Obsession (38 page)

The cellular number assumed to be Pete Whitbread’s remained inactive until four p.m. on the third day, when Mary called it. Retracing the path of the towers revealed southward movement originating east of the downtown Civic Center. When the conversation ended, the recipient was somewhere north of Chinatown.

Minutes from the 110 ramp where Moses Grant’s body had been dumped.

That sent Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau back to the abandoned auto shop where Grant had been shot. Recanvassing produced three more transients claiming to have seen a black Hummer cruising the industrial streets east of Los Angeles Street late at night. No details about the driver, passengers, or destination. Saunders drove to the dump site and canvassed Chinatown.

Milo stayed at home, playing with databases. Even Face of America produced nothing on Pete Whitbread/Blaise De Paine or Robert Fisk. Neither had filed any Social Security claims or paid income tax. Aerial photos of Mary Whitbread’s property revealed no recent disturbances. A records clerk at the assessor’s office opined that a sonar scan might be helpful. When Milo asked where to go for that, the clerk said, “Saw it on Forensics File, or something.”

I phoned Tanya twice, was reassured both times that she was doing great, had a couple of big exams she needed to concentrate on. She sounded tired and faded, but maybe my opinion had been colored by Kyle’s account of insomnia and compulsive routines.

Kyle didn’t try to contact me again.

With nothing to do, I picked up two more consults from family court and prepared for another nosedive into the cesspool known as child custody conflict.

At nine p.m., Robin was reading in bed. I’d just finished an evening meeting with a man who hated his ex-wife so much that mention of her name caused his eyes to bulge and his neck veins to throb. She’d sat in the same chair earlier that day; her pet name for him was “Fucking Asshole.” They had two kids who wet the bed and were failing in school. Both parents claimed they were determined to do “what’s best for Amy and Whitley.”

As the door closed on the husband, I headed to the dining room liquor cabinet, figuring this was an occasion to break open an old gift bottle of Chivas Century.

The phone rang. Milo’s voice was tight. “Robert Fisk just showed up at Mary’s. Petra called for the flak-jacket squad. I’m on my way, would invite you to attend but with all that artillery—”

“Figure out a way,” I said.

“To what?”

“Let them know I’m persona grata.”

The SWAT team had tucked its vehicles around the corner.

Keeping as low a profile as possible, given a squadron of sharp-jawed men in full assault regalia. The night nourished concealment, but the air was charged.

The team leader was a tall, rangy lieutenant named A. M. Holzman with a gray brush cut and mustache, and mirror-shard eyes one shade lighter. Milo called him Allen and Holzman acknowledged him with a brief smile. Recognition didn’t mean small talk. Everyone was focused on Mary Whitbread’s duplex, where Robert Fisk had entered thirty-three minutes ago.

Fisk had approached on foot, walking east from La Cienega, dressed in a black shirt, matching sweatpants, and sandals. As he knocked on the door, he’d stepped under the porch light. Raul Biro had seen his face clearly and called for backup.

Now Biro went over it for Holzman. “Guy was empty-handed, looked relaxed. I got a close enough look at his clothes to tell you there was definitely no firearm. As far as a knife, I can’t say for sure, but she opened the door and let him in, no resistance.”

Allen Holzman said, “He knocks, entrez-vous?”

“You got it, Lieutenant.”

Petra said, “We’re sure she’s aware of at least some of her son’s crimes. At the very least, accessory after the fact.”

Holzman said, “So maybe this guy Fisk was sent by the son to get money, provisions, whatever.”

“That would make sense.”

“Or,” said Holzman, “he got in using guile and did something bad to Mommy. We’re talking a known associate of someone who already killed his own daddy.”

He smiled. “Probably going to ask for clemency ’cause he’s an orphan.”

Petra: “If that’s the case, we’re too late, aren’t we?”

“Unless he’s in the process of torturing her.”

Milo said, “You’re a font of good cheer, Al.”

“This is happy times compared to the anti-terrorism squad.” To Petra: “You know Eric Stahl, right?”

Petra smiled. “A bit.”

“I didn’t make the trip to Tel Aviv where he stopped that suicide asshole, which is a shame, I’ve got cousins in Jerusalem. But we were together in Jakarta, went to Bali, saw the damage. Anyway, enough b.s., what’s your wish-list?”

“In a perfect world,” said Petra, “you go in and get them both out alive.”

“In a perfect world, I’m squeezing blood out of Osama’s liver while he sits in a tub of acid and watches…okay, let’s see if we can get the rear neighbors to allow us visual access to the back of the place. Depending on what we see or hear, we’ll figure out a plan. I don’t see any time exigency here. If she’s alive, they’re pals. If she’s not, it’s time for the mop-and-tweezers squad.”

Petra said, “The neighbor on top is a doctor named Stark, owns the building and he’s already cooperated.”

“Excellent,” said Holzman. “Community involvement and all, huh, Milo? Remember those P. C. seminars we had to do?”

Milo nodded.

“Total horseshit, this is better,” said Holzman. “Okay, find Dr. Stark and involve him some more.”

Byron Stark looked on as a laser scope aimed from his bedroom revealed that the rear door to Mary Whitbread’s ground-floor unit had been left ajar.

An inch.

Allen Holzman said, “If she’s in the shower, doesn’t hear the front door, he can let himself in? That make sense, Milo?”

“As good a theory as any, Al.”

“Or she’s just careless.”

Stark said, “She leaves it open all the time.”

Blushing.

Holzman said, “Guess we’ve got a relaxed lady. Okay, let’s go in fast.”

No crash-bang like on TV. The SWAT team entered silently and took control of the apartment within seconds.

Mary Whitbread and Robert Fisk were sleeping in bed. A fake fireplace glowed orange, a tape loop simulated crackling flames. New-age music piped in through wall speakers added another layer of mellow. A tray on the floor beside Mary’s side of the bed held honey-macadamia muffins, Godiva chocolates, sliced kiwi, champagne flutes filled with what turned out to be organic mango-lychee nectar.

Whitbread and Fisk were naked and entwined. By the time they reached full awareness, both had been flipped on their bellies and cuffed.

Mary Whitbread screamed, then whimpered, then started to hyperventilate. Fisk thrashed like a fresh-caught cod on a slimy deck. The prod of a rifle barrel stopped all that.

“Silicone Tits and Mr. Macho Tattoo Kickboxer,” one of the SWAT guys reminisced as the squad peeled off armor and drank Gatorade.

“Silicone Tits and Thimble-Weenie,” said another.

A third chimed in: “Miniature Vienna sausage dehydrated, compressed, and extruded through a pinhole. No excuses, dude, the room was
warm
.”

“We
shriveled
him, man. Mr. Macho Asshole
Kickboxer
Killer, we got you righteous and you dropped like a wet
turd
.”

“Mini-mini-mini, dude, even accounting for the shrivel factor. Bad career choice, Pencil-Dick.”

“Uh, uh, uh—” Exaggerated falsetto. “—is there something
in
there, Bronco?”

Allen Holzman said, “Good job, guys. Now shut the hell up and someone volunteer for the paperwork.”

The career the cops had mocked was porn actor. Videos found in Mary Whitbread’s apartment documented Robert Fisk’s audition, two years ago, for a Canoga Park outfit called Righteous & Raw Productions.

Financial documents in Mary’s attic showed her to be a shareholder in the company, which had folded thirteen months after incorporation.

No sign Fisk had ever worked for her or anyone else.

Plenty of tapes and CDs from Righteous & Raw’s backlog in a small half basement, but no souvenirs of Mary’s career.

No evidence of excavation there, or in the backyard.

Mary’s terror had left her thighs urine-stained, but she calmed down quickly and asked for a robe while flaunting her body.

Petra found a kimono and helped her slip into it. “Where’s Peterson?”

Mary said, “That little shit? Why would I know? Or care?”

“Robert Fisk is a—”

“No, no, no,
no
! Stop talking to
me
, I want my
lawyer
.”

Robert Fisk didn’t ask for an attorney.

Thanking Petra for getting him the bottled water, he sat Buddha-placid.

The menacing skinhead of his mug shot had been replaced by a neat cap of dark hair. The pallid wicket framing his mouth memorialized a recently shaved mustache. Smallish mouth, delicate like the rest of him. But for the brocade of body ink extending from under his cuffs and snaking above his collar, a nondescript man.

Ramrod posture suggested a dance instructor or personal trainer. So many of those in L.A.

Picking him out on a dark street with only the mug shot as reference spoke volumes about Raul Biro’s skills. Biro sat near Petra, both of them watching Fisk across the table. Milo and I were on the other side of the glass.

Fisk drank his water, put the cup down, smiled. An instant of sharp, wolfish teeth caused Petra to inch back. Fisk might’ve sensed that he’d given something away. He shut his mouth, sat low to make himself smaller.

“Anything else I can get you, Robert?”

“No, I’m fine, Detective Connor. Thanks very much.”

“You know why you’re here.”

“Not really, Detective Connor.”

“Care to take a guess?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Petra shuffled papers and watched him.

Fisk didn’t move.

“Does the name Lester Jordan ring a bell?”

“Of course,” said Fisk. “He was Blaise’s father. Blaise killed him.”

“And you know that because…”

“I was there, Detective Connor.”

“At the murder.”

“Blaise asked me to be there, but what happened took me by surprise.”

“Why’d Blaise ask you to be there?”

“Moral support,” said Fisk. “That’s what I assumed.”

“Why would Blaise need moral support?”

“Lester had hit him before.”

“You saw that?”

“Blaise told me. Lester was an addict. That means unpredictable.”

“How well did you know Lester?”

“I saw him a few times. Always with Blaise.”

“Father-son business transactions.”

“I had nothing to do with that part of it.”

“What part?”

“Narcotics. Never touched dope in my life. Never tasted alcohol, my parents drank, I saw what it did.”

“Clean living.”

“You can do any tests you want,” said Fisk. “My blood is clean. I don’t eat red meat or refined sugars, either. If people didn’t eat meat there’d be no global warming.”

“Really?” said Petra.

“Cows fart and mess up the atmosphere.”

Raul Biro said, “Why don’t we just give ’em Beano?”

Petra smiled. Fisk didn’t.

She said, “Let’s get back to Blaise and Lester. You were there when Blaise went to sell his father drugs.”

Long silence.

“Robert?”

“Blaise didn’t tell me.”

“You went along for protection.”

“Moral support.”

“When you went to Lester’s apartment, you just walked in through the front door with Blaise.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Fisk.

“Hmm,” said Petra. “Then it’s kind of funny, your fingerprints showing up on Lester Jordan’s outer windowsill, by the side of his building.”

Fisk’s wrists rotated. His new smile was tight-lipped. “That’s weird.”

“Weird but true, Robert.” She slid the AFIS match over to him.

Fisk barely glanced at it. “I’m not picturing this sill.”

“Outside Lester Jordan’s bedroom window.”

“Whoa,” said Fisk. “That’s bizarre.”

“You didn’t enter through the window?”

Fisk gazed at the ceiling. A minute passed, then another. Petra crossed her legs. Raul Biro stared at Fisk.

Fisk said, “Let me ask you something, Detective Connor. Theoretically.”

“Sure, Robert.”

“If a window is already open and you climb in, is that breaking and entering?”

Milo muttered, “Idiot’s up for a murder bust and he’s worried about B and E.”

“Hmm, interesting question,” said Petra, turning to Raul.

Raul said, “Never thought about that.”

“That’s what happened, Robert? The window was left open?”

“Let’s just say.”

“Well,” she said, “I guess it
wouldn’t
be breaking and entering, because there was no breaking.”

“That’s what I’m thinking,” said Robert Fisk.

“Who left the window open?”

“Blaise.”

“Why’d he do that, Robert?”

“Tactical,” said Fisk. “Like I said, he was scared of Lester, used to get beat by him.”

“And having you come in through the back window helped because…”

“Element of surprise.”

“For when…”

“If something happened.”

“Which it did,” said Petra. “Something definitely happened.”

“I didn’t know that, Detective.”

“Tell me about it, Robert.”

“I came in like Blaise asked me to, stopped and listened, made sure there was no problem.”

“Blaise had reason to think there might be a problem.”

Long silence. “Lester called Blaise to come over, said Blaise was in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Don’t know, but it made Blaise angry.” Fisk’s eyes shifted to the left. Petra didn’t push him. Any undue pressure could evoke the dreaded lawyer request. Mary Whitbread had already been released with no charges filed, an assistant D.A. opining that at most she was vulnerable for obstruction and even that was doubtful.

Petra said, “So you went in and listened. Then what?”

“It was quiet,” said Fisk. “I figure everything’s mellow. Blaise says, ‘I’m in the crapper, Robert.’ I go over, the door’s open, Blaise is standing next to Lester, Lester’s on the can, his spike and spoon and the rest of his works is on the sink, he’s fixed up, totally nodded off.”