Obsession (9 page)

“Yes, but looking after the colonel wasn’t much trouble, he went to sleep at six and we were up early anyway so Mommy could drive me to school and make it to Cedars.”

“How’d she find out about the position?”

“No idea—maybe a bulletin board at the hospital? She never got into those kinds of details with me, just announced one day that we were moving to a big beautiful house in a high-class neighborhood.”

“How’d you feel about that?”

“I was used to moving around. From my days with Lydia. And it’s not like I had a ton of friends on Cherokee.”

“Hollywood could be a tough neighborhood back then.”

“It didn’t affect us.”

“Except when drunks pounded on the door.”

“That didn’t happen often. Mommy took care of it.”

“How?”

“She’d shout through the door for them to go away and if that didn’t work, she’d threaten to call the cops. I don’t remember her actually calling the cops, so it must’ve worked.”

“Were you scared?”

“You’re saying
that
could be it? Some drunk got dangerous and she had to
do
something to him?”

“Anything’s possible but it’s way too early to theorize. Why’d you move from the mansion?”

“Colonel Bedard died. One morning Mommy went up to his room to give him his meds and there he was.”

“Was leaving such a beautiful place upsetting?”

“Not really, our room was pretty small.” She reached for her coffee. “Mommy liked the colonel but not his family. The few times they’d show up, she’d say, ‘Here
they
are.’ They rarely visited him, it was sad. The night after he died, I couldn’t sleep and found Mommy in the breakfast room sitting with the maid. Her name was…Cecilia—how did I remember that?—anyway, Mommy and Cecilia were just sitting there, looking down. Mommy led me back to bed, started talking about how money was important for security, but it should never get in the way of appreciation. I thought she meant that for me so I told her I appreciated her. She laughed and kissed me hard and said, ‘Not you, baby. You’re a lot smarter than some so-called grown-ups.’”

“The colonel’s family didn’t appreciate him.”

“That’s what I took it to mean.”

“Did anything out of the ordinary happen while you were living in the mansion?”

“Just the colonel’s death,” she said. “I guess you couldn’t call that out of the ordinary, seeing how old he was.”

She chewed around the rim of her Oreo.

“Okay,” I said, “let’s move on to Fourth Street.”

“That was a duplex, not as large as this one, but with a
lot
more space than we’d ever had. I was in my own room again with a great walk-in closet. The neighbors upstairs were Asian, quiet.”

“You stayed there less than a year.”

“Mommy said it was too expensive.”

“The first time you came to see me was right after you moved to Hudson Avenue. The second time was right after you moved from Fourth Street to Culver City.”

“You’re thinking I got stressed about moving?”

“Did you?”

“I honestly don’t think so, Dr. Delaware. Did I say anything back then about what was bothering me?”

“No,” I said.

“I guess I’m a pretty closed-up person.”

“You got better very quickly.”

“Is that acceptable from a psychologist’s standpoint? Changing behavior without going deep?”

“You’re the best judge of what’s okay for you.”

She smiled. “You always say that.”

She poured me another cup. Wiped droplets from the rim.

I said, “So Fourth Street was too expensive.”

“The rent was way too high. Mommy wanted to put together a down payment so she could buy.” She glanced at her mother’s photo, looked down at the floor.

“Culver Boulevard was another sketchy neighborhood,” I said.

“It wasn’t that bad. I stayed in the same school, had the same friends.”

“Saint Thomas. Even though you’re not Catholic.”

“You remember that?”

“Your mother felt it was important to tell me.”

“That we weren’t Catholic?”

“That she hadn’t lied about being Catholic to get you in.”

“That was Mommy,” she said, smiling. “She was up front with the priest, said if he could convince me to be Catholic it wouldn’t bother her, but not to get his hopes up.”

“What was her take on religion?”

“Live a good life and be tolerant—Dr. Delaware, I don’t want to be rude but I do need to study some more. Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“I think we’ve covered enough ground.”

“Thanks so much for coming over, it made me feel as if…it’s almost as if you were able to visit her. Now, I
insist
you take these Oreos—wait, I’ll go get a bag.”

She stood in the doorway as I descended the stairs. Waved before closing the door. Canfield Avenue had turned darker, barely limned by thinly spaced, anemic lamps.

As I walked to the Seville, something up at the second story caught my eye.

Back-and-forth movement, behind the drapes of Tanya’s picture window.

A figure pacing. Vanishing for an instant, then reappearing only to reverse direction.

The circuit repeated.

I waited until the twentieth passage before driving away.

I ate an Oreo while phoning Milo.

He barked, “Yeah?”

“I woke you?”

“Oh, it’s you—nah waking assumes I sleep. Up and festive—vacation, remember?”

“Congrats.”

“Are you talking with your mouth full?”

I swallowed. “Not anymore.”

“Late-night gourmet snack?”

“A cookie.”

“Got milk? My bud at the phone company found Patty’s old billing records. Cherokee was her first L.A. address. According to some vets Petra talked to the block was a big drug market back then. Interesting housing choice for a nice, respectable nurse, no? And she stayed six years.”

Perfect time to let go of my dope suspicions, but I held back.

He said, “Rick says she was thrifty bordering on Scrooge, so maybe cheap rent attracted her. Still, bringing up a little kid in a tough part of Hollywood doesn’t seem optimal.”

“She never expected to be bringing up a little kid.”

“True…I haven’t had time to look for open homicide cases near any of her cribs except for Hancock Park. Only thing that went down there was on June Street, one block west and two blocks south. Victim was a diamond dealer named Wilfred Hong, three masked gunmen broke in at three a.m. after disabling the alarm, shot Hong as he sat up in bed, no warning, but they didn’t shoot Mrs. Hong or two kids sleeping down the hall. After forcing her to pop the safe, they tied her up and made off with bags of loose stones and cash. Rumor had it Hong owed money and gems to lots of people. It stinks of pro talent and insider knowledge, so unless Patty was part of some high-level jewel heist gang, it ain’t worth our time. If anything is. Any new thoughts about the bigger picture?”

“Nope. Isaac said he’d run some calculations.”

“Beats hand-searches of old murder books. I’ve been thinking, Alex, before we spend any more time surmising, let’s visit each address, see if we can locate any neighbors who knew Patty. If no one remembers anything remotely homicidal, I say we’ve got license to quit and you find a way to break it to Tanya.”

“Okay,” I said. “When?”

“Pick me up at my place tomorrow morning, say ten. Bring bright-colored clothing, piña colada mix, and a celebratory attitude.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“I’m on
vacation
, remember? Or so they say.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The gods of false hope.”

The small, neat house Milo shares with Rick sits on a West Hollywood side street shadowed by the green-blue bulk of the Design Center. Quiet during the week, sleepy-silent on Saturday.

The drought-resistant shrubs Rick had planted during a dry year were handling a wet year with mixed success. As I drove up, Milo was kneeling and pinching off dead branches. He straightened quickly, as if caught in a shameful act, patted the place where his gun bulged his jacket, and loped over to the car.

The jacket was a limp, brown, almost-tweed thing. His shirt was yellow wash-and-wear with a curling collar. Soot-gray trousers puddled over tan desert boots.

“That’s vacation garb?” I said, driving away.

“Conceptually, it’s a workday.”

A block later: “With no pay, I might add.”

“I’ll buy lunch.”

“We’ll go somewhere expensive.”

As I turned from Hollywood Boulevard onto Cherokee, he narrowed his eyes and lasered the block. When I pulled up in front of the brick-colored building, he said, “Definitely a dump. Any idea which apartment was hers?”

“One of those two in front.”

“Not what I’d want, security-wise…okay, let’s go bother someone.”

Knocks on both ground-floor units were met by silence. As he pushed the glass door to the main entrance, I said, “When I was by here, an older guy stepped out and got kind of territorial. Maybe he’s been around for a while.”

“Territorial how?”

“Glaring, wanting me gone.”

“Show me his door.”

Music seeped from the other side of the brown wood panel. Janis Joplin offering a piece of her heart.

Milo rapped hard. The music died and the man I’d seen yesterday came to the door holding a can of Mountain Dew in one hand, a Kit Kat bar in the other.

Thin gray hair flew away from a high dome. His horsey face was all wrinkles and sags. Not the easy transition of nature—the muddiness of premature aging. I revised my estimate to early fifties.

He wore a light blue pajama top under the same Dodger jacket. Blue satin was grease-speckled and moth-eaten, bleached to pink in spots. Frayed red sweats exposed white, hairless ankles. Bare feet tapered to ragged yellow nails. Where stubble didn’t sprout, his skin was pallid and flaky. Dull brown eyes struggled to stay open.

The room behind him was the color of congealed custard, strewn with food wrappers, take-out boxes, empty cups, dirty clothes. Warm, fetid air escaped to the hallway.

Milo’s badge didn’t do a thing for the man’s wakefulness. Bracing himself against the doorjamb, he drank soda, gave no sign he remembered me.

“Sir, we’re looking into a tenant who lived here a few years ago.”

Nothing.

“Sir?”

A hoarse “Yeah?”

“We were wondering if you knew her.”

Runny nose that he swiped with his sleeve. “Who?”

“A woman named Patricia Bigelow.”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“What’d she do?” Clogged voice. Slurred enunciation.

“Why would you think she did anything?”

“You’re not here…because you…like my cooking.”

“You cook, huh?”

The man chomped the candy bar. The interior of his mouth was more gap than tooth.

Warm day but dressed for chill. Snarfing sugar, rotten dentition. No need to roll up his sleeves; I knew we wouldn’t be invited inside.

Milo said, “So you remember Patty Bigelow.”

No answer.

“Do you?

“Yeah?”

“She’s dead.”

The brown eyes blinked. “That’s too bad.”

“What can you tell us about her, sir?”

Ten-second delay, then a long, slow, laborious head shake as the old addict nudged the door with his knee. Milo placed a big hand on the knob.

“Hey.”

“How well did you know Ms. Bigelow?”

Something changed in the brown eyes. New wariness. “I didn’t.”

“You were living here at the same time she was.”

“So were other people.”

“Any of them still around?”

“Doubt it.”

“People come and go.”

Silence.

“How long have you been living here, sir?”

“Twenty years.” Glance down at his knee. “Gotta take a leak.” He made another halfhearted try at closing the door. Milo held fast and the guy started to fidget and blink. “C’mo-on, I need to—”

“Friend, I’m a murder guy, don’t care what magic potion gets you through the day.”

The man’s eyes closed. He swayed. Nodding off. Milo tapped his shoulder. “Trust me, pal, I’m not on speaking terms with any narcs.”

The eyes opened and shot us a who-me? “I’m clean.”

“And I’m Condoleezza Rice. Just tell us what you remember about Patty Bigelow and we’ll be out of your life.”

“Don’t remember anything.” We waited.

“She had a kid…okay?”

“What do you remember about the kid?”

“She…had one.”

“Who’d Patty hang with?”

“Dunno.”

“She have any friends?”

“Dunno.”

“Nice lady?”

Shrug.

“You and she didn’t hang out together?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

“Not my type.”

“Meaning?”

Another look at his knee. “Not my type.”

“When she lived here did anything of a criminal nature go down near the building?”

“What?”

“Murder, rape, robbery, et cetera,” said Milo. “Any of that happen here while Patty Bigelow lived here?”

“Nope.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

Hesitation. “Jordan.”

“That a first or a last?”

“Les Jordan.”

“Leslie?”

“Lester.”

“Got a middle name?”

“Marlon.”

“As in Brando.”

Les Jordan shifted his weight. “Gotta piss.”

From the stain spreading at his crotch, truth in advertising.

He stared at it. No embarrassment, just resignation. His eyelids fluttered. “Told you.”

Milo said, “Have a nice day,” and turned heel.

The door slammed shut.

Most of the other tenants were out. The few we found were too young to be relevant.

Back in the car, Milo phoned Detective Sean Binchy and asked him to run a criminal check on Lester Marlon Jordan.

While we waited, I said, “Sean’s back on Homicide?”

“Nah, still wasting his time on armed robberies and other trivial matters. But the lad’s grateful for my tutelage so he avails himself—yeah, Sean, hold on, lemme get a pen.”

When he hung up, he said, “The charming Mr. Jordan has accumulated multiple arrests. Possession of heroin—big shock—and disorderlies. Five dismissals, three convictions, all bargained down to short stretches at County.”