Obsession

CHAPTER 41

Petra’s heavy foot and two a.m. quiet made Hollywood to Mount Washington a quick drive.

Blaise De Paine’s hideout was a little gray frame house atop a short, obscure street, just up the freeway from Chinatown where Moses Grant had been dumped. SWAT vehicles clogged the block. The altitude offered a misty, pine-interrupted view of a black damask sky.

An open garage door framed the bulk of the Hummer. Inside the house, clothing, food, and body odor clogged four slovenly rooms, but no sign of De Paine.

The second SWAT team was more subdued than the jocks who’d busted Fisk, everyone let down by big buildup, no action. A deputy commander had showed up to stage-direct, a thickset, bowlegged bald man named Lionel Harger, with meaty furrows sausaging his forehead and a multicrushed nose that sniffed the air with canine intensity.

He charged out of the house now, bounded across the porch, planted himself in front of Petra, folded his arms across a pigeon-chest. “Two in one night? We should charge you desk-folk by the hour.”

Milo said, “Be grateful you don’t get paid by the suspect.”

Harger’s chin jerked upward as if he’d been jabbed. “You’re that West L.A. so-called ace, does things…uniquely.” Corkscrew smile on the last word.

Milo said, “Beats administrative meetings and other random bullshit,” and made the most of his height.

Harger’s eyes bugged and his thorax swelled. “Concentrate on your clearance rate, Lieutenant. For comedy, stick with Robin Williams.”

He stomped away, began gathering his troops. The crime techs were swarming the property like picnic ants, examining the Hummer, flashlighting oil stains in the driveway, searching for tire tracks. The five-year-old Mazda Miata registered to Perry Moore was nowhere in sight. Petra had put an alert on it five minutes ago.

Lionel Harger strutted to an armored Ford Expedition, stopped to glare, got in, roared off.

Petra said, “Making friends and influencing people, Lieutenant Sturgis.”

Milo said, “Meathead doesn’t recall but he was one year ahead of me at the academy. Assorted sneaky individuals used to leave hostile printed matter in my locker. Ol’ Lionel could always be counted on to snicker when he just happened to pass by as I was unearthing some treasure.”

His turn to stomp away, over to the house, where he ducked under the yellow tape.

Petra said, “Everyone’s fading from sleep deprivation,” but her eyes were on high-beam. “Blaise is one lucky little monster, keeps slipping away.”

I said, “When he didn’t hear from Fisk, he probably got jumpy.”

“Any guess about where he’s gone?”

I shook my head.

“Reach Tanya?” she said.

“Left messages at her cell and Kyle’s.”

“This hour, they’re probably snoozing. Though when I was in college, I seem to recall three o’clock being midafternoon. Try again?”

I did. Same result.

She said, “At least that mansion’s got a good security system.”

Her cell beeped. Raul Biro informing her Robert Fisk had been taken to County Jail. She filled Biro in, turned back to me. “We’ll get Blaise eventually. Until we do, Tanya should take a semester off and go far away.”

Before I could answer, a tall, mustachioed tech came out to show her a rumpled red velvet jacket with gold-braid lapels. Hollywood Elite Custom Tailors label inside, low-rent address on the east end of the Boulevard, BDP monogram above that.

“That’s our boy,” she said.

“Snappy dresser,” said the tech. “He walks around like that, who knows, you might even find him.”

She pointed a finger. “Go dig, mole.” The tech laughed and returned to the house. “Think you can convince the kid to leave town until we find Blaise?”

“She’s got nowhere else to go,” I said.

“No other family?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Maybe we can come up with a plan-well, look who’s back walking jauntily.”

Milo took several long steps, waved us over to the house. When we got there, he said, “Out back.”

One of the techs had spotted soil disturbance at the rear of the skimpy yard, what looked to be recent excavation along a shaded strip created by a mock-orange hedge. Except for the hedge, the property was mostly dry dirt, landscaping not Perry Moore’s thing.

The hand-dig took awhile, several sets of hands scooping inch by inch.

At three forty-seven a.m., Coroner’s Investigator Judy Sheinblum nudged something soft two feet below the surface. A minute later, she was staring into a face wrapped in clear plastic.

Caucasian male, midthirties, brown hair, orange soul patch. Black-green sludge around the lips and eye sockets advertised the early signs of decomposition. Some fluid condensation on the surface of the plastic, but no maggots; the sheeting was industrial-strength and bound with drapery cord. Cool dry nights would slow things down.

Everyone from Mission Road agreed this was days, not weeks.

Further search of the house produced a cheap blue nylon wallet under a pile of dirty underwear. The photo on Perry Moore’s lapsed driver’s license matched the corpse. Five years ago, Moore’s hair and patch had been tomato red.

The body was lifted out, examined. A protuberance on the left side of Moore’s forehead looked like blunt-force injury. Then the hole in the back of Moore’s skull put the lie to that.

“Bullet’s still in there,” said Judy Sheinblum. “No exit because not enough force.”

“Twenty-two,” said Milo.

“That’s what I’d double-down on.” Sheinblum returned to the corpse.

Other techs continued to search for additional earth movement, found nothing. Petra ordered a cadaver dog, anyway, learned it would take a couple of days.

We returned to her car. She leaned against the door and yawned. “Blaise is getting careless. Putting Moore in a shallow grave like that, leaving Moore’s and his own personal effects behind.”

I said, “He didn’t expect to be found.”

Milo said, “Fisk blew it for him. Speaking of which, Fisk had to know about Moore but he directed us right here.”

“He probably figured it was just a matter of time. If he ingratiated himself, things would go easier for him.”

“I fed that delusion,” said Petra. “The whole time we’re dancing around the murder thing, I’m pretending to buy his bull so he won’t lawyer up. Then I bring up breaking and entering again and he ends it.”

“Idiot focuses on the small stuff,” said Milo. “Knows we’re looking for him but visits Mary for a quick screw and walks right into it, anyway.”

“Thank God for criminal brain damage, huh? Maybe Blaise will screw up big-time, now that he’s sans entourage. Meanwhile, I’m going to sleep.” She opened her car door, rubbed her eyes. Stared at something over my shoulder.

Perry Moore’s body, wrapped in official crypt plastic, was being rolled into a white van. The sheath not that different from the one he’d been buried in.

“Kill you so I can get your house,” said Petra.

Milo said, “Location, location, location.”