Obsession (23 page)

Petra drove up in her Accord.

The two of them studied the street grid, decided to park at the bottom of Oriole and walk. Petra’s car would be the transport vehicle because it was unobtrusive.

“Not cool enough to be a local,” she said, tapping the hood, “but maybe they’ll think I’m a personal assistant.”

She drove north on Doheny Drive, used her stick shift to keep it smooth.

Milo said, “Nice gear-work, Detective Connor.”

“Had to drive better than my brothers.”

“For self-esteem?”

“Survival.”

Every second property seemed to be under construction or renovation, and the side effects abounded: dust, din, workers darting across the road, gouges in the asphalt inflicted by heavy machinery.

As we climbed, the houses got smaller and plainer, some of the punier ones obviously subdivides of old estates. Oriole Drive began with the thirteen hundred block. We parked at the base and began a steep upward hike.

Petra’s long, lean legs were made for climbing and my self-punishing runs made the grade no big challenge. But Milo was panting and trying hard to hide it.

Petra kept an eye on him. He forged ahead of us. Wheezed, “You…know…CPR?”

She said, “Took a refresher last year but don’t you dare, Lieutenant.”

Glancing at me. I threw up my hands.

The scrape-scrape of his desert boots became our marching cadence.

A
No Outlet
sign appeared at the advent of the fourteen hundred block.

Fourteen sixty-two meant the top of the hill or close to it.

Milo gasped, “Oh, great.” Rubbed his lower back and trudged.

We passed a huge white contemporary house, then several plain-faced fifties boxes. What the Orwellian dialect known as Realtor-Speak would euphemize as “midcentury charmers.”

The part about “drop-dead views” would be righteous.

Milo pressed forward. Mopping his face with a handkerchief, he sucked in air and pointed.

Empty space where 1462 should’ve been.

What remained was a flat patch of brown dirt not much bigger than a trailer pad and surrounded by chain link. The gate was open. A construction permit packet hung on the fence.

A man stood at the far end of the lot, a few feet from the precipice, staring out at smoggy panorama.

Milo and Petra checked nearby vehicles. The closest was a gold BMW 740, parked at the crown of the cul-de-sac.

“Car’s not much bigger than the property,” he said. “L.A. affluence.”

Petra said, “That’s why I don’t paint landscapes.”

Unmindful of us, the man lit a cigarette, gazed, and smoked.

Milo coughed.

The man turned.

Petra waved.

The man didn’t return the gesture.

We walked onto the lot.

He lowered his cigarette and watched us.

Early forties, five eight or nine, with heavy shoulders, bulky arms and thighs, and a hard, round belly. A square, swarthy face was bottomed by an oversized chin. He wore a pale blue dress shirt with French cuffs, chunky gold cufflinks shaped like jet planes, sharply creased navy slacks, black croc loafers grayed by dust. The top button of the shirt was undone. Gray chest hair bristled and a gold chain nestled in the pelt. A thin red string circled his right wrist. A beeper and a cell phone hung from his waistband.

Wraparound Ray-Bans blocked the windows to his soul. The rest of his face was a tight mask of distrust.

“This is private property. If you want a free view, go to Mulhol-land.”

Petra flashed the badge.

“Police? What, he’s gone crazy?”

“Who, sir?”

“Him. Troupe, the lawyer.” Cocking his head toward the house to the south. “I keep telling him, all the permits are in order, there’s nothing you gonna
do
about it.”

Some kind of accent—familiar but I couldn’t place it.

“Now, what, he’s again yelling about the noise? We graded a week ago, how can you grade without noise?”

“We’re not here about that, Mr….”

“Avi Benezra. Then what do you want?”

I got the accent. A few years ago, we’d worked with an Israeli police superintendent named Daniel Sharavi. Benezra’s inflections were harsher, but similar.

Petra said, “We’re looking for the residents of 1462.”

Benezra removed his glasses, revealed soft, hazel eyes, squinting in amusement. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“Wish we were trying to be, sir.”

“The residents? Maybe worms and bugs.” Benezra laughed. “Who’s your intelligence source? The CIA?”

“How long has the house been gone, sir?”

“A year.” Thumb curl toward the neighboring house. “Troupe had quiet for a year so he got spoiled.”

“Fussy guy?”

“Fussy asshole,” said Benezra. “A
lawyer
.”

“Is he home?”

Avi Benezra said, “Never home. That’s why he’s crazy to complain. Maybe you can tell him to stop bothering me. You know why he’s mad? He wanted to buy it, put a pool on it. But he didn’t want to pay what it’s
worth
. Now I don’t
wanna
sell. Gonna build for myself. Why not?” He waved at the view. “It’s gonna be something, all glass, views to Palos Verdes.”

“Gorgeous,” said Petra.

“It’s what I do,” said Benezra. “I build, I’m a builder. Why not finally for me?”

“So you tore down the house a year ago?”

“No, no, no, a year ago is empty. I tore down five
months
ago and right away he’s driving me nuts, that bastard, complain to the zoning board, the mayor.” Spiraling a finger toward his temple. “Finally, I get the okay.”

“How long have you owned the property, Mr. Benezra?”

Benezra grinned. “You interested in buying?”

“I wish.”

“I buy five years ago, house was a piece of crap but
that
!” Another flourish at the view.

He smoked, shaded his eyes with his hand, gazed up at a jetliner climbing from Inglewood. “I’m gonna use as much glass as they let me with the new energy rules. I just finished building a gorgeous Mediterranean on Angelo Drive, nine thousand square feet, marble, granite, home theater, I’m ready to sell. Then my
wife
decides she wants to live in it. Okay, why not?
Then
, I get divorce and she gets the house. What, I should
fight
?”

“Have you ever rented to a man named Blaise De Paine?”

“Oh, boy,” said Benezra. “That one. Yeah, he was the last.”

“Problem tenant?”

“You call trashing every room and not paying a problem? To me, that’s a problem. My fault. I broke the rules, got
clucked
.”

Petra said, “Clucked?”

“I’m talking polite to a lady.”

She laughed. “Which rules did you break?”

“Avi’s rules. Two months in advance, plus damage deposit up front. Him I let go one month, no deposit. Stupid, I shoulda known better, the way he looked.”

“How’d he look?”

“Rock and roll,” said Benezra. “The hair, you know. But he was recommended.”

“By who?”

Benezra put his shades back on. “A guy.”

“Which guy, sir?”

“This is important?”

“It might be.”

“What’d he do?”

“Who referred him?” said Petra.

“Listen,” said Benezra, “I don’t want no problems.”

“If you haven’t done anything—”

“I didn’t do
nothing
. But this guy who referred him, he’s a little famous, you know?”

“Who, sir?”

“I don’t know nothing about his problems.”

“Whose problems, sir?”

Benezra sniffed the air, smoked greedily. “What I hired him for was legal. What he did for other people, I don’t wanna know.”

“Sir,” said Petra, “who are we
talking
about?”

“A guy I hired.”

“To do what?”

“Watch the wife. She wants the house on Angelo, nine thousand square feet, she can roll around in it, fine, okay. She wants the jewelry, okay. But my boat? Properties I had before I met her? Very very very
not
okay. I knew what she was doing with you-know-who, maybe this guy can prove it, she don’t get too pushy.”

“We’ve got no-fault divorce in California.”

“That’s the official stuff,” said Benezra. “But she got the fancy friends, the fund-raisers, lunch at Spago. Not gonna look good everyone knows she’s not so perfect. I hired him to get the evidence.”

“We’re talking a private investigator.”

“Yeah.”

“Because your wife…”

“You’re a woman. What do you think she did?”

“Slept around?”

“Not
around
. One
guy
, her
eye
doctor.” Tapping a black lens. “I pay ten thousand for LASIK so she don’t have to wear contact lenses, no more
itchy
itchy. She pay me back by getting another kinda treatment.” Chuckling.

“It’s good you can laugh about it,” said Petra.

“What, I should get an ulcer?”

“What’s the name of the private detective?”

“The famous one,” said Benezra. “Fortuno.”

“Mario Fortuno.”

“Yeah. He still in jail?”

“As far as I’ve heard, sir.”

“Good. He took my money, did nothing. The other stuff, I have no idea.”

“Did Fortuno say how he knew Blaise De Paine?”

Benezra ticked a finger. “A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend. ‘But he’s okay, Avi, trust me.’” He laughed louder. “Maybe I missed one of the friends.”

“What else did Fortuno tell you about De Paine?”

“Nothing else, I was stupid, but I figured a guy like that, he’s working for me, why would he cluck me? I even gave discount rent because the place was crap, it was gonna get tear-down soon.” Swiveling back toward the view. “Lookit that.”

Petra showed him one of the party photos taken off the Internet. “Is this the person we’re talking about?”

“That’s him. What’d he do?”

Moses Grant’s DMV shot produced a head shake. “Him I never seen. What, a gangster from Watts?”

Robert Fisk’s mug shot evoked raised eyebrows. “
That
one was here, seen him at least a coupla times. Maybe living here, even though the deal was only one person, we’re talking six hundred square feet, one bedroom, one bath. Used to be the garage of that bastard’s place back in the fifties, he buys two years ago, thinks everything should go back together but don’t wanna pay market. He drives me so crazy, I was going to leave green space but
forget
it, it’s gonna go
inches
from the property line.”

Petra waved Fisk’s image. “What makes you think this person was living here?”

“One time, I come for the rent, he was the
only
one in the house. No shirt on, crazy tattoos, doing exercises in front of the window—on a mat, you know? Judo, karate, something like that, clothes and crap all around. I try to make chat. I learned krav maga—Israeli-style karate—in the army. He said yeah, he knows it, then he shuts his eyes and goes back to breathing in and out and stretching the arms. I say sorry to bother you but what’s with the rent. He says he don’t know nothing, just visiting. Those tattoos, all over here”—touching his own chest—“and up to the neck. He’s a bad guy?”

“We’d like to talk to him. What else can you tell us about De Paine and Mario Fortuno?”

“That’s it.” Benezra looked at his watch. “I hire him to find out about her. He tells me she’s clucking the eye doctor, thank you very much, big-shot detective. That I already know because she sees twenty–twenty and she keeps making appointments.”

Shaking his head. “Thirteen thousand dollars for that, thank you very much. He should
rot
in jail.”

Milo said, “So he never followed through?”

“Always excuses,” said Benezra. “It takes
time
, Avi. We need to make sure it’s gonna be bona fide
evidence
, Avi. The eye doctor’s office is
locked
, Avi, maybe it’s gonna cost a little
more
, Avi.”

A wide smile nearly bisected his face. “I finally figure out I’m being clucked twice. Now I’m thinking maybe sue my divorce lawyer—he’s the one sent me to Fortuno. I call him, he tells me Fortuno ripped him off, too.”

“How?”

“Hired him to write some documents, didn’t pay.”

“The lawyer’s name, please.”

“Oy,” said Benezra. “This is getting complicated. Okay, why not, I’m finished with him. Marvin Wallace, Roxbury and Wilshire.”

Benezra took a last drag of his cigarette, pinched it out, flicked it across the lot. “Always excuses for not doing the job, Fortuno. Finally he’s got a good one.”

“What’s that?” said Petra.

“The one you guys gave him. You put him in jail.”

We left Benezra worshipping his view and descended Oriole Drive.

Petra phoned Captain Stuart Bishop and filled him in, then clicked off. “He’ll make calls, but wants a meeting.”

“When?” said Milo.

“As soon as we get back to Hollywood.”

“We?”

“You and me, Stu’s big on interdivisional communication.” She turned to me: “Your attendance is optional but certainly welcome. He said to thank you for helping his nephew.”

Last year the preschool-aged son of Bishop’s younger sister had been frightened by the evening news. Well-adjusted boy; a few sessions had been enough.

Confidentiality meant all I could do was smile.

Petra smiled back. “I thought you might say that.”

The captain’s office at Hollywood Division was a spare, white corner space livened by school art created by the six towheaded Bishop kids and masses of family photos. A white BYU Cougars mug shared a credenza with a case of Trader Joe’s bottled water. A window cracked two inches blew in air and heat and street noise.

Stu was a slim, closely shaven man around forty with searching gold eyes and wavy blond hair gone gray at the temples. He wore braided leather suspenders over a tapered pink shirt, a turquoise silk tie, glen plaid suit pants, glossy wingtips. A matching suit jacket hung on a bentwood rack. He reached for a water, offered us our own bottles. Milo accepted.

The son of an affluent Flintridge Mormon family, Stu had left the department while still a D III, cutting short a fast-track career to care for a wife with cancer. Kathy Bishop recovered but Stu stayed with corporate security work and occasional film consulting until he was wooed back as a captain by the new chief.