Obsession (20 page)

“Didn’t know it bothered him that way.”

“Guilt’s what Big Guy’s all about…okay, I have entered the General Billing System…looks like I need a code…oh, would you look at
this
. The codes are listed right out in the open by department, talk about inane…okay, I’m typing in the E.R. code and…here we go: Grant, Moses Byron, male, twenty-six years old, 7502 Los Ojos, Woodland Hills…oh, boy.”

“What?”

“Looks like he was one of ours. Came into the E.R. for hypoglycemia.”

“When?”

“Two and a half months ago.”

“Right before Patty got sick.”

“The hairs on my neck are standing up, Alex.”

“Did he come in alone?”

“That wouldn’t be in the billing records unless someone else guaranteed payment…let’s see…the account was settled in full, $869.23, no insurance co-pay or Medi-Cal. Either Grant’s check was good or he paid cash. Let me go find his chart. That could take a bit, would you prefer bad music or silence?”

“I could use some quiet.”

Moments later: “Mr. Grant arrived at our portals barely conscious at three fourteen a.m. on a Saturday night. I was off, the attending was Pete Berger. Let’s check the nursing notes…oh, boy, they’re Patty’s. One of her double shifts.”

“What did she write?”

“Basic intake material…okay, she does mention Grant being brought by ‘friends,’ no names…one of them had communicated to the triage nurse that Grant had taken an insulin shot shortly before feeling faint and nearly passing out. We got some sugar in him, monitored his vitals, found some funny stuff with the R waves of his EEG and recommended admission for further observation. Grant refused, checked himself out against medical advice, we never saw him again.”

“Would Pete Berger remember?”

“With thousands of patients since? No way. And the resident was rotating through from Olive View. Let me try to reach both of them for you anyway, stay right there.”

Ten minutes later: “Neither of them remember Grant, let alone his friends. I’m sure Patty would have total recall, her memory was astonishing.”

“Which could be the point,” I said. “She saw something while taking care of Grant that upset her. Soon after, she got sick, but it stuck in her mind.”

“I guess so, but what could have bothered her that much…I told you she looked worn out two weeks before diagnosis. I’ve been assuming that was the disease taking its toll. You’re saying it could’ve been emotional stress?”

“At this point it’s theory, but it does establish another link between Patty and Lester Jordan. She took care of him and an associate of the guy who killed him.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, “Milo told me your suspicions about Patty pilfering drugs. I went back and checked our Class Three inventories for the last year and nothing looks funny. I’ve always run a really tight ship in that regard, Alex. I don’t delude myself that anything’s perfect and a twelve-month check says nothing about pilferage years ago but I have to believe that if anything significant was going on, I’d have known it. Beyond that, I just can’t see Patty involved in anything like that.”

“I can’t either.”

“Yet Tanya has a trust fund,” he said. “That’s been eating at me.”

“Milo didn’t tell you the new theory about that?”

“No. I’ve been on for the last two days, haven’t seen him.”

I told him about Myron Bedard’s cash payments to Patty plus five years of free rent.

He said, “That makes me feel a little bit better. What I just said about running a tight ship? I might as well be up front. When I didn’t check the dope cabinet personally, I had Patty do it.”

“There’s no evidence she stole drugs, Rick.”

“I guess I just want to hear you say it. Anything else I can do for you?”

“No,” I said. “Thanks for helping with Grant.”

“Sure. Listen, maybe it’s best if Big Guy doesn’t know the extent of my involvement. He likes to shield me from the bad stuff.”

The meeting took place the following night. Nine p.m. my house; Petra showed up first, at ten to the hour, though she’d driven from San Diego. “Big-rig overturn near Irvine, psycho traffic all the way to Newport and my cell phone battery died. Thank God I left early and changed into car clothes.”

That meant a black cowl-necked top, charcoal velvet sweatpants, and white sneakers. After a bathroom break, she accepted the offer of a phone battery and coffee and began chatting with Robin. When I came back, they were talking handbags and Blanche was on Petra’s lap.

“This one,” she said, “is star material.”

Robin said, “I know ostrich leg sounds gory but I like it better than straight ostrich.”

Petra said, “Is that the one with a larger pattern instead of dots? A little like croc but softer around the edges?”

“Exactly.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s nice. Poor bird—but they say ostriches are mean, so if you want to rationalize, there’s an out.”

“Cows are nice,” said Robin, “but I’m not limiting myself to hemp.”

I left to pour my own cup.

Milo arrived with a corner of a pizza wedge in one hand and tomato sauce stains above his lip. The shoulders and back of his sport coat were coated with fine gray dust and random flecks of paper. His tweed slacks were seasons too heavy for the warm night.

Taking a half-gallon milk carton from the fridge, he ripped at the spout and guzzled.

Robin said, “Want a cookie?”

“Home-baked?”

“Mint Milanos.”

“Kind of you, kid, but my standards are high.”

Robin laughed and took Blanche to the bedroom.

Milo and Petra and I sat around the kitchen table.

She said, “So you found the bullets.”

Milo said, “After two days of digging around. Some genius in the evidence room wrote down a 5 instead of a 3 and then another genius modified that to an 8 and added the wrong year code. They also had it clear on the wrong side of the room, with boxes from ’sixty-two.”

“Maybe they were hoping you’d solve a few cold ones while you were there.” She leaned over and flicked dust from his jacket.

“I got Bob Deal in Ballistics to agree to run comparison tests tomorrow. Anything happen with the airlines?”

“If only,” she said. “Fisk’s name doesn’t show up on any outgoing flights since the day of Jordan’s murder and neither does Moses Grant’s. Plenty of prints in Fisk’s Mustang but so far the only ones that pull up an AFIS match are his. Stu got San Diego to agree to work it over, in the interests of time. They’ve gone over the interior and the trunk, haven’t found any body fluids. I’ve got a nice broad subpoena for all of Fisk’s phone records but I can’t find any evidence of a landline and if he uses a cell, it’s a rental.”

“Bad-guy habits,” said Milo. “Any papers in the car?”

“Old reg, some PowerBar wrappers. It’s neat but not freaky-clean, as if he did a recent wash. Back to our vic for a sec. Lester Jordan
had
only a landline, but it doesn’t look like he had much of a social life, maybe twenty calls a month. The only long-distances were to lona in Atherton and the last of those was seventy-four days ago.”

Milo said, “Close-knit family.”

“Regular Brady Bunch. The other numbers Jordan called were take-out restaurants and pay phones. The pay calls happened late at night, which fits with Jordan craving dope. Raul did a thorough recanvass of the building. Most of the tenants had no idea who Jordan was, it’s not a touchy-feely place where they greet each other in the hallways. And no one had heard Jordan was the manager, so if Iona’s palming him off as such for tax purposes, she’s scamming. But a few people said they’d noticed lowlifes going in and out of Jordan’s apartment in the wee hours. Still, the H left behind doesn’t indicate Jordan got dead because he was dealing. Or maybe Fisk really can’t stand drugs.”

Milo said, “Even so, there’d be a profit motive.”

“Maybe,” she said, “Fisk and whoever let him in got careless. They did leave the window open. In terms of Moses Grant, there’s absolutely no criminal record. Bassett Bowland saw Grant at Rattlesnake with Fisk and De Paine but he didn’t observe any conspiratorial behavior. Barring new information, I don’t think Grant merits much of my time.”

I said, “Here’s new information: A couple of weeks before she got sick, Patty Bigelow treated Grant at Cedars.”

“For what?”

“Low blood sugar. He’s diabetic.”

“He’s a sick guy, she’s a nurse, and Cedars is the main E.R. on the Westside. Thousands of people move through there, Alex.”

“Grant came in with friends.”

She pushed hair behind one ear, rubbed a temple with her thumb. “Another layer of complication. Okay, what else do we know about Grant?”

Milo said, “According to his landlord in Woodland Hills, he was a model tenant, no noise, no guests, even played his music with earphones. Then six months ago, he cut out on the rent with no notice. Landlord sued him in small claims and won, but she hasn’t collected because she can’t find him.”

I said, “Six months ago Robert Fisk skipped out on his rent.”

“The two of them moved in together?” she said. “Fine, I’ll keep Grant on the radar. Which so far has picked up nothing but noise.”

She pulled out a sheet of paper and slid it across the table. San Diego PD fax sheet, an enlargement of Grant’s driver’s license in the center. “Real
big
teddy bear.”

Milo peered at the photo. His neck muscles corded as he handed the paper to me.

Moses Grant had smiled for the DMV camera. Round dark face. Shaved head, barbered mustache, and goatee.

Six six, a wishful-thinking two fifty.

The giant who’d exited the Hummer at Mary Whitbread’s place.

Oh, here’s my son.

That’s her kid? I love this city.

Milo told Petra.

She said, “Grant’s mommy was Patty’s landlord? Everywhere this woman moves has some kind of hidden
meaning
?”

I said, “We assumed Grant was Mary Whitbread’s son because he was the only one who got out of the car. What if he was driving someone else who decided to stay out of sight? The Hummer’s windows were tinted black, no way to know who was riding.”

Milo said, “Lester Jordan was still alive then, but not for long. Mary Whitbread was the last person we spoke to about Patty. Soon after, Jordan’s dead.”

Petra took back the sheet. “Whitbread’s son is Robert Fisk? Grant hangs with Fisk, doing the club scene, drives for him. Fisk’s mommy tells him something about Patty that gets him worried so he takes care of business…meaning the second guy in the apartment could be Grant. Though why Jordan would let him in, I don’t know. Unless Grant really wasn’t a clean-living teddy bear.”

She laughed. “Know a judge who’d sign a warrant based on that? Not that I’ve got a place to search.”

I said, “There’s another candidate for Mary’s son. Blaise De Paine, the Music Sampler. Fisk and Grant were De Paine’s sidemen. I found pictures of him on the Web. He’s fair-haired like Whitbread. Dresses flamboyantly and parties with beautiful people, which makes him a good fit for flashy wheels.”

“Let’s have a look at this sweetheart,” said Petra.

We headed to my office. I downloaded the images.

Petra said, “Looks like a kid playing dress-up…kind of a retro Sergeant Pepper thing going. Not that I’m old enough to remember…Mary Whitbread, huh? ‘Pain’ is ‘bread’ in French.”

Silence.

Milo studied Blaise De Paine’s poses. “Guy doesn’t dress, he costumes…a poseur. Which is Gallic for ‘bullshit artist.’”

“Pretentious and a thief,” I said. “Wonder what else he’s hiding.”

Petra used her LAPD password to log onto NCIC.

The system bounced back two felons named Whitbread: Francis Arthur, male Caucasian, seventy-eight years old, paroled from a twenty-year bank-robbery sentence forty-nine months ago and living in Lawrence, Kansas. Jerry Lee, male American Indian, fifty-two, serving the second half of an eighteen-year armed-robbery stretch at North Dakota State Penitentiary.

An auto check pulled up Mary Whitbread’s license and that of Peterson Ewan Whitbread, issued four years ago, living at the same address on Fourth Street. Peterson’s DOB made him twenty-eight years old. Five seven, one thirty, blond and blue.

Four years ago, he’d worn his hair long and lank. Half-shut eyes shouted boredom. Minus mascara, the spike-do, and club duds, just another bland baby-face aiming at sullen.

Petra said, “Peterson Whitbread ain’t too hip-hop a moniker, I can see why he’d reinvent. Still bunking with Mommy at twenty-four wouldn’t be good for the image, either.”

I said, “One of Robin’s sources thinks he lives on one of the bird streets.”

“Business must be good. Which bird?”

“Don’t know.”

“Who’s the source?”

“No one reliable.” I filled them in.

Petra leaned in closer to the screen. “He’s got on mascara…looks like nail polish, too. The albino Michael Jackson.” Sitting back. “A little showy guy like this would definitely use hired help for muscle. But if he did contract Lester Jordan’s murder because of something related to Patty, the motive has to stretch back to when Patty was taking
care
of Jordan. That would make Bread-Head anywhere from ten to sixteen.”

Milo said, “Adolescence is just temporary psychopathy, right?”

“Sometimes permanent,” she said. “So what kind of link between a bad-boy teen and a solid-citizen nurse would be worth killing over?”

“The only thing I can see connecting a punk, a junkie, and a nurse is you-know-what.”

She said, “If Patty did get involved with a felonious punk and peddled dope, why would she rent an apartment, years later, from the punk’s mommy?”

I said, “Maybe the terrible thing happened after she moved to Fourth.”

“Then what was
Jordan’s
connection?”

“Just because she wasn’t Jordan’s neighbor doesn’t mean she broke off contact with him.”

“An enduring relationship? Okay, fine. But let’s not forget that Isaac found no homicides on or near Fourth during the time Patty lived there.”

“Isaac’s having second thoughts.” I switched to my mailbox and downloaded the e-mail from Bangkok.