Compulsion (2 page)

I was having lunch with Milo at the Surf Line Café in Malibu when the call came in.

No reason for either of us to be here other than gorgeous weather. The restaurant’s a clapboard bungalow with wall-sized windows and a wide plank deck, perched high on the west side of PCH, just south of Kanan Dume Road. At half a mile from the ocean with no view of the water, it was misnamed. But the food’s fantastic and even at that distance you can smell the salt.

It was one p.m. and we were out on the deck eating barbecued yellowtail and drinking beer. Milo was back from a week in Honolulu, where he’d managed to preserve a skim-milk pallor. Bad light brings out the worst of his complexion – the lumps, the acne pits, the scowl lines, gravity tugging at mastiff jowls. Today’s light was glorious but the best it could do was obscure the rough spots.

Despite that and the ugliest aloha shirt I’d ever seen, he looked good. None of the twitches and split-second winces that betray his attempt to hide the pain in his shoulder.

The shirt was a riot of puce elephants, aqua camels, and ocher monkeys on a sea of olive-green rayon that clung to his kettledrum torso.

The Hawaiian trip had followed a twenty-nine-day stay in the hospital: recuperating from a dozen shotgun pellets embedded in his left arm and shoulder.

The shooter, an obsessive psychopath, was dead, sparing everyone the nuisance of a trial. Milo had dismissed his own injuries as “a stupid goddamn flesh wound.” I’d seen the X-rays. Some of the pellets had missed his heart and lung by millimeters. One chunk of deer shot was too deep to remove without causing serious muscle injury, hence the winces and twitches.

Despite all that, only a three-day hospitalization had been projected. On the second day, a staph infection set in and he ended up on antibiotic drips for nearly a month. Sequestered on the VIP floor because he lived with Dr. Rick Silverman, director of the E.R.

Bigger rooms and better food didn’t help where it counted. His fever ran high and at one point his kidney function didn’t look good. Eventually, he pushed through and started griping about the accommodations and the twenty-one-year-old actress in the corner suite up the hall. Her official diagnosis was “Exhaustion.” The hospital’s detox director had virtually moved in.

Two paparazzi had managed to breach security, only to be tossed unceremoniously by one of the starlet’s private security guards.

I said, “They don’t get her, maybe they’ll settle for you.”

“Oh, sure,
People
and
Us
can’t survive a circulation war without close-ups of the vast polar tundra that is my VIP ass.”

He worked his way out of the bed, stomped out into the hall, and glared at the rent-a-cop hovering near his door. The guy moved on.

“Intrusive asshole.”

Definitely on the mend.

After discharge, he pretended everything was fine. Rick and Robin and I and everyone else who knew him pretended not to notice the stiffness and the loss of energy. The department physician insisted he take some downtime and his captain wouldn’t debate the issue.

Milo and Rick had been talking about a tropical vacation for months but when the time came, Milo ’s mood suggested an impending prison sentence.

He sent me a single postcard: gargantuan Samoan sumo wrestlers tussling on white sand.

A:

Having a great blah blah blah yawn yawn yawn. These are the locals. A few more luaus and there goes my modeling contract.

Primitively yours,

M.

Now he finished his second beer and said, “What are you smirking about?”

“Didn’t know I was.”

“I’m a trained observer. You were.”

I shrugged.

“It’s the shirt, right?”

“The shirt’s great.”

“Lucky for you there’s no polygraph around. What, you don’t dig authentic island
couture
?”

“Elephants in Oahu?”

“Dr. Literal.” He rolled rayon between sausage fingers. “I’da found one with Freud analyzing a mahimahi I’da brought it back for you.”

“The macadamia nuts were fine.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He brushed black hair off his forehead, called for another beer, finished it fast. Bright green eyes took in the view of the highway below. His eyelids half lowered.

“You okay?”

“Back to work tomorrow, the leisure thing was driving me out of my mind. Problem is, once I get to the office, there’s nothing to do. No new cases, period – let alone an interesting one.”

“How do you know?”

“I e-mailed the captain yesterday.”

I said, “Quiet time in West L.A. ”

“Calm before the storm, or worse.”

“What would be worse?”

“No storm.”

He insisted on paying and was reaching for his billfold when his cell squawked. I used the opportunity to hand the waiter my credit card.

“Sneaky.” He clicked in, listened. “Okay, Sean, why not? But if a
real
crime happens, all bets are off.”

As we left, I said, “Sean’s got a fake crime?”

“Car theft in Brentwood.
Recovered
car theft.” Like many homicide detectives, he considers anything less than the loss of human life on a par with jaywalking.

“Why’d he call you?”

“He thinks it might be more because there’s blood on one of the seats.”

“That sounds like more.”

“Not buckets, Alex. Maybe a spoonful.”

“Whose?”

“That’s the big hoohah mystery. Nervy kid wants my expertise. No one told him I’m a free bird until tomorrow.”

I kept my mouth shut. When he’s like that, irony is wasted.

Sean Binchy was waiting in front of a vanilla-colored house, wearing his usual dark suit, blue shirt and tie, spit-polished Doc Martens. He’s a young, gangly, redheaded Detective I, a former ska-punk bassist who’d found Jesus and the LAPD simultaneously. He’d been mentored by Milo, whisked away by the brass and transferred to Robbery, then moved to Auto Theft. Rumor said all that movement had something to do with his “lack of creativity.”

The house behind him was one of those imposing, bland, grand dream-projects starting to dominate L.A. ’s luxury districts.

This was a high-end part of Brentwood, west of Bundy, north of Sunset, where the streets narrow and sidewalks are replaced by grass. Shaggy eucalyptus hovered above much of the street. The vanilla house’s immediate neighbors were one-story ranches, sitting on residential death row as they awaited the wrecking ball.

Sean pointed to a wide stone driveway leading to twin garages. A black Bentley Arnage sedan sat in front of one of the doors.

“VIP wheels,” said Milo. “Just what I need.”

“Hi, Loot. Hi, Dr. Delaware.”

The conventional department contraction for Milo ’s rank is “Loo.” Milo is not one to deal with the small stuff.

“How was Hawaii?”

Milo said, “I got you some macadamia nuts.”

“Thanks – great shirt.”

Milo ’s eyes shifted to the Bentley. “Someone stole that and had the nerve to leave blood?”

“Or something that looks a whole lot like blood.”

“As opposed to?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s blood, Loot. Haven’t called for analysis because I wanted to see what you thought.”

“Who recovered it?”

“The owner.” Binchy thumbed his pad. “…Nicholas Heubel. Solid citizen, didn’t have to call us in the first place.”

Milo walked over to the Bentley. Unfettered sunlight bore down on a paint job so shiny it looked like molten tar. “How’d he find it?”

“Drove around and spotted it three blocks away.”

“Not much of a joyride.”

“If you think I should forget it, I will. I just want to make sure I wasn’t missing something.”

“Car unlocked?”

“Yup.”

“Give me some gloves and show me this alleged blood.”

Several cows’ worth of premium hides, a tree or two of burl veneer.

All of it smelling like a private club in Mayfair.

The Bentley’s interior was off-white piped with black; missing the stain was impossible. The blemish in question was a smear about an inch square, on the right side of the driver’s seat. Sloping down toward the welting, at its lowest point more diluted. Rundown or someone had wiped it that way.

I supposed it could have been old ketchup, but my bet was on hemoglobin.

Milo said, “Not too impressive.”

Sean said, “There could be more, but with the carpet black it’s hard to spot anything without an up close and personal.”

“Check the trunk?”

“I popped it and did a visual scan. Looks like nothing’s ever been in there. I mean literally. There’s a couple umbrellas still rolled up and belted to the firewall. Owner says they were an option, cost eight hundred bucks and he hasn’t used them once.”

Milo stretched latex over his paws, leaned in, stuck his head close to the smear but didn’t touch it. Studying and sniffing, he checked out the carpet, the door panels, an array of glass gauges. Opening a rear door, he said, “Car smells new.”

“It’s a year old.”

“Three thousand miles on the odometer. Looks like it’s not just the umbrellas the owner doesn’t use.”

“He has a Lexus,” said Sean. “Says it’s less showy and more reliable.”

Milo examined the smear again. “Looks like blood but I’m seeing no impact, high or low velocity. Some asshole, probably a neighbor kid, took a joyride and cut himself on a chipped bong. Was the car taken from the garage?”

“From the driveway.”

“Wheels like that, owner doesn’t lock up?”

“Guess not.”

“Keys left in the ignition?”

“Owner claims no. I was going to ask him more but he had to go inside and take a call.”

Milo said, “They probably
were
left in, no one wants to look stupid. Boosting something this conspicuous says immaturity and impulsivity. Which fits with a neighborhood punk. So does dumping it close by. What do you think, Alex?”

“Makes sense.”

He turned back to Sean. “If this was a serious case, I’d canvass the area, starting with the dump site, find out who has teenagers with behavior problems. But that’s a big if.”

“So I shouldn’t pursue it,” said Sean.

“Owner pushing you to pursue it?”

“He’s rattled by the blood, but says he doesn’t want to make a big deal ’cause there’s no damage.”

“It was me, Sean, I’d tell him to get out the Meguiar’s and forget about it.”

“What’s that?”

“Premium leather cleaner.”

“Okay, I’m good with that,” said Sean.

“Have a nice day.”

As we headed for the Seville, the door to the vanilla house opened and a man hurried out.

Late thirties to early forties, six feet tall, with long, loose limbs, close-cropped brown hair graying at the temples, and tiny, oval-lens eyeglasses. He wore a gray T-shirt, blue velvet sweatpants, brown boat shoes without socks. The glasses perched atop a narrow, straight nose. His lips were tight and bunched as if someone were squeezing his cheeks.

“Lieutenant?” Bypassing Sean, he headed for us, took in Milo ’s elephant riot shirt, then my black polo and jeans. Squinted through his glasses, trying to figure out who was in charge.

“ Milo Sturgis.”

A long-fingered hand shot out. “Nick Heubel.”

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Heubel hooked a thumb at his Bentley. “Bizarre, huh? I told Detective Binchy I didn’t want to make a production out of it, but now I’m having second thoughts. What if the bad guy was someone in the neighborhood and they’re after more than just cheap thrills?”

“More like expensive thrills,” said Milo.

Heubel smiled. “Buying it was one of those what-was-I-thinking moments. Drive it for a week and you realize it’s just a car and you got sucked into the whole illusion… Anyway, what I was getting at is what if some local delinquent with serious antisocial tendencies is running around and the theft was a symptom?”

“Of what, Mr. Heubel?”

“Taking whatever he wants.” Heubel’s eyes behind his glasses were light brown and active.

Milo said, “You’re worried he may come back and try something else.”

“I wouldn’t call it worry,” said Heubel. “More like… I guess I
am
worried. It was so blatant, just swooping in and driving away.”

“Do you have any idea when it happened?”

“I told Detective Binchy it could’ve been anywhere between eleven p.m. – which is when I got home – and this morning, when I stepped out of the house and found it gone. I was headed for the Country Mart to get some breakfast. For a second, I wondered if I’d parked it in the garage, then I knew I couldn’t have because my other car’s there and the rest is taken up by storage.” His eyes rolled. “Gone. I couldn’t believe it.”

“What time this morning did you step out, sir?”

“Seven forty-five. If you want me to narrow it down, I doubt it happened after five a.m. because by then I was up and in my office, which is in the front of the house, so I think I would’ve heard something. Though I can’t be sure. One thing you
can
say about the darn thing, the engine’s quiet.”

“Five a.m.,” said Milo. “Early riser.”

“I like to be well prepared for the markets when they open in New York. Sometimes when I’m looking at the international bourses, I’m up even earlier than that.”

“Stock trader?”

“Dabble in commodities. This morning nothing enticed me, so I figured I’d get some breakfast, make some calls.”

“Must be successful dabbling.”

Heubel shrugged and scratched his head. “Beats honest labor. Anyway, I reported it, by the time I heard back from Detective Binchy, I’d found it.”

“Right in the neighborhood,” said Milo.

“Three blocks west, on Villa Entrada.”

“Any particular reason you went there?”

Heubel looked puzzled.

Milo said, “Are you aware of some delinquent living on Villa Entrada who might do something like this?”

“Oh,” said Heubel. “No, not at all. I just drove up and down, can’t even tell you why I did it because I wasn’t really hopeful. Probably just to do
something –
you know? Trying to take back control?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“If you’d asked me to bet, I’d have said it was in East L.A., or Watts or on a flatbed to Tijuana. You can imagine how surprised I was when I spotted it, parked right at the curb, keys in the ignition.”

“Speaking of the keys,” said Milo. “How did-”

“I know, I know, stupid,” said Heubel. “The main one’s in my desk drawer but who figured someone would find the other?”

“Spare set?”

“One of those magnetic dealies, I keep it in a wheel well in case the main one gets lost.” Heubel colored. “Dumb, huh?”

“Who knew it was there?”

“That’s the thing,” said Heubel, “no one. I’m so careful that when I go to the car wash I remove it. Guess I wasn’t careful enough. Maybe someone drove by and saw me removing it. Believe me, I’ve learned my lesson.”

“All’s well that ends well,” said Milo.

“Absolutely. But the blood’s troublesome, isn’t it, Lieutenant? It wasn’t until I got home that I noticed it.” Blinking. “That’s what it is, right?”

“It’s possible, sir, but even if that turns out to be the case, there’s no evidence of violence.”

“What do you mean?”

“It really isn’t that much blood, and with violence you generally see what we call impact spatter – dripping or spray or sizable splotches. This looks more like someone wiped a cut on the leather.”

“I see,” said Heubel. “But still, someone bled in there and it wasn’t me.”

“You’re sure about that, sir?”

“Hundred percent positive. The first thing I did was to go inside and check my legs – maybe I got a mosquito bite and didn’t feel it. Not that it would bleed through my pants – I was wearing heavy jeans – my winter Diesels, they’re darn sturdy.” Patting his thigh. “I checked the front and the back of my legs, even used a mirror. Nothing.”

“That’s a lot of effort,” said Milo.

“I was a bit shaken up, Lieutenant. First the car gets taken right out of my driveway, then I find it, then there’s
blood
? I guess when you do the DNA and it doesn’t match to any crime victims, I’ll be able to put it to rest.”

“There’s no reason to do DNA, sir.”

“No?” said Heubel. “I heard the technology’s much better than back in the O.J. days. All these new tests, you can get results quickly.”

Milo glanced at Sean.

Sean said, “Quick
er,
but it still takes time, sir. And DNA’s a real expensive process.”

“Ah,” said Heubel. “This is low priority for you guys.”

“It’s not like we don’t appreciate your situation, sir-”

“The shock,” said Milo. “The feeling of violation.”

“You’ve got that right,” said Heubel. “But the main issue is what’s to say he’s not still out there plotting something?”

Milo gave him what he calls the Forensics Damage Control Lecture. An increasing necessity due to week after week of televised fairy tales.

The main points were: Forensic wizardry made for good entertainment but crime scene minutiae were relevant in less than 10 percent of crimes, the DNA logjam at the Department of Justice was so severe the department contracted with a lab in New Jersey for the overflow, and the backup was so bad only homicides and violent sexual assaults merited analysis.

“Even with a serious felony, Mr. Heubel, it can take months.”

“Wow. How in the world do you ever solve any crimes, Lieutenant?”

Milo smiled. “We bumble around and sometimes we get lucky.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – ten percent, that’s all?”

“At best.”

“Okay, I hear you… It’s just that one lives in a specific neighborhood in the belief that one can be relatively insulated from – I suppose that’s also a fantasy.”

“This
is
a safe neighborhood, sir. One of the safest in our division.” Holding back the nasty little Westside secret: Violence in the high-priced zip codes is rare but burglaries, including grand theft auto, aren’t. Because as one captured burglar put it, “That’s where the cool stuff is.”

Nicholas Heubel said, “So I should just calm down and forget it ever happened.”

“I’ll tell you what, sir. If Detective Binchy has time, he can call for technical assistance and get a scraping, at least verify that it is blood. If the crime scene specialists have time, they can also inspect the rest of the car. If that’s your desire.”

“What would they be looking for?”

“More blood, anything out of the ordinary. It might take some time.”

“So I’d lose the car for a few days.”

“Could happen.”

“Well,” said Heubel, “I didn’t see anything anywhere else – ” He flashed a sick smile. “I looked around with a flashlight. Guess I messed up forensically.”

“Have you vacuumed the car, sir?”

“No, but my fingerprints-”

“Your prints are going to be all over the vehicle because you’re the driver. If you haven’t vacuumed and some sort of notable stain or fiber was transferred, it can be found.”

Heubel poked a finger under an eyeglass lens. “Ten percent, huh? I’d have bet ninety. Guess I’m really out of my element.”

“That’s why we’re here, sir. Would you like Detective Binchy to call for tech support?”

“Would they need to take off the door panels?”

“No, sir. They’ll use swabs, maybe do some superficial scraping, wet whatever they get in saline solution, toss in various reagents – chemicals that react with body fluids. They can do an on-spot analysis for human protein, and if it is blood, obtain an ABO typing. We’re talking a few minutes but waiting for the techs could take a whole lot longer, maybe days, so it would be best if you didn’t drive the car. In the meantime, Detective Binchy can take all your information and write a comprehensive report for our files.”

Sean kicked one shoe with the other.

Heubel said, “I do have another car to drive. Let me think about it.”

“Your choice, sir.”

“Nice to have choices,” said Heubel. “Or the illusion of such.”

As we drove away, I said, “Comprehensive report? What’s that, Sean’s punishment for wasting your time?”

“I acknowledge no such vindictiveness.”

“Planning to follow up by grounding him and taking away his Game Boy?”

He laughed. “What I
will
cop to is butt-covering. Guy like Heubel just might know the mayor. Last thing I need – last thing
Sean
needs – is cocktail chatter about how the police don’t give a crap.”

“Ah,” I said. “You were protecting the kid.”

“That’s what Uncle Milo do.”

“And who knows,” I said. “The stain could lead somewhere.”

He swiveled his head toward me. “Appeasing the rich is one thing, Alex. Conjuring up retro-Goth-neo-Mansonite vampires roaming the streets of Brentwood to butcher commodity traders is another.”

“The original Mansonites roamed Beverly Hills and Los Feliz and butchered all kinds of rich people.”

“This is a no-damage car theft perpetrated by a joyrider considerate enough to park where the owner was likely to find the damn thing.”

“Okay,” I said.

He said, “Don’t use that tone of voice with me, young man.”