Compulsion

CHAPTER 37

Two days after the rescue of Felicia and Emilio Torres, Milo was called to the chief’s office for what he assumed was a pat on the back.

That morning, we’d both been at the coroner’s and I stayed with him for the short ride to Parker Center.

The forensic pathologist had been asked to conduct a psychological autopsy and wanted my professional opinion on the psychological motivation behind Ansell “Dale” Bright’s self-mutilation, hormonal manipulation, and fascination with “macabre altruism.”

I’d rattled off a bunch of jargon that seemed to make everyone happy.

As Milo pulled into the headquarters staff lot, he said, “Why don’t you come up, His Majesty would probably like to meet you.”

“Probably?”

“He has his moods.”

“Thanks anyway, I’ll catch some air.”

He went inside and I took a walk. Nothing much to see but the fall air was clean for downtown L.A. and the homeless guys I passed seemed tranquil.

Half an hour later, I was back in front of headquarters and Milo was pacing.

“Been here long, Big Guy?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Short meeting,” I said.

“Cuz Jackson’s other claimed bodies have frittered to nothing, the only thing holding Texas back from spiking the bastard is Antoine.” Pointing his finger and beetling his brows. “‘Do something, Lieutenant.’”

“Not a word about Bright?”

“‘Cross-dressing bastard got what he deserved.’”

Back to the Hollywood Hills.

Watching Wilson Good’s house after dark.

A night of nothing, followed by a day of the same. Hard to find shelter on the high, sunny street but Milo really wasn’t hoping for much.

The second night, I offered to come along.

He said, “Too much free time?”

“Something like that.”

Mr. Dot-com’s executive secretary had phoned this morning, announcing her boss’s “intention to visit his commission” in three days. Robin was working overtime to assemble the mandolin.

She said, “You’re okay with being here?”

“Can I hold your tools?”

“When you get in a certain frame of mind, everything you say sounds suggestive.”

“And the problem is…”

“Absolutely nothing.”

I parked the Seville at the southern edge of Wilson Good’s street. Close enough for a long view of the house and the electric mesh gate that caged its frontage. A couple of low-voltage spots created useless puddles of illumination. Most of the enclosure was dark.

I said, “Where’s the Red Bull?”

Milo said, “Drank coffee all day.”

We settled in for the long haul.

No need to; two minutes later, we both spotted movement behind the mesh.

The man was trapped. Slinking into a corner, he ignored Milo ’s command to show himself, huddled low, trying to look small.

Milo stood out of view, hand on gun. He’d used the weapon more this week than in months previous. “Out, pal. Let’s have a look at you.”

Freeway hum.

“Put your hands on your head and walk backward toward the sound of my voice. Now.”

The distant, bovine moan of a truck horn.

Milo repeated the order louder.

Nothing.

“Suit yourself, friend. One way or the other you’re coming out.”

Silence.

“You like fire hoses?”

Zoom zoom zoom from miles away.

He called for three Hollywood patrol cars and a locksmith. Five officers arrived under the tutelage of a sergeant who scoped out the situation and said, “Don’t see what we can do.”

The locksmith showed up ten minutes later, squinted at the gate from ten yards away. “He armed?”

“Don’t know.”

“What do you expect me to do? That’s electric, anyway, I can’t do anything with it.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Use a tactical nuclear weapon.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Welcome. Can I go now?”

Five more minutes of nothing before Milo called out, “You up for a climb, buddy?”

No answer.

“Pal, one way or the other, you’re busted.”

The sergeant said, “Maybe he’s deaf. Central had a deaf guy last year, got shot, big trouble.”

Milo continued his monologue. Alternating cajoling with threats.

When he said, “Okay, do the tear gas,” a voice from behind the gate said, “I’ll come out.”

A figure stepped out to the center of the enclosure. The moon lit up half his face.

Thin, gaunt black man. Ragged hair, scruffy beard, sagging clothes.

“Hands on your head.”

Scrawny arms shot up fast.

“Turn around and walk toward me. Back up so you’re touching the gate.”

The man said, “I know the drill.”

Milo cuffed both his hands to the mesh gate.

“Thought you wanted me out of here, Officer. I climbed in, could climb out.”

Milo turned to the sergeant. “There should be some kind of manual control over there, near the motor. Anyone in good shape?”

The sergeant said, “Someone feeling like Tarzan?”

A short, stocky female officer said, “I used to do gymnastics.”

“Go for it, Officer Kylie.”

After a couple of false starts, Kylie got a foothold on the mesh. Moments later, she’d scrambled up and over. “Here it is, right on the box.”

Milo told the cuffed man: “Listen carefully: Gate’s gonna swing open, just move with it, don’t panic.”

“I never panic,” said the man.

“Unflappable.”

“That, too.”

Freed from the gate and recuffed, the man stared off into space.

Milo let the uniforms go, sat him on the curb.

“I finally get to meet you, Bradley.”

Bradley Maisonette hung his head.

“Here to see your old pal, Will? Interesting way to visit.”

“You know me?” said Maisonette. “’Cause I don’t know you.”

“Been looking for you, sir.”

The honorific gave Maisonette a start. He smiled. “You didn’t find me for a while.”

“Congratulations. Let’s talk.”

“How’d you do it?” said Maisonette. “Look for me, I mean. Like what’s your technique? I was in plain sight, living the good life on Fourth Street.”

“ Tent City?”

Maisonette flashed rotten teeth. “We call it the Sidewalk Suburb. I’m in and out of there all the time, all you had to do was ask. Flash enough trash, some junkie would’ve sold me out.”

Speaking softly, clearly. His clothes were in tatters but over the phone he’d sound like a refined man.

Milo said, “Your P.O. have any idea you crashed there?”

Bradley Maisonette laughed. “Those people? Never talk to them.”

We took Maisonette back to Hollywood station.

He said, “What are the charges?”

Milo said, “Offhand I can think of trespassing, attempted burglary, resisting arrest. Give me some time and I’ll come up with more.”

“Small stuff. I’ll cope.”

“No need to if you talk to us.”

“That simple, huh?”

“Why not?”

“Nothing ever is.”

Maisonette ended up in the same room Tasha had marked with a floral bouquet of perfume and lotions. He exuded the sour, unwashed reek that had filled the Seville on the drive over.

He sniffed, frowned, as if aware of his own odor for the first time.

Milo offered him something to drink.

Maisonette said, “I’ll take a steak. Filet mignon, medium rare inside, charred crisp on the outside, with some nice fried onions. Caesar salad to start, extra dressing. Red wine. I prefer California over French – Pinot Noir.”

“Cooperate, Bradley, I can get you caviar.”

“Hate that stuff. Tastes like bad pussy.”

“Turn either down often?”

Maisonette smiled.

“Why were you trying to break into Wilson Good’s crib?”

“No one was breaking in anywhere.”

Under bright light, Maisonette’s skin was sallow, scored, sun-spotted. Red-rimmed eyes drooped. Thirty-one years old, but he could’ve been his father’s age. Crude tattoos brocading his arms did nothing to hide tortured veins and knotted track-smudges.

Milo said, “What were you doing there?”

“Trying to see Will.”

“Why?”

“He called me.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“You have a phone?”

“I stand corrected,” said Maisonette. “He sent his girlfriend to Fourth Street and she invited me. Said Will and I needed to talk.”

“About what?”

“She didn’t say.”

“You went over anyway.”

“A week later.”

Milo said, “She didn’t have to spell it out. You knew.”

Maisonette’s eyes contemplated resistance.

He said, “What the hell.” Gave a slow, weary nod.

“What was the topic?” said Milo.

“Twan,” said Maisonette. “There’s nothing else between Will and me.”

“Good wanted to talk about Antoine Beverly.”

“Just the opposite. The girlfriend said Will wanted to discuss not talking. He’d explain when I got there.”

“Who’s this girlfriend?”

“White girl, freckles, calls herself Andy.”

I said, “That’s his wife.”

Maisonette grinned. “You believe everything you hear?”

“Why would she lie about that?” said Milo.

“Will’s been stringing her along for ten years. Coaches at a church school, has to look all respectable, so he tells the priests he’s married. But they never filed paper.”

“Ten years, huh?”

“Will’s one of those guys,” said Maisonette. “Commitment-shy.”

“The two of you have been in regular contact,” said Milo.

“Not regular, intermittent.”

“When was the last time?”

“While back, I don’t keep a calendar.”

“Years? Months?”

“Maybe a year,” said Maisonette. “The topic was I needed a loan to get me on my feet.”

“Will come through?”

“Sure did.”

“Good friend.”

“We go back.”

Milo said, “Let’s push things up to the present. Andrea the fake-wife came by to tell you Will would pay you not to talk about Twan.”

“I didn’t want to anyway,” said Maisonette. “Talk. Called him, got no answer. Fine with me.”

“Why was Will suddenly worried about you talking?”

Maisonette smiled. “Why ask questions you know the answer to?”

“I could use your answer.”

“Because things were stirring up.”

“Antoine’s case was reopened.”

Nod.

“After Andrea’s visit, you rabbited.”

Maisonette flashed a who-me look.

Milo said, “Bradley, I’m not as stupid as I look, been on Fourth Street plenty of times. Junkies said you were in the air.”

Smooth lie; not a trace of tell.

Maisonette shrugged. “I wandered around a little. You didn’t work hard enough.”

“Well,” said Milo, “at least you’re here and we’re having a great time. So what about Antoine worries Will?”

Maisonette scratched the crook of one ravaged arm. “You’re not going to charge me, correct? Once you get hold of Will, he’ll tell you straight-out I was invited to visit anytime, therefore no trespass and, for sure, no attempt 459.”

Milo laughed. “You climbed his fence.”

“Rang his bell first. I thought he was home.”

“No one answers the bell, he’s home?”

“Will can get like that.”

“Like what?”

“Depressed, goes to bed for days, doesn’t want to talk or see anyone. Last few years, he’s been better, taking meds. Likes his job, doesn’t want to rock any boats. But before – when we were in college – he’d miss a lot of classes, borrow my notes.”

“You went to college together.”

“Cal State Long Beach,” said Maisonette. “One year, I studied electrical engineering. Will did a Mickey Mouse major.” Flexing his hands. “P.E.”

I said, “Will has a long history of depression.”

“Ancient history.”

“Did it start before Antoine’s death, or after?”

Maisonette’s eyes rose to the ceiling.

Milo said, “Is that a tough question, Bradley?”

Maisonette slid around in his chair. “I’ll take some food now. And a Coke, real sugar, no Diet.”

“Answer the question first.”

Maisonette rubbed his palms together. Jammed his hands into his hair and yanked hard enough to shimmy his eyebrows.

I said, “Before or after?”

“After.”

“Antoine stayed on Will’s mind. Made dealing with life tough.”

“You sound like a shrink.”

“Happens sometimes. How did Antoine affect you?”

“Me? I’m cool.”

“Not Will.”

Maisonette hugged himself. “Cold in here, would you please turn down the A.C.?”

Milo said, “What preyed on Will? He did something to Twan? You and he did something together?”

Maisonette’s head turned slowly. His eyes filled with tears. “You think that?”

“Mr. Maisonette, I’ve got a sixteen-year-old homicide all stirred up, like you said, and two supposed friends of the victim rabbiting.”

“Supposed? Here are the facts: We were best friends. Best. I didn’t do anything to Antoine, Will didn’t do anything to Antoine.”

“Antoine disappeared into thin air?”

“We didn’t do it. Not Will or me.”

“Who did?”

Maisonette worked his hands through his hair. Dandruff snowed on the table.

Milo slammed the table hard enough to twang the metal. “Enough of this bullshit! What’d happened to Antoine?”

Real rage. Maisonette parried it with long, cool stare. “Nothing.”

Milo shot up to his feet. Leaned on the table, nearly upended it with his weight. “Sixteen years, Bradley. Antoine’s parents living with the pain of not knowing. You and your so-called friend were at that funeral, pretending to be all torn up. Sixteen fucking years.”

Maisonette’s skinny frame began to shake.

“Say it!”

Maisonette’s head dropped. “Damn Will.”

“Will did something.”

“He swore me.”

“To what?”

“Silence. Not ’cause we did something. Something got done to him.”

A beat.

“And to me.”