The Museum of Desire

Chapter 52

Milo and Reed let the body drop to the ground. Milo stood guard, Reed did the same for what remained of Candace, and Alicia kept control of the sidewalk.

No challenge for her. The street had emptied as far as was visible. Instant ghost town. The last time I’d seen it like this was after the Northridge quake.

Then the quiet gave way to din as sirens began wailing. Loud louder deafening; an avant-garde composer gone berserk.

A figure ran toward us from the south.

Sean Binchy, pumping his arms, ginger hair blowing. Dressed like the ska-punk bassist he’d once been in an untucked floral shirt, blue cargo pants, and Doc Martins.

Alicia stepped aside to let him pass. He looked around panting, eyes hyperactive. “It’s over?”

I said, “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“C’mon.”

As I guided him away from the carnage, talking softly, steadily, hypnotically, five Beverly Hills police SUVs zoomed up, screeched to a stop, and formed a motor queue in the middle of Canon Drive. Seconds later two hook-and-ladders turned off onto the brief block between Santa Monica Boulevard and its smaller southern neighbor, South Santa Monica Boulevard.

The firefighters remained in place. Ten uniformed Beverly Hills officers got out and stood in front of their vehicles. Six males, four females, all young, all working at stoic but mostly failing.

Seconds later an unmarked green sedan roared in and discharged a gray-haired, potato-faced man. He took a moment to look around, walked straight up to Milo.

“Eric Fosburgh.”

Brief handshake. Milo’s hand was steady. Mine weren’t.

Fosburgh said, “What the fuck, our 911’s going psycho.” He looked at the bodies. “Oh, my God, what the hell happened?”

Milo said, “It turned psycho.”

Fosburgh’s eyes settled on Candace. “That’s her? What the hell?”

“And that’s him.” Milo pointed to the sidewalk. “He cut her throat without warning after taking some sort of poison pill.”

“Right here? Fucking insane,” said Fosburgh. Sweat beaded his face, collecting in a deep-cleft chin tinted by five o’clock shadow. “Unfuckingbelievable — all right, at least it’s not terrorists or an active shooter, which is what a whole bunch of callers claimed.”

“Fake news,” said Milo.

Fosburgh took another look at the bodies. “Sitting right there... shit, they could be anyone.”

“They’re anything but.”

“He just hauled off and cut her?”

“Straight in then around to her right carotid. Two seconds.”

“Fuck,” said Fosburgh. “Someone also called in about a guy getting punched out and croaking of a heart attack. I guess nothing like that. What kind of poison?”

Milo took a deep breath. “He pulled that little blue box on the table out of his pocket, swallowed a little white dealie, and said it was a breath mint.”

“Like those Nazi suicide deals in the movies?”

“That would fit.”

“He’s a Nazi, also?”

“It’s complicated, Eric.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry it went to shit, I know what it’s like when things go to shit... you know, your color isn’t looking so good. Maybe you should sit down.”

“Thanks, but I’m fine.”

Fosburgh studied him, shook his head. “Your call.” He looked back at his officers. “This is crazy but I’m not going to lie, I’m relieved it’s not an active shooter. When’s the crypt van coming?”

“They’ve been notified. Traffic, who knows?”

Fosburgh took a step closer to the remains of Candace Kierstead, flinched, and retreated. “God, that’s awful, doing her right here, in front of all those people... all right, I’m going to leave as many of my troops here as I can afford. Some may get called away.”

“Whatever you think is best, Eric.”

“Not that you’ll need us if it stays this quiet — totally dead. No pun intended. Or maybe yes, pun intended... a good thing, I guess. The quiet. No civilian pains in the ass, easier to preserve the scene. Not that the scene’s a big deal, no whodunit, you saw it... all those fake news calls... not going to lie, my friend, I’m glad it’s you and not us.”

“It’s definitely us, Eric.”

“It is. Definitely.” Fosburgh patted his shoulder the way Milo sometimes does when he’s feeling avuncular. Milo didn’t react.

Fosburgh, one eye twitching, resumed prating. “That’s the job, eh, Milo? Nothing happens then it does. Between us, when it happens to the bad guys, I say great, save on a trial, move on. In the end this might work out for you. Not being personally involved, I can say all that with some... perspective. Never did homicide, never wanted to... did some burglary and fraud, last few years it’s been traffic, that’s a big deal, here, traffic... guess it’s relevant right now, keep the street clear, what’s done is done.”

Milo nodded.

Fosburgh said, “Doesn’t get more done than this — all right, so I’ll leave all ten until someone gets called. Want me to also tell the fire studs you don’t need them?”

“Good to have them here, Eric. If you can ask them to move one truck and block Brighton.”

“Sure. Good idea. Box it in, keep it mellow. All right, I’m off, got to call my chief, she’s at a conference in Arizona. Tell her everything’s under control. Anything else I can do for you?”

Milo shook his head.

Fosburgh said, “Know what you mean. You’ve got yourself a situation. Good luck.”

Translation: You’re on your own, pal.