Obsession (43 page)

“Well,” she said, “that’s not always relevant—what people think they know. How about we meet halfway. Between L.A. and Santa Barbara.”

“Sure. Where?”

“Oxnard,” she said. “There’s a winery there, away from the beach, in an industrial park off Rice Avenue. Nice little café and they make a great Zinfandel, if wine’s your thing.”

“Not when I work.”

“You can always take some home. I probably will.”

I met her the next day at noon.

The winery was a two-story mock-adobe structure set on a couple acres of landscaped lawns and spotless parking lot fifteen miles above the upper reaches of Malibu. Grapes trucked in from Napa and Sonoma and the Alexander Valley, pressed and bottled in an antiseptic setting, freeway-close for shipping. Far cry from the fragrant earth of Wine Country, but the tasting room was busy, as was the ten-table restaurant near the back.

Barb Smith had reserved a corner booth. She was young and bronze—maybe thirty—with long, wavy black hair, searching brown Eurasian eyes, a wide soft mouth. A baby-blue pantsuit covered skin but couldn’t conceal curves. Brown Kate Spade bag, high-heeled sandals to match, discreet emerald earrings, delicate gold-link necklace.

A glass of red wine sat in front of her. Her handshake was firm, moist around the edges.

She thanked me for coming, handed me a check for three times my usual fee, and took a wallet-sized photo out of the bag.

Dark-haired little boy, shy smile. Lots of his mother in him; the only trace of Mario Fortuno, a slightly undersized chin.

“Handsome,” I said.

“And good. Inside—where it counts.”

A waitress came over. Barb Smith said, “The cod cakes are unbelievable, if you don’t mind fish. That’s what I’m having.”

“Sounds good.”

The waitress nodded approvingly and left.

“Not when you’re working,” said Barb Smith. “I respect that. My only job is taking care of Felipe and he’s in school until three.”

Meaning Oxnard was driving distance from home.

My Coke arrived. Barb Smith sipped her wine. “This isn’t the Zin, it’s a Cab-Merlot blend, like they do in France. Mario doesn’t like Merlot, calls it Cabernet for girls. I drink what I want—if I’d have hugged you when you walked in you’d have thought I was forward, right?”

“Hugs can be Hollywood handshakes,” I said.

She laughed. “I love you, baby, now change completely? Once upon a time I thought I wanted to be part of that. The reason I brought up hugging is it would’ve had nothing to do with friendliness. That’s how Mario taught me to check for wires.”

“Ah.”

“But the way you’re dressed—polo shirt and slacks—it would be pretty hard to conceal something. Unless you were up on the latest technology.”

“To me that means stereo.”

“Just a simple guy, huh? Somehow I doubt it, but I’m convinced you’re not wired. Why would you be,
I
called
you
. At Mario’s behest—that’s a good word, isn’t it? I work on my vocabulary, always trying to better myself. Felipe has a great vocabulary. Everyone tells me he’s gifted.”

She drank some more, glanced off to the side. “I didn’t want to do this but Mario—you’re probably wondering what I saw in him. Sometimes I wonder myself. But he is the father of my child and I do know he’s going through some incredibly rough times. Did you know he’s got a bad heart—two bypasses years ago but there was damage they couldn’t repair? That part never gets in the papers.”

The corners of her eyes moistened and she swiped them with her napkin.

“Oh, look at this,” she said. “I hate him and still I feel sorry for him.”

“They say he’s got charisma.”

“Are you interested in how I got involved with him? Or is that too egotistical of me?”

“Tell me,” I said.

“It all goes back to what I just told you before. Wanting to be part of the scene. I thought I was an actress, did some community college back in…majored in theater, everyone said I had talent. So I came out here, did a string of temp jobs while trying to break in. One of them was working for a caterer, doing high-end industry parties. I met Mario at one of those, he was the only person who bothered to look at me when I came by with the plate of curried shrimp. Terrible food, if I told you what went on behind the scenes, you’d never eat at an industry party again.”

“Again?” I smiled.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m coming across so pretentioso. One of Mario’s made-up words. He despises the people who pay him…anyway, that’s where I met Mario and later, after the party, he took me out for drinks and drove me around in his Cadillac. I ended up telling him my life story—Mario has a talent for listening—and he told me what he did. He got a kick out of the fact that I had no idea who he was. I hear P.I., I’m figuring some small-time guy with an office over a Mexican restaurant, like on TV, I mean anyone can drive a Caddy, right? He never touched me, perfect gentleman, drove me home and asked me out again. Kind of nervous, like a teenage boy. Later, of course, I found out he’d been faking it, Mario can make you think whatever you want. He acts better than any of those stars he works for…anyway, he tells me he could use my talents, P.I.’s hire aspiring actors all the time, there’s lots of crossover. So I went to work for him. And he was right, acting skills are a big part of it.”

“Undercover work?” I said.

“I did some of that, but mostly it was pretending to be something I wasn’t. Going to a cocktail lounge and getting the target to flirt with me so Mario could take pictures. Process serving—it’s amazing how easy it is to gain entry into someone’s house or office when you lift the hemline of your skirt.”

She finished her wine. “I’m making myself sound like some kind of hooker, aren’t I?”

“More like a decoy.”

“Nice of you to say, but I was selling sex appeal. Not that I ever did anything sleazy, it was all false advertising. Meanwhile, I’m falling in love with Mario and he’s claiming to feel the same way.”

She shook her head. “Old enough to be my father and he’d been married four times before. File that under ‘What was I thinking?’ Meanwhile, I’m pregnant. Which turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to me. Felipe’s an angel, so sweet, couldn’t ask for a more perfect little boy.”

“Yet Mario’s concerned about him.”

“Mario thinks he’s gay.”

“Because he’s quiet,” I said.

She laughed. “Meaning Felipe doesn’t argue, doesn’t like to fight or play sports. He’s got his nose in books all the time, is kind of small for his age. My side of the family, my mom’s Chinese—oh, here’s our food.”

We ate in silence until she said, “Maybe Felipe is a bit overly gentle. Yes, he has a pretty face, when he was a baby everyone thought he was a girl. But does that make him gay?”

“Not at all.”

“Exactly, Dr. Delaware. That’s what I keep telling Mario but he kept wanting me to push Felipe into things he hates.”

“Sports?”

“Sports, karate.” She put down her fork. “I tell you, if he got involved in something rough and injured that cute little nose of his, I’d be shattered. I said so to Mario. He told me I was crazy, a few scars are what every guy needs—do you have scars, Dr. Delaware?”

I smiled.

She said, “Sorry, that was nosy. Mario has scars. Plenty of them, from when he was growing up in Chicago. To me, that is not masculine. Masculine is being secure and not having to prove yourself.”

“You’re not concerned about Felipe and you know him best.”

“Exactly.”

“But you’re here…”

“To fulfill my obligation to Mario. Kind of like a final kiss, you know? Because he’s going away—not to prison, not if he gives up what I think he’s going to give up. But when the you-know-what hits the fan, it’s going to be huge, Dr. Delaware. People you won’t believe are going to tumble.”

“The A list.”

“The A-
plus
list,” she said. “I’m talking red-carpet faces, people who run major studios, corporate emperors. Mario’s big thing was that he’d never tell. But with what they’ve got against him, his bad heart, most of his money gone, he’s going to spill everything. And then he’ll have to go somewhere and I won’t ever see him again and neither will Felipe. So I figured, why not be a good person. Even though I know Felipe’s not gay.”

“Do Mario and Felipe have a good relationship?”

“Mario didn’t spend much time with Felipe but Felipe likes him. And the funny thing is, with all Mario’s talk about getting Felipe into rough stuff, he was gentle with him. They’d play cards, just sit around. The truth is, Mario’s not much of an athlete himself—you met him, he’s a little guy.”

“Little guy with big-guy charisma.”

“Another Napoleon,” she said. “For some reason I fall for them. Maybe it’s because my father—that doesn’t matter, this isn’t about me, it’s about Felipe. Do you agree he’s okay?”

“Nothing you’ve told me says he’s not. And if he is gay, there’d be nothing I could or would want to do about it.”

She wiped her mouth. “You’re not gay, yourself?”

“No,” I said.
But some of my best friends…
“Sexual therapy reorientation isn’t something I’d generally recommend.”

“I agree, totally. But Felipe’s
not
gay. He’s
absolutely
well adjusted.”

“Mario did mention some teasing at school and some toilet problems.”

“No big deal,” she said. “Felipe’s small and he doesn’t play sports so some older boys ribbed him. I told him to stand up to them, say mind your own business. That worked. As far as the toilet problems, my pediatrician said Felipe was holding in and getting impacted. I talked to Felipe and he said he didn’t like to use the bathroom at school because it was too dirty. I went and checked and he’s right, the place is filthy, I wouldn’t let my dog go there. But I didn’t want Felipe all clogged up so I started giving him a little mineral oil, woke him up a little earlier for breakfast and then thirty minutes later, ten minutes before he had to go to school, he was able to go and wouldn’t need to go in school. For number one, I did tell him to use the urinals, just stand back so his body didn’t touch anything dirty.”

“Sounds like you handled everything.”

“I thought I did. Thank you for agreeing.” Big smile. “So now I’ve fulfilled my obligation to Mario and we can enjoy our lunch.”

She spent the rest of the time recounting cases she’d worked on. Dropping names, then pledging me to confidentiality, then declaring that since she’d paid me and this was a professional meeting, the law said
anything
she told me was confidential.

When we finished, she insisted on paying but we split the check.

I walked her to her car. Gray Ford Taurus with an Avis sticker.

Careful woman.

“Thanks for meeting with me, Dr. Delaware. I feel a whole lot better.”

“My pleasure. Regards to Mario.”

“I doubt I’ll be talking to him. By the way, do you want to know the real reason I think Mario wanted me to see you? It has nothing to do with Felipe, Felipe’s obviously fine.”

“What’s the real reason?” I said.

“Guilt, Dr. Delaware. Mario may be a sociopath but he still has the capacity for guilt. And maybe I’m the only one he could show that side to.”

“What does he feel guilty about?”

“Not his work,” she said. “Not all those lives he ruined with his wiretaps and his extortion, that he’s proud of. But as a father…he knows he failed. He told me so. He’s got three daughters from three different mothers, four other sons, and they’re all a mess, two have been in prison. Plus, there was a son who he never acknowledged, who turned
really
bad. Mario said he was into dope and crime, all sorts of heavy-duty stuff. Mostly, he blamed the mother—someone he never married, the whole thing was a one-night stand. But the last time I spoke to him—when he ordered me to see you—he admitted maybe he had some blame for saving the boy’s butt so he never learned to take responsibility. Even though he insisted it was
mostly
the mother’s fault, because of who she was.”

“What was she?”

“Porn actress, a real lowlife, according to Mario. He said she reinvented herself as some kind of investor, but she was the same old amoral slut he’d made the mistake of knocking up and look at the results.”

I said, “Mario had no contact with this son?”

“None, the boy has no idea who his father is because Mario paid the woman off big-time so she’d lie and say it was someone else. She used the money to buy real estate, Mario used to say the Mafia had nothing on L.A. real estate people. I asked Mario why he never stepped up to the plate, because shirking wasn’t like him, he was all about paternal duty, paid child support for the other kids and Felipe. He got a look on his face and didn’t answer. Only time I’ve ever seen a hint of fear in Mario’s eyes. Anyway, nice knowing you, Dr. Delaware. I’d say till we meet again, but that’s not going to happen.”

I watched her drive away.

Stood there breathing in ocean air and a hint of fermented grapes, thought about calling Milo and finding out if Mario Fortuno’s arrest process had included taking blood.

Changed my mind.

I had six court cases pending, a nineteen-year-old patient who’d need me indefinitely. A woman who loved me.

A dog that smiled.

What else mattered?

JONATHAN KELLERMAN is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his expertise as a clinical psychologist to more than two dozen bestselling crime novels, including the Alex Delaware series,
The Butcher’s Theater, Billy Straight, The Conspiracy Club
, and
Twisted
. With his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored the bestsellers
Double Homicide
and
Capital Crimes
. He is the author of numerous essays, short stories, scientific articles, two children’s books, and three volumes of psychology, including
Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children
. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards, and has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in California and New Mexico. Their four children include the novelist Jesse Kellerman. Visit the author’s website at www.jonathankellerman.com.