The Museum of Desire

Chapter 43

Custody paperwork filled the rest of the day, followed by dinner with Robin that I cooked and catching up with psych journals. I went to sleep at eleven p.m., woke up at midnight, one a.m., two thirty.

As four a.m. approached, I remained wide awake, eyes open, muscles tight, synapses jangling. I tried to deep-breathe myself back to sleep. Doctor-soothe-thyself failed and at four forty-five a.m., I got out of bed, made my way to the closet, and got dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and running shoes.

Robin stirred. I kissed her forehead and went to the kitchen. Blanche stirred from her service-porch crate.

I opened the unlocked grate, received a somnolent lick.

After writing a note to Robin, I left.

When you’re compulsive, even new habits die hard.

No doubt where I was going.

Rolling down the private road topped by my house, I had to brake hard to avoid a buck with a full-on rack of antlers. He stared at me, flexed chest muscles, and bounded off into the brush. Moments later an enormous owl soared out of a pine tree and was swallowed by a lavender-black sky.

The Seville’s windows were open. Cool May air and scurry-noise blew through. I got cold and shut the window. Didn’t like the ensuing quiet and put the radio on.

KJazz. Stan Getz playing “Desafinado.” Nice and mellow but it didn’t matter.

The Glen was free of vehicles. I sped to Sunset, made an easy left turn, and drove toward Beverly Hills. Thinking about Crispin Moman making his way up Benedict Canyon, intent on fecal revenge.

Driven by forces he’d never understand.

Lucky him.

Easy to take my time on a deserted Benedict Canyon. I spotted it well in advance.

White car backed into the driveway of the blue house.

I checked the rearview, backed up illegally, turned east, and, as I had the first time I’d been here, drove to the top of the street, just out of view. Exiting the car, I walked downhill, blanketed by darkness, hoping my footsteps didn’t set off someone’s guard dog.

I descended just enough to see lights on in the blue house. A faint driveway bulb clarified the car: the Volvo. I took a few more steps.

No mail piled up in front of the door.

As I stood there, the door cracked.

I backed up and watched as a tall, silver-haired man stepped out and locked the door. Three brown-paper rectangles under his arm.

I raced back to the Seville, had rolled a few yards downhill, headlights off by the time the Volvo sped out of the driveway and turned left on Benedict.

Southward, the same direction the Rolls had taken as Crispin watched.

I kept my distance as the boxy white car rolled through the red light at Sunset and turned right.

West. The same route I’d take to go home. A strange thought flashed: What if this was a neighbor?

But at Beverly Glen, where I’d normally head north, the Volvo drove south, then west.

The car hooked south on a side street and continued halfway down the block before swinging a wide arc in the center of the road and backing up into the driveway of a house. Idling as a black-iron gate twenty feet up slid open. Behind it another car facing the street; the unmistakable imperial verticality of a Rolls-Royce grille.

The Volvo took its place in front of its glitzier sib. The gate closed.

I got out of there, caught a red light at Beverly Glen, and used the time to text Milo.

Five a.m. Something to greet him when he woke.

No reply until seven thirty-four: his knock on my front door.