just boogie off and not tell me. We did a film a month, each one doubled the gross of the last, they were making good money. Because of the E-factor. Know what that is?”

“No—”

“
Enthusiasm
. Every girl who walks in has the hair, the tits, the tongue. Some of them even fake you out at the audition. Then you put ’em in a scene and they generate as much enthusiasm as Hillary doing it with Bill. What I’m telling you is
those
two didn’t have to fake it. They were
into
each other. They were in
love
.”

“Do you know their real names?”

“
Now
you’re asking?”

“Better late than never.”

“Not when it comes to a money-shot, heh, heh…their real names? Brandee—with the two
ee
’s, that was my idea, to set her apart from the
y
’s and the
i
’s—Brandee was Brenda something. Rocksi was Renée something…don’t recall the last names. They were from Iowa. Or Idaho, something like that. One of those religious nut things.”

“A cult?”

“They told me they had to pray all day and dress up like Amishes or nuns. Which gave me the idea for the fourth picture we made—
Nasty Habits
.”

“Do you remember the name of the cult?”

“I don’t remember what I never knew. Why would I give a shit?”

“How old were they?”

“Legal. Don’t try to—”

“I’m just trying to get as many details as I can. What else did they tell you about their backgrounds?”

“That’s it,” said Baranelli. “That’s what happen when you exploit kids.”

“What do you mean?”

“Religious nuts, always pressuring. So what do the kids do? They rebel, right? Those two got off the bus from Iowa, a few weeks later they had fake tits and tongue-pierces and were ready to go.”

“Who paid for the surgery?”

“Listen to me carefully: They were of age and it’s no crime helping someone improve their self-esteem. That’s all I’m going to say. Good night, I’m turning off the phone, don’t bother me again.”

Next day: division of labor.

Raul Biro continued to watch Mary Whitbread’s duplex. She shopped in the morning, lunched alone at Il Pastaio in Beverly Hills, seemed to know the waiters quite well. Arriving home at three, she stayed in. No sign of her son or Robert Fisk.

Petra’s fourth application for a subpoena of Mary’s phone records went through and she began the paperwork. Several tips had come in on the alerts for Blaise De Paine and Robert Fisk but each dead-ended. By seven p.m., she was ready for a sit-down with Captain Stu Bishop.

Milo drove to Tarzana and did a face-to-face with Benjamin Baranelli. The retired pornographer was a cranky eighty-year-old with poor hygiene who walked with two canes and refused to cooperate. Milo did a lot of listening and eventually Baranelli turned over a box of photo stills of Brandee Vixen and Rocksi Roll. By six, Milo was at his recalcitrant computer at the West L.A. station logging onto missing person databases and researching religious cults in Iowa and Idaho.

Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau’s search for Moses Grant’s kin bore fruit when a trace on Grant’s disability checks led to a Long Beach address. There the Central detectives found a great-aunt of Grant’s who’d been saving her nephew’s money. She collapsed when told of his demise.

I walked Blanche and fed the fish and bothered Robin at her shop a couple of times and thought about Patty Bigelow watching a man die. I phoned Tanya at noon, then at five. She assured me everything was fine and asked if I’d learned anything new.

I said no. The lie slid out of my mouth as easy as breath.

Petra called a nighttime sit-down at ten p.m. My attendance was optional. I exercised the option and drove to Hollywood.

Same conference room. Saunders and Bouleau wore gray suits, white shirts, and crisp ties undaunted by double shifts. Petra had on a black pantsuit and looked preoccupied. Milo wore a mud-colored mock turtle over navy poly slacks and desert boots. Fire in his green eyes but it was hard to figure out what that meant.

I was the last to arrive and this time, they’d started without me.

Petra said, “Welcome to show-and-tell. Dave and Kevin were just showing us what master sleuths they are.”

Bouleau said, “Just back from Grant’s great-aunt.” Pronouncing it “awnt.” “Maybelle Lemoyne. She didn’t take the news well, we actually called the paramedics but she’s okay.”

“Salt of the earth,” said Saunders. “Widow, raised seven kids of her own, churchgoing, the whole deal. Moses was her oldest sister’s son, both she and Moses’ father died a few years ago. The family has roots in Louisiana—Baton Rouge and Nawlins. Moses played football in high school, was thinking about Tulane, then the diabetes killed that.”

“Hence,” said Bouleau, “the disability checks.”

“The family house went down in Katrina,” said Saunders. “Moses’ brother and sister went to live in Texas but he came out here to make it as a deejay. He was living with his aunt part-time, got some party gigs with that broker, rented a dump single in the Valley, and drove back and forth in an old Toyota. Car’s still at the aunt’s, dead battery, hasn’t been started for months.”

Bouleau said, “Not since Moses quit the broker and started hanging with some people he told Aunt Maybelle were ‘big-time.’ He gave her check-cashing authority on the disability money, told her to keep it, he was going to make it big in the music biz. She cashed the checks, started a bank account in his name.”

“Salt of the earth,” Saunders repeated. “She says Moses was always a nice boy, went to church, obeyed his mama when she was alive. His appearance would scare people, then they’d talk to him, see he was soft.”

I recalled Grant exiting the Hummer, standing near Mary Whitbread as she waved to us. Hesitating, then lifting his own huge hand.

Bouleau said, “Maybelle’s never seen or heard of Blaise De Paine but she did I.D. Robert Fisk. He came by with Moses a couple of months ago, stayed in the car when Moses went in and got some clothes. Auntie thought that was unfriendly, especially after she waved to come in. Fisk just sat there, pretended not to notice. Auntie asked Moses why he was associating with impolite people. Moses said Robert—he used the name—was okay, just a little quiet. In terms of motive, Auntie says Moses was a law-abider who definitely would’ve freaked out after witnessing or getting involved in a murder.”

Saunders said, “Everyone thinks their kin is angelic. I’ve heard Crips’ mommies insisting no way Latif could’ve shot those five people, meanwhile we’ve got Latif at the scene with the Uzi in his hand. But this lady I believe. We got some phone numbers in New Orleans from her—Moses’ pastor, an ex-girlfriend, a teacher. Everyone says the guy looked like trouble but was a lamb chop.”