Obsession (36 page)

“Also,” said Bouleau, “no genius. De Paine spins him some yarn about making it big in music, he would’ve bought it.” Sitting back. “And that’s the whole deal, folks.”

Petra said, “Thanks, guys,” told them about the missing girls and Roger Bandini’s death.

Bouleau said, “So if anyone did this Bandini it was Patty. Right after De Paine and Roger did the girls.”

“That’s the working theory, assuming anyone did anyone. We don’t even have names for the girls.”

Milo said, “Ahem,” opened his attaché case, and spread three photos in the center of the table.

The largest was an eight-by-ten still from
Busty Babes Vol. XI
, copyright Vivacious Videos. A pair of blondes reclining poolside, naked, splayed, flaunting inflated chests. Matching gigantic hairdos and tans suggested a twin fantasy. Brandee Vixen and Rocksi Roll grinned, fondled, and tongue-dueled.

The other two pictures were color faxes of what looked to be school photos.

A brown-haired girl around sixteen, wearing a white blouse with a starched Peter Pan collar, and a strawberry blonde in long braids, dressed identically. Braces and spots of acne on the brunette. Soft blue eyes and pretty features yearned to get past all that. The other girl was freckled and pug-nosed and brown-eyed, with pixie ears, a wide-open smile, and perfect dentition.

In the white space at the bottom of both photos, a cross of thorny vines was wreathed by a gold ribbon imprinted
Faith Triumphant Academy, Curney, North Dakota
.

Under each picture, Milo’s handwriting:

Brenda Hochlbeier.

Renée Mittle.

He said, “Best friends according to their parents. Their classmates knew it was more than that. They came from seriously fundamentalist families, not a cult, but close. The school was all girls, skirts down to the ankles. These two started rebelling in their junior year of high school. A month before graduation, they ran away. Brenda was seventeen and a half, Renée barely seventeen. They confided in some pals that they were going to New York to be Rockettes. The pals spilled and the search concentrated on the East Coast, poor parents tramping all over, hiring P.I.’s, including a couple of “apostolic investigators” who ripped them off gloriously. Whether or not the girls did go east is unclear. So is what they did between the time they split and when they started making movies out here a year later.”

I said, “Byron Stark thought they were older but they were eighteen…they look older.”

“Hair and makeup and surgery can do that.”

“So can attitude,” said Petra, eyeing the film still. “Here they look like hardened pros. From high school to that in a year. Whoa.”

Dave Saunders said, “You got all this from their parents, Milo?”

“No, from the sheriff in Curney, guy named Doug Brenner. Second-generation lawman, his dad was in charge when the girls ran away. Doug was one year ahead of the girls in the church boys’ school, says all the kids knew it was a runaway because Brenda and Renée couldn’t be themselves in that environment.”

“You or he going to notify the families?”

“I told him to hold off until we learn more.”

Kevin Bouleau said, “The good news is your daughters were lesbian porn stars. The bad news is we don’t have a clue where they are.”

“I’d say they were in garbage bags, ten years ago,” said Saunders, flicking a corner of Brenda Hochlbeier’s photo. “Man, that is gross…you’re a little scumbag animal-parts-loving dope-dealer psycho killer like De Paine, Peter Pan, whatever you want to call him, where do you dump the body parts?”

Looking at me.

I said, “A lot of those guys want to revisit.”

Milo said, “We know he liked to revisit Mommy’s film escapades.”

Petra said, “So somewhere relatively close to home…Stark’s dad didn’t see the van being loaded until eight days after the girls were gone. Petey probably kept the bodies in the garage, along with his other toys.”

Saunders said, “Probably cut them up there.”

Petra didn’t blink. “That, too. But he couldn’t leave them there forever. Or bury them in the yard, too risky. So he and Bandini trucked them off. But
where
?”

Milo said, “If that’s how it happened, it tells us about Mary. Her son hiding some animal parts, I can see, maybe she rarely used the fridge. But two human bodies?”

“Mama love,” she said. “Good God.”

I said, “What if the bags were taken to another property she owned?”

“Her name doesn’t cross-reference to DBAs in the business files.”

“That’s her stage name,” I said. “What about the one she was given at birth?”

“She changed it legally. Why would she continue to do real estate deals as Maria Baker?”

“She could’ve done them before the name change. Myron Bedard told us she owned a home in Carthay Circle. Which is a ten-minute ride to Fourth Street, tops.”

Milo said, “The way Carthay’s designed, no access from main avenues. Be a nice hidey-hole.”

Petra waited for additional comment. When none came, she said, “Worth a try,” and left the room.

Five minutes later she strode in fast, waving a scrap of papers, eyes ablaze. “Two Maria Baker properties for the price of one. Commodore Sloat and Del Valle, and she still owns them
both
.”

She headed for the door.

“Another nice neighborhood,” said Milo, following.

Saunders and Bouleau were the last to rise. Saunders said, “All this premium real estate, Kev and I are starting to feel West
side
.”

Carthay Circle is a few square blocks of residential charm combined with denial of urban reality. Bordered by the high-rises on Wilshire to the north and the din of Olympic to the south, the enclave is a mix of beautifully kept Spanish, English, Mediterranean, and Cape Cod houses. Toward the center of the district, just off San Vicente, is an office complex where the Carthay Circle Theater once stood.
Gone with the Wind
premiered at the Carthay. The glamour and drama have given way to the ambient chatter of lawyers and such.

At night, the streets of Carthay are dark and still; a motorcade of detectives would stand out like objective reporting. Petra signed a Crown Victoria out of the Hollywood Division lot and the five of us piled in. She drove and Milo rode shotgun. Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau sat in back with me sandwiched between.

The car smelled of wet metal and old vinyl. Bouleau shifted his shoulders and tried to get comfortable. “Hope everyone’s on friendly terms with their deodorant.”

Milo said, “Let’s see after the trip.”

Mary Whitbread’s rental property on Del Valle was a cream stucco, neatly kept Spanish with a tiny, faux-bell-tower over the entry and a small courtyard that hosted a trickling fountain. Low-watt lighting turned the fountain spray to amber mist. A kiddie play-set stood near the basin. Mazda RX7 in the driveway in front of a RAV4. On the SUV’s bumper:
My child’s an honor student at Carthay Circle Magnet School
.

Bouleau said, “And my little psychopath kicks his ass—looks like the porn lady got herself some nice, wholesome tenants.”

Milo said, “Wonder how they’d feel about a cadaver dog sniffing around.”

“Wouldn’t that be fun,” said Petra, “but we’re a long way off. For all we know, the dump site’s in Coachella.”

No longer entertaining the possibility that there was no dump. As the facts had settled in, everyone was assuming two dead girls.

Petra drove to Commodore Sloat Drive. Another Spanish, whitewashed, slightly larger than the first. No courtyard, different window style, stained-glass insets. In this driveway sat a pair of BMWs, a gray Z3 and a black 325i. Lights flickered in a side window. Petra parked two houses up, got out, tiptoed around toward the light, lingered a bit, got back in the driver’s seat.

“Filmy drapes in the bedroom, cute couple in their thirties. The TV’s on, she’s doing a crossword puzzle, he’s plugged into an iPod.”

Dave Saunders said, “Happy family for A, yuppies for B. Conspicuous absence of psycho killers.” He yawned. “I need to get home.”

As the Central detectives drove their cars out of the division lot, Petra said, “Well, that was a whole lot of nothing…Alex, would you do me a favor and try Stark’s dad tomorrow morning? I left three messages, no answer. No doubt he detests the department, can’t say I blame him. Seeing as he’s got a counseling degree maybe he’d relate better to you.”

“I’ll do my best rendition of professional courtesy.”

“Thanks, you’re a peach.” Stifling her own yawn. “Why is that contagious, Doctor?”

“I have no idea.”

“The mysteries of science,” she said. “Guess I should do a little domestic duty. Eric just finished a monthlong job. Defense contractor in Arizona, industrial spy thing that turned out to be paranoia. He’s been shuttling back and forth, we haven’t seen each other much. If this thing ever cooks up, it’ll be more of the same.”

“Go for it, kid,” said Milo. “Eric have an iPod?”

“Ha. Eric only listens to music when I switch it on. The man can sit and do nothing like I’ve never seen.” She smiled but didn’t budge. “So…eventually these bastards are going to have to show themselves, right?” Putting her palms together prayerfully. “I’m hoping to get Mary’s phone records sometime tomorrow. Meanwhile, I’ll catch Raul up on everything. He’s doing great…I should tell him so.”

Lowering her volume with each sentence so that by the end she was muttering.

Her shoulders rounded and her head dipped an inch. She looked older and tired, but just for the seconds it took to draw herself up and shake her hair loose. “Well, let’s hope they get stupid—one more thing, guys, confidential. James Rahab—the sergeant who wrote up Roger Bandini’s death—comes up on a list of Fortuno’s possible sources in the department.”

“How’d you find that out?” said Milo.

“Stu found out from his fed buddy. Who also informed him we will have no more access to Marvelous Mario.”

I said, “Bandini wasn’t looked into because Fortuno fixed the investigation for Mary?”

“If she thought a serious investigation into Bandini would’ve put Petey in danger, she’d have a motive to call in a favor. On the other hand, it may simply be coincidence. Rahab was righteously on patrol that night—training a rookie. And on the surface, Bandini’s death
did
present as an overdose. The whole deal’s moot anyway because Rahab died of a heart attack three years ago.”

“Where’s the rookie he was training?” said Milo.

“I don’t even have a name. Only reason the Feebie told Stu was as a consolation prize—as in, This is the last thing you’re getting.”

“Or because he’s getting us to work for him. We uncover something, he can add to the indictment against Fortuno.”

Petra thought about that. “Could be…anyway, no reason to do the History Channel when I can’t get anything done on a current homicide. Nighty-night, fellas.”

At ten the following morning, I phoned Herbert Stark.

A woman singsonged, “You’ve reached Myra and
Herb
. We could be
fishing, hiking
, or just plain
loafing
. Leave a message and if it’s
interesting
, we
might
get back to you.”

“Mr. Stark, this is Dr. Alex Delaware, I’ll do my best to make this fascinating. Years ago you did your civic duty only to run up against some incredible police incompetence. If you can find it in yourself to reopen your mind—”

A deep male voice broke in: “So that my brains fall out? Fascinating? Not quite. Minimally thought-provoking? Possibly.”

“Thanks for—”

“Byron said you seemed quote unquote thoughtful. That’s high praise from my son. I almost became a psychologist. No money and too many family obligations got in the way. So the cops have finally decided to take a look at that little sociopath. What’d he do, now?”

“Killed several people,” I said.

“Oh, what a shock,” said Herbert Stark. “It’s always that way, isn’t it? I just finished reading a book about serial killers—not pulpy crap, a professional textbook by a former investigator who got drummed out because he spoke his mind. His thesis is that ninety-five percent of the time the guilty party is interviewed early on in the investigation and the police have a name right there in front of them. You believe that?”

“Could be.”

“I believe it. Byron said you don’t put much stock in profiling.”

“Not much.”

“They give you grief for that in the department?”

“Not at all.”

Stark grunted. “What do you think I can tell you that I already didn’t try to tell those Einsteins in blue?”

I wanted to ask him to go over everything, but that would provoke a tirade. “When you came to believe those two girls had been killed, did you share your suspicions with anyone other than the police and your wife?”

“Of course I did,” said Stark. “After the cops sat on their hands, I told a few people in the neighborhood. I figured if enough people got riled up, we might be able to stimulate some action.”

“How many people did you tell?”

“After all these years you expect a count? I limited it to people I had a good sense about. Didn’t matter, no one cared.”

“Was one of the people a woman named Patricia Bigelow?”

“Yes,” he said. “She was the first.”

“Because—”

“First of all, I knew her. Second, I trusted her. Shortly after she moved in, my younger son, Galen, fell skateboarding and we worried he’d broken his leg. But he had an exam to study for, we didn’t want to bother with the emergency room if it wasn’t a break. My wife had talked to Patty a few times, knew she was a nurse, so she went around the corner and asked her to look at Galen’s leg. Patty came by, inspected it, said she wasn’t a physician, but it was a sprain. She iced it and wrapped it and we took Galen to the pediatrician the next morning, and she’d done everything perfectly. I also told her about the girls because she had a girl of her own—a child, nine, ten years old. I felt it was my obligation to let her know that her landlady’s spawn was a menace. Why are you asking about her?”