Obsession

CHAPTER 42

I picked up the Seville at the Hollywood station and drove home with Milo sleeping in the passenger seat.

At Wilton and Melrose, eyes still closed, he said, “What’s the chance Blaise will pull a psycho and go for Tanya, as opposed to doing the rational thing and disappearing?”

“Don’t know.”

“There’s no logical reason for him to get rid of her to cover up old crimes. Perry Moore’s body is enough to put him away for life. He’s got to figure Fisk either got busted, or decided to bail on him. Either way, he’d know Fisk might talk about Lester and Moses Grant, tossing in a couple more life sentences, maybe even the needle.”

I said, “If I was out to make you feel better, I’d say sure. But cover-up’s only a small part of it. He’s been killing people since before he could shave and getting away with it. It’s always been about the thrill.”

He grunted, turned toward the window, lapsed into genuine slumber, and breathed through his mouth.

Five-minute nap; he jerked upright, rubbed his eyes. “You need to have a serious talk with Tanya, Alex. Kyle’s useless in a serious confrontation. Until Blaise is in custody, she needs to go somewhere.”

“Same thing Petra said.”

“Great minds,” he said. “When do you want to do it?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Let’s hit the mansion tomorrow before the two of them leave for school, say seven.”

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you should do the scary talk.”

“Why?”

“More your line of work than mine.”

“Fine,” he said. “Make me the bad guy, I look like one anyway.”

Shifting position again, he slapped his pocket, muttering, “Damn thing’s on vibrator, feels like a ferret scurrying around in there,” yanked out his phone, barked, “Sturgis…oh, hey…what…that’s all you know? Okay, sure, sure, we’re close, anyway.”

Clicking off, he said, “That was Biro, guy doesn’t seem to need food or sleep or any other kind of human sustenance. Monitoring calls, one just came in from Hudson Avenue. Guess we hit the mansion, now.”

Iona Bedard, drunk, glassy-eyed, gunmetal sharkskin Prada suit twisted so severely that it corkscrewed her torso, screamed, “Get your greaser hands off me!”

The officer looking into the cruiser was a white man named Kenney, big and muscular and amused. His partner, a black woman named Doulton, stood on the front landing of the mansion listening as Detective Raul Biro spoke to America. The housekeeper wore a long pink robe, kept cinching the belt tighter and pointing at the cruiser that held Iona.

Amber flickers from a few neighboring houses, but most of Hudson Avenue remained dim and quiet but for the sound of Iona’s ire.

Lots of lights on in the Bedard mansion. The green Bentley occupied its usual place in the driveway. No sign of the white Mercedes. “Greaser!”

Iona slouched in the backseat of the police car, hands cuffed in front of her as a courtesy, black hair stiff and mussed, runny mascara evoking a grade D sad-clown painting. Skinny legs were spread apart, revealing a crescent of black panty under panty hose.

I could smell the booze from a yard away.

Iona pummeled the seat with cuffed fists. “Let me out let me out!”

Officer Kenney said, “You’ve been arrested for creating a public disturbance, ma’am. Now you need to calm down before you get yourself in any additional trouble.”

Iona’s mandible protruded. “That is my fucking house and you’re a fucking service employee! I order you to let me out!”

Kenney’s “Ma’am-” was met by a flood of invective. He shut the cruiser’s door.

A ratatattat sounded and the car’s window shuddered. Iona had sprawled on her back, raised her legs, and was bicycle-pumping the glass with stiletto heels.

Kenney said, “She doesn’t stop that, I’m going to have to hog-tie her.”

Milo said, “Be my guest.”

“She’s no one important?”

“In her own mind.”

Kenney smiled. “Lots of that going around.”

As the cruiser drove away, Raul Biro finished with America and let her return to the mansion. His hair was combed back smoothly above an unlined face. No wrinkles in his blue suit, either. His white shirt was snowy, gold tie knotted in a perfect half Windsor.

Milo’s hand drifted to his own limp ribbon of polyester as Biro talked. “According to Ms. Frias-the maid-here’s what happened. Mrs. Bedard showed up this evening around seven p.m., unannounced. She insisted on coming in, which put Frias in a tough spot because Mr. Bedard’s instructions are that she never be allowed in.”

“Domestic bliss,” said Milo.

“Frias says Mrs. Bedard has tried it before, but always when Mr. Bedard is here. Mr. Bedard handles it, trying not to provoke confrontation. This time, when Frias tried to close the door, Mrs. Bedard shoved her aside so hard she nearly fell, forced her way in, and started looking around the house for Kyle and ‘that girl.’ Apparently Kyle spoke to her earlier in the day and told her about Tanya and she didn’t approve.”

“Cuing Mommy in,” said Milo. “Wonder why?”

Biro shrugged. “Anyway, Mrs. Bedard found Kyle and Tanya up in one of the bedrooms and went off on them. A big argument ensued, Kyle and Mrs. Bedard screaming, Mrs. Bedard throwing stuff, there was some breakage. At approximately seven fifteen, Kyle and Tanya left the house with Mrs. Bedard trying to restrain Kyle physically. She’s yanking on his jacket sleeve, he slips out of the jacket, this time it’s her turn to fall. She lands on her butt, screams for Kyle to help her up. Tanya starts to help but Mrs. Bedard screams at her-‘Not you!’ Kyle gets p.o.’d, leaves with Tanya.”

“They take the Mercedes?”

“Yup,” said Biro. “Haven’t been heard from since. Mrs. Bedard punched Kyle’s cell number a hundred times according to Frias. Finally, she gives up, goes to the wet bar, and gets to work on Mr. Bedard’s private stash of single-malt whiskey. By eight, she’s stone-blasted, starts dumping on the maid-how could she let this shameful thing happen, ‘that girl doesn’t belong,’ can’t Frias even be trusted with running a house, and so on. Apparently, some racial comments ensued and Frias went to her room and locked herself in. Mrs. Bedard goes after her, bangs the door, starts yelling, finally gives up and leaves. Then the doorbell rings at three a.m., Frias answers it because she’s worried it’s Kyle, he’s in some kind of trouble. Instead, it’s Mrs. Bedard again, even drunker, a taxi’s driving away and she’s got a suitcase, says she checked out of the Hilton, is moving in until order is restored. Frias tries to bar Bedard’s entry. A struggle ensues, and both women end up on their butts. Frias runs to her room again, dials 911. Wilshire cruiser shows up three minutes later, the front door’s wide open and Mrs. Bedard marches out and orders the patrol officers to arrest ‘that taco-bending greaser bitch, deport her back to taco-land.’”

Lights went off serially in the mansion. Biro studied the Tudor facade. “Maybe it really is true, money doesn’t bring happiness.” Small smile. “Though I don’t imagine being poor would be much comfort if you’re crazy to begin with.”

The three of us returned to our cars. Biro’s civilian drive was an eighties Datsun ZX, chocolate brown, custom wheels, immaculately maintained.

“What next, Lieutenant?”

“I’d better find the kids, get ’em safe until De Paine’s in custody.”

“What about Mrs. Bedard? Once she sobers up, she’ll be out.”

“I don’t see her as any big criminal risk but if someone loses the paperwork for a day or so, no one’s crying.”

Biro smiled.

“That could happen. What else do you want me to do?”

“Go home and get some sleep.”

No reaction.

Milo said, “You don’t believe in sleep?”

“Spent some time in Afghanistan, my whole bio clock got disrupted. Since then I’m okay with three, four hours.”

“Listening for snipers.”

“Among other things,” said Biro. “You ex-military?”

“Way before your time,” said Milo.

“Asia?” said Biro. “My dad did that. He drives a catering truck now. Tacos and all that good stuff.”