Obsession

CHAPTER 30

No van in Tanya’s driveway. Lights ambered the living room drapes. The outdoor spots seemed to shine brighter and I said so.

Milo said, “She probably upped the wattage. Good girl, she’s paying attention. She’s likely still on campus, cramming for a test or something. But let me check the premises to make you feel better.”

As he started to get out, a car across the street pulled away and drove toward Pico.

White Mercedes convertible. Classic model, conspicuous in this middle-class neighborhood.

I said, “Get back in.”

Milo said, “What-”

“That Benz heading north. We’ve seen it before.”

The convertible made a rolling stop and continued east on Pico without signaling. Moderate traffic made the tail easy. At La Cienega, the Mercedes hooked a left, picked up speed, sailed past La Cienega Park and the old Restaurant Row before pausing for a light at San Vicente. Then on to Third Street and a right turn.

Short ride past newer cafés and masses of valet-parked vehicles, then south on Orlando.

Milo said, “Hang at the corner.”

We watched the convertible cover a few blocks then turn left onto Fourth Street. Again, no signal.

“At the least I can get him for traffic violations. Switch off your lights and move up a bit.”

I pulled over just short of Orlando and Fourth and we watched as the Mercedes cruised up the block and paused in front of Mary Whitbread’s duplex.

Sitting there, in the middle of the street. A full minute passed before the brake lights went off.

Milo said, “He’s heading back to San Vicente, go, Alex.”

The Benz sped east on Beverly. I stayed three car lengths behind, followed the sleek white chassis through the Fairfax district and into Hancock Park.

When the Benz turned onto Hudson Avenue, Milo had me hang back again. “Let’s make sure any surprises are the ones we dish out.”

The Benz turned exactly where we knew it would.

I raced onto Hudson, pulled to the east side of the street, positioned the Seville the wrong way, directly in front of the Bedard mansion.

The white Mercedes was behind the green Bentley. Lights off, no engine sound. A weathered plastic rear window killed any view of the occupants.

No one exited the vehicle.

Milo pulled his little Maglite from a jacket pocket, unholstered his gun, and got out. Standing just behind the Benz, he aimed a sharp, bright beam through the plastic.

“Police! Driver, open the door slowly.”

Nothing.

“Do it. Driver out.” His rumble echoed amid the silent elegance. Jarring, but nary a light went on in the neighboring houses. People slept well on Hudson Avenue. Or pretended to.

“Out.”

The driver’s door opened partially. “Lieutenant? It’s me. Kyle.”

“Get out of the car, Kyle.”

“I-this is my own house.”

“Do it. Now.”

A voice from the passenger seat said, “This is absur-”

“Quiet, passenger. Kyle, out.”

The door swung wider and Kyle Bedard stepped out squinting and blinking. He had on a fuzzy gray sweatshirt over olive cargo pants and the same yellow running shoes. The tips of his hair glinted in the flashlight beam like Fourth of July sparklers.

He said, “Can you please get that out of my eyes?”

Milo lowered the light.

“See, Lieutenant, it really is me. No one else wears shoes this ugly.”

Milo said, “I’m going to frisk you, son. Turn around.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Anything but.” He patted Kyle down, had him sit on the curb. “You next, passenger.”

The voice from the car said, “I don’t believe this.”

Kyle rubbed his eyes. Saw me and smiled. “In a surreal, kind of Jean-Luc Godard way, this is cool.”

The passenger laughed.

“Out!”

Kyle jumped.

The passenger said, “My name’s not Mohammed so why go to all the trouble?”

“For laughs,” said Milo. “Careless people have been known to get shot.”

“What’s funny about that?”

“Exactly.”

Kyle said, “That’s-”

“Okay, okay,” said the passenger. “I’m getting out. Don’t shoot me for God’s sake.”

The man who emerged was taller than Kyle and fifty pounds heavier, with a commodious paunch. Late fifties, deep tan, clean dome. The remaining hair was dark and long enough to collect in a ponytail that drooped past his shoulder blades. Sideburns fuller than Milo’s traveled toward a soft jawline. John Lennon glasses rode a beak nose. Both his chins were strong.

The overall image was Ben Franklin in Italian duds. A beautifully styled cream cashmere blazer was custom-tailored for a slimmer body. Chocolate slacks broke perfectly over caramel mesh loafers. The open collar of an electric-blue silk shirt was topped by a yellow-and-azure ascot. A wine-colored handkerchief tumbled from his breast pocket. I counted six gold rings on two hands, lots of glimmer.

A smile rich with scorn danced across thin lips. “Do I put my hands up? Say ‘Uncle’? Recite the Pledge of Allegiance?”

“Just stand there and relax, sir.”

“Due-diligence time, Lieutenant whatever-your-name-is. There’s a fifteen-gizmo Swiss Army knife in my right front trouser pocket, don’t nick yourself on the can opener. The only other potentially dangerous object on my person is my billfold. But seeing as there are no females in sight, I wouldn’t worry.”

His smile widened as Milo did the pat. “As long as we’re tangoing, I might as well introduce myself. Myron Bedard.”

Kyle said, “This is kind of cool, don’t you think, Dad?”

Myron Bedard laughed. “Son, I guess I’ll need some time to see it that way.”

When Milo finished, he apologized to Myron and allowed Kyle to get up from the curb.

Kyle brushed off the seat of his pants and stood next to his father. “Think any neighbors saw this, Dad?”

“If they did,” said Myron Bedard, “to hell with them.” To Milo: “Was that really necessary?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Bedard removed his glasses and wiped them with a corner of cashmere. “Doing your job…no hard feelings. Actually I don’t get it. I mean I see your point about being cautious for your personal safety, but Kyle said you know him, so why the hell go through that?”

“I’ve met Kyle once, Mr. Bedard. Don’t know him well enough to be sure of anything.”

“Oh, that’s-”

“We spotted you watching Tanya Bigelow’s duplex.”

“Spotted? We were just…” Sidelong glance at his son.

Kyle kept silent.

Milo said, “You were just what?”

Kyle looked down.

Myron Bedard said, “My son has a crush on the girl-is that okay to say, Kyle?”

Kyle cursed under his breath. “Guess it is now.”

“He’s concerned about her, wants to make sure she’s okay, that’s all. To show you the extent of his devotion, he picked me up from the airport and rather than head straight home, insisted we-”

“Dad!”

“These are the police, son. No sense dissembling.”

Kyle faced us. “It was a dorky thing to do, I’m sorry.”

Milo said, “Why are you worried about Tanya, son?”

Myron Bedard said, “I pay his tuition so only I get to call him that.” Slapping Kyle’s back. “Just kidding, go on, Lieutenant-I didn’t catch your last name…”

“Sturgis.”

Bedard extended his hand. He and Milo shook.

“Sturgis,” he said, “as in the big Harley meet. Ever been there, Lieutenant?”

“Nope.”

“You should, it’s a blast. I’ve made it twelve years in a row. I alternate between a 95 Fatboy and a 2004 Speedster 883 Custom XL. There’s absolutely nothing like the Black Mountains in August, you make a pit stop in Keystone, near Mount Rushmore. There’s some serious partying going on.” He nudged Kyle. “Next year, you’ve got to make good on that promise and go with me, son.”

Kyle didn’t answer.

“Noncommittal,” said Myron Bedard. “He reverts to that when I’m being a pain in the ass. You should go, too, Lieutenant. I assume you bike.”

“Why’s that?”

“Don’t all cops bike?”

“Not this one.”

“Maybe it’s the highway patrol I’m thinking of. What’s Erik Estrada doing nowadays?”

Milo turned to Kyle. “Why are you worried about Tanya?”

“For the same reasons you are.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Uncle Lester being murdered right after you talk to him about Tanya’s mom. Such as Tanya living near Mary and Pete, such as the relationship between Mary and Uncle Lester.”

“Pete as in Peterson Whitbread.”

“He hated to be called that.”

“You know him.”

“We weren’t friends.”

“Same question,” said Milo.

“I saw him from time to time.”

“How long ago?”

“When we were kids.”

“How’d that happen to be?”

Myron Bedard stepped in front of his son. “Could we continue this discussion inside, please? I don’t want to be a spectacle.”