Obsession (33 page)

A quartet of guys in their sixties was pushing lightweight bebop. Robin had worked on the guitarist’s Gibson archtop and he acknowledged her with a smile and a spirited solo on Monk’s “Well You Needn’t.” When the set was over, he and the drummer sat down with us and made thin, alcoholic conversation. Somewhere along the line, Robin worked in the topic of Blaise De Paine. Neither of the musicians had heard of him. When Robin told them about his mixes, they cursed viciously, apologized, and went out for air.

We stuck around through the next set, made it home by eleven forty-five, put on pajamas, fell asleep holding hands.

Just after three a.m., I was sitting up in bed, wrenched awake by a pounding heart and throbbing temples. Gnawing pain below my rib cage felt like mice clawing my diaphragm. I deep-breathed some of that away.

Then the tape loop began:

Was Tanya really safe with Kyle?

He’d found her on Facebook. What would stop De Paine from doing the same thing?

Plenty of guns in Kyle’s house but he had no clue how to use them.

Despite his hero fantasies, he couldn’t be everywhere.

Tanya was a stubborn girl.

I pictured her leaving the library alone, late at night.

Small girl, huge campus.

So easy to—
Stop.

Would Tanya really be safe with Kyle—
STOP!

Fine, fine, but would Tanya really be safe—

Robin stirred.

I sank back down.

Facebook.

What would stop De Paine. Big campus.

Gunsstubborngirl—

One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight—there you go, this stuff works.

Seconds of respite.

Stubborn girl…what would stop…

The next morning I pretended to be rested.

When Robin got out of the shower, she said, “Did you have a rough night?”

“I was playing the sinus-tuba?”

“No, but you moved around a lot.”

“Maybe that’s the cure,” I said.

“Being restless?”

“Symptom substitution.”

“I’d rather you be peaceful.”

“I’m fine, babe.”

We dressed in silence. “Breakfast, Alex?”

“No, thanks, not hungry.”

“What’s on your mind, sweetie?”

“Nothing, really.”

She took my hand. “You’ve done what you can for her. With all those detectives looking, those creeps will be found.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Let’s at least have coffee before I go.”

After she left for work, I drove to the U., parked in a pay lot on the south end, and walked to the science quad. Hordes of students and faculty crossed the square. No sign of Robert Fisk or Blaise De Paine. Or Tanya.

I drifted north to the inverted fountain, walked through the physics building. Exited at the back and continued along a tree-shaded pathway. Foot traffic was heavy for the summer. Seconds later I spotted a small, muscular, shaved-head guy among the students. Wearing all black; perfect fit to Fisk’s stats.

Sauntering along the outer edge of the crowded pathway.

I got closer, trailed him until the front steps of the anthropology building, where two young women in tight jeans ran up to greet him.

As he turned toward them, I caught a glimpse of his face. Mid-forties, clean-shaven.

One of the women said, “Hi, Professor Loewenthal. Could we talk to you about the exam?”

I bought coffee at a kiosk, strolled to the library, was just about to enter when my phone beeped.

Milo said, “Ballistics just came back on the bullets that killed Moses Grant. Perfect match to the slugs dug out of Leland Armbruster. Little Petey was
real
precocious. Lord knows what else he’s done that we haven’t uncovered. Talk to Tanya yet?”

“She’s moving in with Kyle.”

“Girl in a big house,” he said. “So now it’s Gothic. Think it’s a good idea?”

“It’s what they’ve decided.”

“Kyle playing Lord Protector. A few more years of living and he might conceivably be minimally qualified.”

“He’s green but motivated. The larger problem is he can’t be with her every second. What do you think about faxing the photos of De Paine and Fisk over to the unicops?”

“Sure, but don’t expect too much. First thing outta those guys’ mouths is always how understaffed they are. Let’s talk later about beefing up security for her. Meanwhile, we just might be getting a little closer to whatever happened ten years ago. Mary Whitbread left her house at nine thirty and Biro followed her. She’s still out, trying on designer duds at Neiman Marcus. Petra got to the neighborhood by ten fifteen, found someone on Blackburn who remembered the bad old days. Lives right behind Mary. He wouldn’t talk at his house or the station but Petra convinced him to meet over in Encino where his office is. One p.m.” He read off the address.

“Nervous fellow,” I said.

“Seems to be. Maybe he should practice what he preaches. He’s one of you guys.”

Before setting out for the Valley, I pulled Dr. Byron Stark’s stats from the psychology licensing board Web site. Twenty-eight years old, B.A., Cornell, Ph.D., University of Oregon, postdoc at the Portland V.A., freshly certified.

His building was a six-story mirrored cube on Ventura and Balboa that had all the charm of a head cold. The door said
Advent Behavioral Group
. Stark’s was the last of fourteen names. Six psychiatrists, eight psychologists, specialties in eating disorders, substance abuse, strategic management, career guidance, “life coaching.”

Stark’s single-window office and hard beige furniture fit his status.

He was midsized and narrow-shouldered, wore a blue minicheck buttondown shirt, maroon tie, and pressed khakis. A round, pink baby-face was topped by a beige crew cut. A fuzzy goatee looked glued on. Beneath the wisps, his small mouth seemed permanently pursed; the resulting look of disapproval wouldn’t serve him well with patients.

When I’d started out, I’d tried to ward off the
Doctor, how
old
are you
?s with facial hair. I have a heavy beard and sometimes it worked. Stark would need another source of gravitas.

Petra, Milo, and I crowded in front of his desk.

She said, “Thanks for meeting with us, Doctor.”

Stark said, “Byron’s fine.”

Boyish voice.
Use the title, kid. Harness every bit of placebo
.

“I didn’t expect a symposium, Detective Connor.”

Petra said, “It’s an important case. We brought our psychological consultant.” She introduced me.

He said, “What do you do for them, profiling?”

I shook my head. “Formal profiling’s pretty much useless when it comes to solving crimes. I weigh in on a case-by-case basis.”

“I considered a forensics fellowship until I read up on profiling and found it basically without merit. Talk about restricted sampling.”

We traded jargon for a while. Stark relaxed. When he broke to take a phone call—something about billing for inpatient services—Petra gave me a go-ahead nudge.

“Sorry,” he said, hanging up. “Still learning the system.”

I said, “We appreciate your talking to us about Peterson Whitbread.”

“It’s funny to hear you say that. I never thought this day would come.”

“Why’s that?”

“Right after the girls disappeared, my father called the police. They were totally unresponsive.”

“The girls…”

Stark’s mouth compressed to a pink bud. “You’re not here about that.”

Milo said, “We’re here to listen, Doctor.”

Stark laughed. “I agreed to this because I thought someone was finally going to investigate, like one of those cold cases on TV.” To Petra: “That was the clear implication you gave me, Detective Connor.”

“What I told you was the truth, Dr. Stark. We’re looking into Peterson Whitbread’s background. Our immediate focus is on several crimes he’s suspected of committing recently, but we’re certainly interested in anything he might’ve done in the past. If you have knowledge of a crime, you need to tell us.”

“Unbelievable,” said Stark. “So he’s suspected of something new. No big revelation, his tendencies were obvious even to me.”

“Even?”

“I was a senior in high school.”

I said, “You’re the same age as Pete.”

“I am, but we didn’t hang out. My parents were teachers who took out loans so my brother and I could attend Burton Academy and Harvard-Westlake. All my spare time was spent studying. Pete always seemed to be out on the street. I’m not sure he even attended high school.”

“What tendencies did you notice?”

“Antisocial personality,” said Stark. “He lurked around the neighborhood at all hours, with no clear purpose. Smiled a lot but there was no warmth to it. He was blithe to the point of recklessness—would smoke dope openly, just amble up my block toking away, not even trying to hide it. Other times, he’d walk around with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his rear pocket.”

“Not much parental supervision.”

“None that I ever saw. My mother said his mother was an airhead more concerned with fashion than child-rearing. I was fifteen when we moved in, my brother a year younger. Mom sized up the situation pretty quickly and forbade both of us from having anything to do with him.”

I said, “Some teens would rebel at that kind of restriction.”

“Some would,
I
didn’t,” said Stark. “He was clearly someone who wouldn’t be good for me. And that was buttressed by what happened a few months after we moved in. There were a bunch of burglaries in the neighborhood. Nighttime break-ins, while people were sleeping. My parents were convinced Pete had something to do with it. My dad, in particular, was certain he had criminal tendencies.”

“Why?”

“Pete sassed him a couple of times. And I wouldn’t discount Dad’s opinion. He worked as a high school counselor, had experience with acting-out adolescents.”

Milo said, “Tell us about the girls.”

“There were two of them, the summer before my senior year they lived above Mrs. Whitbread and Pete. Older than me, maybe twenty-one, twenty-two. A few months later—after I took my SATs but before I went on a college tour, so it would have to be late September or early October—they disappeared. Dad tried to spur some police interest but couldn’t get anyone to take him seriously.”

Petra said, “Where can I reach your father?”

“Eugene, Oregon. His and my mom’s pensions stretch a lot further up there, so after I graduated they sold me their place and got a house with acreage.”

“Names and number, please.”

“Herbert and Myra Stark. I can’t guarantee they’ll cooperate. When the police didn’t get back to Dad about the girls, he got so irate he complained to his councilman. But no help there, either. No one cared.”

Petra said, “What were the girls’ names?”

“I never knew their surnames, their first names were Roxy and Brandy. We knew that because they’d shout to each other, didn’t matter what time of day. Bran-deee, Rox-eee.”

“What did they do for a living?”

“My parents said those were stripper names, they had to be strippers, but I had my doubts.”

“Why?”

“Strippers would work at night, right? But those two had irregular hours. Sometimes they’d be gone during the day, other times, at night. They always left together, arrived together. Weekends they’d sleep in, never show themselves. During the week they’d be out, working and partying.”

“Tell us about the partying.”

“I don’t know for a fact, I’m using logic. They’d drive up three, four a.m., race the engine, slam the car door, and if that hadn’t woken us, their laughter and chattering did the trick. They were extremely raucous and from the way they slurred their words, high on something.”

“Your parents ever complain?”

“Never, not their style. Instead, they fumed and gossiped and regaled Galen and me with morality tales using the girls as negative examples. Of course, the end result was to get Galen and me interested. A couple of wild girls living right across the backyard? But we never tried to talk to them, even if we’d had the guts there was no opportunity. When they were home, we were at school, and when we were home they were sleeping or out.”

Milo said, “They’d come and go together in the same car?”

“Every time I saw.”

“Remember the make and model?”

“Sure do. White Corvette, red interior. Dad called it the Bimbo-mobile.”

Petra said, “Tell us about the disappearance and why you suspect Pete.”

“Right before I took the SATs I was up in my room and got distracted by loud music. The way my bedroom’s situated, I have an angled view of Mrs. Whitbread’s yard. The girls were out there sunbathing and blasting a tape deck—dance music. I was about to close the window but got even more distracted by what was going on. They were rubbing lotion on each other, giggling, playing with each other’s hair, slapping each other’s butts.” Stark tightened his tie. “Totally naked, it was kind of hard not to notice.”

Milo said, “Good-looking girls.”

“Of that type,” said Stark. “Long blond hair, long legs, sunlamp tan, big chests. They looked alike, for all I know they were sisters.”

“Roxy and Brandy,” said Milo. “What year Corvette?”

“Sorry, I’m not a car guy.”

“Who’d they hang out with?”

“I never saw them hang with anyone, but that doesn’t mean much. Except for that week of SAT prep, I barely saw them during the day. What I
can
tell you is that Pete Whitbread was aware of them. Midway through the week, when I was cramming advanced vocab, really trying to concentrate, the music started blasting again. Same deal, naked girls, lots of merriment. But good little grind that I was, I actually intended to ignore it. Then I noticed Pete sidling down the driveway and sneaking around toward the back. I say sneak because his head was darting all around, obviously furtive. And he’d pressed himself against the wall, found himself a vantage spot where the girls wouldn’t notice him. He stood there watching them for a while, then he unzipped his fly and did the predictable. But not normally—he was yanking at himself so hard I thought he’d rip it off. With a bizarre
smile
on his face.”