Compulsion

CHAPTER 11

As I backed out of the lot, a Bentley turned in and blocked my way.

Another black one. Red interior.

I rolled forward.

The Bentley didn’t budge.

Milo stuck his head out and said, “Give us some space.”

The driver’s window opened and a blue-shirted man stuck his head out and shouted, “Can’t you read? Customers only, dude!”

Milo said, “Ah the travails of the alpha male,” got out, had a thirty-second chat with the shouter. By the time he was back in the Seville, the stunned driver had given me plenty of room.

I said, “Making friends and influencing people,” and turned onto Pico.

“If I had Clive’s natural charm, I could’ve gotten a free lunch. How do you figure?”

“I guess there could be a certain rough appeal.”

“Rough enough for him to hurt Kat Shonsky?”

“He doesn’t like women,” I said, “and this particular woman dumped him.”

“With his wife and kids gone, he’s lonely, maybe gets horny and remembers how driving around in fancy wheels was a big thrill for Kat, why not try it again?”

I said, “He claims he doesn’t know the customers but all he’d have to do is read a work order to learn Heubel’s address. And if he actually tinkered with Heubel’s car, he could’ve known about the spare key in the wheel well.”

“Hell,” he said, “he could have a master key. So you like him.”

“On the negative side, he bears no resemblance to Ella Mancusi’s killer. And there is the matter of that alibi.”

He found Brittany Hatfield’s number in Mississippi and punched it. “Hi, is your mom there? A friend from California. Yes, Cali – Mrs. Hatfield? This is Lieutenant Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Department. No, I’m sorry, it’s not about that… I see. I’ll do what I can but, first off, could you tell me…”

He did a lot of listening, ended up holding the phone away from his ear. “Clive was right about her being surround sound. And she’s got reason to yell, seems the prince has a bad-check problem. As in three straight months of child support bouncing. She put in for a wage garnish, that’s what she thought I was calling about. Unfortunately, she does verify that he was in Mississippi when he says he was. Stayed with her and the kids until he ‘went off to Biloxi to see that insane bitch mother of his.’”

He stretched his legs. “Back to nowhere at warp speed.”

Memos and message slips blanketed his desk. Public Affairs had called to inform him that Ella Mancusi’s murder might be on the news tonight, he needed to be available for comments if necessary. Sean Binchy had phoned twice, no message. Gordon Beverly wanted to know if any progress had been made on Antoine.

I said, “Sixteen years, it’s still fresh for them. But Tony, with a brand-new loss, hasn’t called to ask about Mom.”

“Funny thing ’bout that?” He phoned the cop watching Mancusi, confirmed a clear pattern: The subject stayed in his apartment all day, emerged late afternoon for the brief drive to the same food stand, ate a burrito in his car, littered, returned home.

Sean had taken the initiative to canvass the block of Villa Entrada where the Bentley had been abandoned. No neighbor had seen or heard a thing, no one was aware of any juvenile delinquents in the neighborhood prone to GTA.

No sign of Kat Shonsky’s Mustang.

He played with Gordon Beverly’s slip. “I’m starting to feel like a family counselor. At least Kat’s mother hasn’t gotten past her denial yet.”

“She might if you asked her for a blood sample.”

“Mitochondrial match to the blood in the Bentley? Let’s see how the initial request is doing.”

He logged on to the New Jersey lab’s site. “Still way at the back of the line and without a confirmed felony, it’s gonna stay there. Okay, time to disappoint the Beverlys.”

I said, “I still don’t understand why Texas doesn’t pressure Jackson to be specific before you waste all this time.”

“Because it’s not about logical or ethical, Alex. It’s politics.” He swung a big foot onto the desk. Papers scattered and fell to the floor. He made no attempt to pick them up. Unwrapped a cigarillo and bit down hard. Wood splintered. He inspected the shattered tip, tossed the whole thing into the trash. Yanking a drawer open, he pulled out a thin blue folder. “Let’s give Antoine’s buddies another try.”

Repeat call to Bradley Maisonette’s parole officer, same voice mail, same message. St. Xavier High informed him that Mr. Good was out ill. Rather than try to wheedle Good’s personal data out of the receptionist, he ran a vehicle check.

“Two-year-old gray Ford Explorer, address on North Broadmoor Terrace.” He thumbed through his Thomas Guide. “Up in the hills, near the Bowl. Time to pay a sick call.”

His desk phone jangled. What he heard on the other end made him button his jacket and tighten the knot of his tie. Checked his shoelaces, rolled his shoulders, gave off the tiniest wince, stood.

I said, “Sudden meeting downtown?”

He stared at me.

“You went all appearance-conscious.”

“Mr. Wizard. Yeah, yeah, the chief wants to schmooze, I’m to be at his office before it’s physically feasible.”

“What’s the topic?”

“Pending cases,” he said. “His Righteousness probably got media calls on Mancusi or Beverly or both, doesn’t want to sound uninformed.”

“Have fun,” I said.

“Real chuckle-fest… you have a problem talking to Wilson Good by yourself?”

“Not unless it violates procedure.”

“Psychologically sensitive case like Antoine?” he said. “A shrink’s deft touch is clearly called for. Also, the chief likes you, so he’d approve.”

“When did that come up?”

“Last time he summoned me. Seems he read that paper you published last spring, agrees that most profiling is bullshit.”

“The chief reads psych journals?”

“The chief has a master’s in psych. He suggested you should be on the payroll. I told him the department wasn’t economically competitive.”

He quoted the pay scale.

I said, “Thank you, sir.”

“Always looking out for your interests. Say hi to Coach Good. Maybe you can get tips on passing and rushing.”

“I played baseball in high school.”

“What position?”

“Utility outfielder,” I said. “Wherever they needed me.”

Wilson Good’s house was one of five crisp one-stories edging a dead-end street above the Hollywood Bowl’s cheap seats. What brokers call “midcentury architectural,” as if the fifties is a leper decade.

Close enough to the amphitheater to hear music on warm summer nights. The rest of the view was trees and brush and ozone-depleted sky.

Good’s house was peach stucco where it wasn’t redwood siding. The gray Explorer and a green VW Passat sat on a pebble-grain slab behind a full-width electric mesh gate.

I pushed the button on the call box, listened to the doorbell chime the first few notes of Pachelbel’s Canon. A mockingbird hopped from a bottlebrush tree onto a honeysuckle hedge. Off in the distance, ravens played politics. And always, the auto hum; the freeway was the real L.A. philharmonic.

Before setting out I’d found a picture of Wilson Good on the Web. Victory party after a title game. Thick-necked, good-looking man with sad eyes that seemed at odds with the celebration.

Maybe a sensitive guy. Maybe he wouldn’t mind my waking him from a sickbed.

I rang again, was contemplating a third attempt when a woman came walking up Broadmoor trailing something tiny and brown. The animal tugged and leaped and strained a spaghetti-strap leash. The woman trotted to catch up.

I guessed Chihuahua and I was wrong; this was the smallest dachshund I’d ever seen, surging and charging, head-down, like a bratwurst on a mission.

The woman was brown-haired and freckled, wore a green top the same color as the Passat, skinny black pants, black shoes. Thirties, five five, with long legs and commodious hips.

The dog surged to the end of a long leash. Developed an instant lust for my left shoe.

The woman said, “Stop, Indy,” without much conviction, got her wrist yanked, fought to hold her ground.

I said, “Indy as in the big race?”

“His engine never turns off.” She scooped the dog into her arms, wrestled with the squirming bundle. When Indy finally calmed, the woman looked at Wilson Good’s house. Moss-green eyes. Soft color, hard appraisal.

She said, “Anything I can help you with?”

I brought out my LAPD consultant’s badge. Long expired and pretty dinky, but few people bother to check. The freckled woman remained too far back to read the details, though Indy was itching for a try.

“I’m looking for Mr. Good.”

“I’m Andrea. His wife.” As if she wasn’t sure. “What do you need with Will?”

“Fifteen years ago he had a friend named Antoine Beverly who-”

“Of course. Antoine.” Indy began making gremlin noises, renewed his battle against confinement. Andrea Good gave up and lowered him to the ground. “Will and Antoine were friends since preschool. What happened to Antoine is the saddest thing Will’s ever experienced. But he doesn’t know anything that would help the police.”

“You’re sure of that.”

“Of course I am. Have the police finally learned something?”

“The case has just been reopened. Could you ask your husband if he can spare me a few minutes?”

“The police send psychologists out on old cases?”

“On specific cases. If I-”

“I’m sure Will would love to help,” she said, “but it’s not a good time. He’s got a nasty flu and a couple of big games coming up. Leave me your number.”

“The detective on the case has already called-”

“Has he? I’ll have to check the machine. Will’s been pretty out of it. High fever, not like him at all, but there’s stuff going around the school.”

Choking protest from below caught our attention.

Indy reared on his hind legs, forelegs pumping air, eyes bulging.

Semi-suspended, with the leash pulling up on his throat. Andrea Good’s hand had drawn up on the cord.

She said, “Oh, no!” and relaxed her grip. Indy dropped down, panting. She kneeled. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

Indy gave out one last yelp of protest and kissed her face.

Unconditional faith and love; maybe one day the Vatican will start canonizing canines.

“Anyway,” said Andrea Good, rising to her feet.

I said, “We’d appreciate hearing from your husband. Hope he heals up quickly.”

“Oh, he will. He’s a tough guy.”