Obsession (41 page)

“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.”

Biro drove off. As the sound of his souped-up engine died, silence returned to Hudson Avenue.

Milo said, “Maybe Iona’s ugly scene’s for the best. Romeo and Juliet get upset, hightail it for parts unknown.”

I said, “You see those two cruising to Vegas?”

“If I had a mama like that, I’d elope, change my area code, maybe my country code.”

“Nice fantasy, but way too adventurous.”

“Where do
you
see them heading?”

“Everything’s been taken from Tanya. Kyle was a bright spot but Iona just polluted that. Tanya’s a creature of habit. I can’t see her heading anywhere but the home Patty created for her.”

“Exactly what we told her to avoid?”

“She’s got a hypermature facade, Milo, but that’s just playing grown-up. Think ‘
You’re
not the boss over
me
.’”

“Yeah, she has been disregarding our wisdom, hooking up with Kyle in the first place…Okay, let’s check, maybe you’re wrong.”

“I hope I am.”

“Takes a
big
man to say that.”

“Not in this case.”

Half a block from the duplex on Canfield, Milo crushed his unlit panatela in the Seville’s ashtray and cursed. “Right there in the open, might as well hang up a sign.”

The white Mercedes ragtop blocked the mouth of the driveway. Tanya’s van sat in front of it.

Lights off in the building.

Milo said, “Stupid smart kids. I should wake ’em up right now, give ’em Uncle Milo’s scariest speech.” He squinted at his Timex. “Couple of hours until daybreak—let’s keep to the same schedule. Seven a.m., we’re back here, in their faces big-time. Meanwhile, I’ll check ’round back, make sure everything’s kosher. So
I
can sleep.”

He got out of the car. “If I don’t—”

“Yeah, yeah the pencil box.”

“Would my Flash Gordon lunch pail be more enticing?”

“You had one of those?”

“Nope. Everyone else lies, why not me?”

I cut the motor and sat at the wheel, watched him stride up the driveway and slip in front of the van. His right hand tickled the holster under his jacket. Probably a smart move, keeping the weapon under wraps. At his level of fatigue, blowing off a toe by accident was a serious risk.

Seconds after he’d rounded the building, the gunshot sounded.

Not the face-slap of a handgun.

Full-bodied roar; a shotgun.

I jumped out, began running back, ready to protect my friend.

With what?

I stopped, groped for my phone. Punched 911 so hard my fingertips burned.

Blast number two, then snap-crackle of a small-arms fusillade, at this distance no more ominous than a frog song.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring—“911 Emergency—”

I fought not to lose patience with the mechanical, just-be-calm-sir approach of the operator.

She said, “Sir, you need to answer my questions.”

I raised my voice. Maybe “
Officer down
!” broke through her training-manual straitjacket. Or she could hear the third shotgun blast answered by a full-on ballistic chorus. In what seemed like seconds, sirens bansheed from the south. Four sets of headlights.

When the quartet of Westside units roared up the duplex, I was out of the Seville, standing on the street side of the car, hands up, feeling cowardly, useless.

Listening to a new, sick silence.

Eight officers advanced, guns drawn. I spoke my piece and they left one officer behind to watch me.

I said, “My friend’s back there. Lieutenant Sturgis.”

She said, “We’ll just wait sir.”

It took way too long for a sergeant to return. “You can go back, Doctor.”

“Is he okay?”

Two more cops emerged, looking grave. I repeated the question.

The sergeant said, “He’s alive—Officer Bernelli, double-check what’s taking the EMTs so long. And ask for two ambulances.”

Milo sat on the bottom step of the rear landing, knees drawn almost to his chin, head down. Pressing something to his arm—his jacket, wadded up. His white sleeve had turned red and his color was bad.

He looked up. “Forget the lunch pail, this doesn’t count.”

“Are you—”

“Just a flesh wound, Kimo Sabe.” Big grin. “Always wanted to say that.”

“Let me do that.” I sat down next to him and pressed evenly on the jacket.

“We’ll do it together.” Another grin. “Like that
Sesame Street
song—‘Co-Operation.’ Most of those rag dolls are simps, but Oscar’s got it going on.”

“He does have his moments.” The things you talk about when your friend’s breathing turns raspy and his blood keeps seeping.

I pushed harder. He winced.

“Sorry.”

“Hey,” he said. “Nothing that can’t be replaced.” His eyes fluttered. I felt him shiver through his sleeve.

I put my arm around his shoulder, pressed tighter.

He said, “How cozy.”

We sat there. All the cops were out front except for one officer standing near the top of Tanya’s back steps.

Milo shivered again. What the hell was taking the ambulances so long?

The rear door to Tanya’s unit was shredded but the window remained in place.

Milo said, “How it happened was the bastard was crouched up there, I walked into it like a total rookie jackass, my goddamn gun’s still in the holster. Why the hell do I bother looking for trouble if I’m not
ready
for trouble? He opened up but I was out of range so I just caught a sprinkle. I jumped back in time to avoid the second blast and the third. Finally got hold of my trusty peashooter.”

“A sprinkle,” I said.

“It’s no big deal, pal. When I was a kid I caught some quail-shot in the butt when my brother Patrick got stupid. This feels a little heavier-duty but nothing humongous—maybe deer.”

“Okay, quiet—”

“Only a few pellets made their way to my manly biceps—”

“Great. No more talking.”

The patrolman at the top of the landing said, “Deershot? Gotta hurt like a bitch.”

Milo said, “No worse than root canal.”

The cop said, “I had
that
last year. Hurt like a bitch.”

“Thanks for the empathy.” To me: “Press as hard as you want. And don’t
worry
, okay? Everything’s copacetic. Not for him.” Laughter.

“He’s—”

“Go take a look. Do some advanced
psycho
-therapy.”

“I’ll stay here.”

“No, no, check it out, Alex. Maybe you can get one of those deathbed confessions.” Cracking up and leaking blood. “Tomorrow we get drunk and laugh about it.”

I sat there.

He said, “
Go
. Could be our last chance.”

Making sure his hand was secure on the jacket, I stood and approached the stairs.

The cop said, “Where you going, sir?”

Milo said, “I told him to.”

“Not a good idea, Lieutenant. This guy’s in no—”

“Don’t be a by-the-book lamebrain, Officer, and give the doctor a looky-loo. He’s family, won’t piss on the evidence.”

“Whose family?”

“Mine.”

The cop hesitated.

“Did you hear what I said?”