Compulsion (26 page)

As we descended Altair Terrace, Milo phoned in outlining a surveillance plan for later that night.

At Beachwood, Tasha said, “I’m feeling my appetite coming back. You can drop me at the Baskin-Robbins.”

Before Milo could answer, headlights whitewashed us.

Single vehicle climbing from the south.

Milo pushed Tasha into the brush.

The headlights reached the intersection. VW bus, a dim color hard to make out in the darkness. Grinding noise as its tires turned left onto Altair.

Tasha said, “They need transmission fluid.”

Milo stepped out, reached for the side of the bus just as it turned, tapped the passenger door.

One hand on his holstered gun, the other waving his badge.

The bus stopped short. Milo made a cranking motion.

The passenger window rolled down manually. The driver’s hand remained on the handle as she leaned toward him.

Young woman, thirty or so, with wide, surprised eyes and short brown hair. The rear of the bus was piled high with cardboard boxes.

“Do you live on this street, ma’am?”

“Uh-huh. Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing to be alarmed about. Do you know the occupants of the house at the end of the road?”

“Not really.”

“No?”

“I – they’re not there.”

“Not around much?”

Her eyes flicked to the rear of the bus. “Nope.”

Milo said, “Everything okay, ma’am?”

“You surprised me. I have to go, Officer. Have a
child
to look after.”

Biting her lip, she gunned the engine, ground the gears, lurched forward, nearly running over Milo ’s foot.

He fell back, barely held on to his balance.

We watched as the bus putt-putted up Altair.

Tasha said, “Maybe it’s me, but that’s one scared girl.”

We stayed in the shadows, watched as the bus parked between the pale house and its nearest neighbor.

I said, “When you asked if she lived here, she said ‘Something’s wrong.’ Statement, not a question.”

Milo got on the phone again, whispered orders.

The van sat there for several minutes before the woman got out and unlatched the rear doors.

Shaking her head; as if responding to an unseen questioner.

A second figure emerged from the bus. Taller, short hair, shirt and pants.

Male.

He pointed at the woman and the two of them pulled something out of the van.

Rectangular; a carton, maybe four feet long.

The man straight-armed the woman away, completed the extrication, lowered the box to the ground.

The bump was audible.

The woman let out a high-pitched noise. The man’s hand on her shoulder silenced her.

She reached for the box.

He slapped her hand away. Pointed again. She moved several feet away. Stood there. Hand to mouth.

The man began rocking the carton.

Let go of it.

The woman lunged forward, broke the fall, straightened the box.

The man placed his hands on his hips.

The sound of laughter filtered down Altair.

The woman tried to lift the carton, failed.

The man grasped one end and the two of them carried it toward the pale house.

Milo said, “Here goes aerobics,” and took off on big, rubber-soled feet.

I heard the scuffle before I saw it.

Tasha shivered, grabbed a branch for support. Leaves rattled.

I said, “Don’t budge an inch.”

“You don’t have to convince me, sir.”

I followed Milo ’s pathway up the street.

Twenty feet from the house, the details kicked in.

Milo ’s feet planted. Two-handing his 9mm. The weapon aimed at the smiling face of the man who called himself Nicholas Heubel.

Fast, uphill run, but not a trace of raspy breath.

Heubel wore a scooped-neck peasant blouse, white culottes that exposed hairy ankles, red Bakelite earrings, red lipstick. A two-day beard stubble and granny glasses rounded out the ensemble.

Bad joke, if not for the arm around the short-haired woman’s neck, forcing her backward, so that her spine arched and her eyes watched the sky.

In Heubel’s other hand, a little black pistol pressed against the top of the carton.

Seemed to be piercing the carton – embedded in a hole at the top.

The woman said, “Please let him go. He doesn’t have much air.”

Milo said, “Good idea, Dale.”

Heubel didn’t respond.

The woman said, “My baby,” and Heubel put weight on the gun, drove it deeper into the box.

He said, “Maybe the merciful thing would be to blow his little tot brains out.”

“Please!”
howled the woman.

Lights went on in a house midway down Altair.

Heubel said, “Now look what you’ve done,” and pushed the gun so deep the barrel disappeared into the box. Cardboard flexed. He kicked the carton. Noise leaked from within.

Muffled cries.

“Oh God, please, please, I beg you,” said the woman.

Heubel choked off her voice with an arm twist.

Milo said, “Bad idea, Dale.”

Heubel said, “I’m the idea guy,” in a strange, vacant voice.

“I called for backup, Dale. The smart thing is defuse this now.”

“Dale,” said Heubel. “Who in the world is that?”

The cries from the box got louder.

Then: coughing.

The woman said, “He can’t breathe!”

Heubel said, “Life is transitory. Makes us appreciate what we have.”

“Please! He’s only two!”

Milo took a step closer.

Heubel kicked the box again.

Milo edged nearer.

Heubel said, “Sneak up like that again and I’ll bam-bam Bam Bam.”

“Emilio,”
said the woman. “He’s got a
name.
”

“Let’s just take it easy,” said Milo.

“Good idea,” said Heubel. “I’m as mellow as layer cake. Anyone for… anagrams?”

The woman whimpered.

Milo said, “They’ll be here any moment, Dale.”

Heubel said, “Don’t insult my intelligence, I know it’s only you and you don’t have a radio.”

“I called, Dale.”

Quick arm twist. The woman gasped.

“Shush, now,” said Heubel. “I believe in happy endings, don’t you, chiquita?”

“Yes, yes, please let him go-”

“I guess my definition differs from yours.”

Milo said, “The last thing I want to do is insult your intelligence, but-”

“Your
presence
insults my intelligence.” Grinding the gun into the box.

Milo said, “Nice outfit. Who’s your tailor?”

Heubel gave a start. The gun hand loosened for a second.

I jumped out, shouting.

“Freeze drop the gun drop it!”
Or something like it, who remembers.

Heubel’s head swiveled hard toward the intrusion, relaxing his choke hold long enough for the woman to twist her head lower.

She bit down on his arm.

He shook her off, said, “Bye-bye, Emilio.”

Milo emptied his weapon.

Heubel stood there for an instant. Threw up his hands, as if surrendering. Fell.

One of his earrings flew off like a speck of hail.

The woman dove at the box, managed to keep it upright. Ripped the lid off, screaming.

Pulled out a sobbing flailing toddler and held him to her breast.

Heubel made an odd little squeaky noise.

When the child calmed down, the woman carried him over to Heubel’s body. Kicked viciously.

The woman’s named was Felicia Torres and she was twenty-eight. Her husband, a landscaper studying biology at night, had been sent by the National Guard to Iraq three months ago. Without Stuart’s income, the young family’s savings depleted quickly and Felicia began looking for temp jobs. No computer skills limited her options for office work. She lowered her sights.

A couple of office-cleaning jobs downtown hadn’t worked out because the babysitting money just about wiped out her salary.

The Craigslist ad for a “two-day house-straightening position” in Brentwood had seemed promising. Great neighborhood, “generous pay,” and the man who answered at the number sounded friendly.

Generous pay translated to twenty dollars an hour, way more than Felicia had hoped for. When “Nick” readily agreed to let her bring Emilio along, that clinched it.

With her Hyundai in the shop, she’d needed to take the bus from her one-bedroom in Venice and walk a ways on Sunset, pushing Emilio in his stroller. The street was hard to find and there were no sidewalks, so the stroller bumped a lot but that helped put Emilio to sleep.

When she finally found the house, she knew she had a winner. Gorgeous and huge, like something out of
House & Garden.
Shiny white Lexus in front.

She knocked on the door and that same friendly voice said, “It’s open, c’mon in.”

Nick was just as nice in person, kind of lanky, real well built. Good-looking in that older-rich-guy way.

He handed her a hundred-dollar bill. “This is your advance, keep track of your hours and let me know when you’re due for more.”

The house was even huger than it looked from the outside, with cathedral ceilings and white walls. Real bright, even with the lights off. Probably cheery when furnished.

Now, to Felicia’s surprise, it was totally empty. And really pretty clean-looking. But it was Nick’s money and she liked the feel of that hundred in the pocket of her jeans.

Emilio was still snoozing away. Felicia looked for a place to park the stroller.

Nick smiled, whispered, “Cute,” led her to a room at the back, where he’d set up a toddler gate and some toys. Unbelievable.

When she tried to thank him, he shrugged, took the stroller and wheeled it into a corner.

Sunlight glowing through a big, spotless window turned patches of oak floor gold. No glare on Emilio; Nick had put the stroller in a cool, shady corner – such a considerate man. Through the glass, Felicia saw a really lush tropical-type garden and a blue lap pool. She wondered what Stuart would think of the plantings. They looked okay to her but she wasn’t picky.

Cute toys, some of them still in boxes. Nick grinned.

“I can’t believe you took the time, sir.”

“No big whoop, Felicia.”

Using her name like they’d known each other for a long time.

She said, “To me, it sure is. This had to cost-”

Nick placed a finger on her lips. “The main thing is when he wakes up he’ll get all jazzed.”

“He will for sure, these are just what he likes – do you have kids, sir?”

“Not yet. I went over to Toyland, asked the salesgirl.”

“That is so-”

“Felicia, if no one went the extra yard, the world would be a pretty sad place – c’mon, let me show you the gig. Anytime you need to tend to Little Man, feel free.”

Felicia felt her eyes swell.

Maybe Nick sensed her emotion. “I like to help,” he said. “Kind of selfish, really. Makes
me
feel good.”

Emilio woke up in an okay mood. The toys overwhelmed him and he got hyper, but then he calmed down and focused on some plastic cars. Making that serious-old-man crunched-up face that reminded Felicia of her dad in Florida.

The only funny thing was, Emilio didn’t seem to like Nick, got all whiny when Nick tried to talk to him. But her son was a shy boy, not used to strangers.

The main thing, he was occupied and Felicia could work steadily.

The “gig” was different; you couldn’t ask for anything easier.

Felicia wondered why Nick was willing to pay someone to drymop every inch of wall and floor, scrub down granite counters and appliances in the clearly unused kitchen.

When Nick made her go over the walls a second, then a third time, gave her freshly shredded T-shirts and ammonia spray to “really get down” into the corners, she thought it was a little weird, but it was his money and the take-out Thai food he ordered from a place in the County Mart was delicious, not to mention the candy for Emilio.

Knowing, somehow, that she
loved
Thai.

She’d use a toothbrush and a magnifying glass if that’s what he wanted.

While she cleaned, Nick kept busy in the master bedroom, emerged from time to time to inquire if she and Emilio were okay.

Between the second and the third go-rounds, when she made a joke about it being like one of those forensics shows on TV, cleaning up the evidence, Nick thought that was hilarious.

On the second day, the bus was late and so was she, but Nick was cool about it. He patted Emilio’s head and had Felicia go over the dining room again. Then he showed her into the master bedroom, the only part of the house she hadn’t been.

This
was different.

Clothing was piled everywhere – on the bed, the floor, in the closet – except for one section where stacks of folded cardboard boxes stood ready to be assembled.

As if the contents of the entire house had been concentrated in one space.

“Please fold everything and pack, but not too tight,” he told her. “If you can arrange it loosely by color, that would be great, but don’t worry if it’s not perfect. Do you know how to fold these sides to make the boxes?”

“Sure.”

“Then you’re all set.” Big smile. “I’m going out for a while. I left drinks in the fridge and some snacks… it’s really nice having you help me, Felicia.”

“Me, too,” she said. Boy, did
that
sound stupid. “Um, afterward – after the food is gone – do I need to scrub down the fridge again?”

Nick thought about that. “No. That won’t be necessary.”

It didn’t take long to realize everything was for a woman. Big woman. Expensive stuff, a lot of it vintage.

Gowns and dresses, silk blouses and skirts. Tweed suits – a whole collection of those. Silky negligees and panty hose and real silk stockings you needed garters and clips for, she’d never actually seen those before. Lots of bras, size forty-four C.

On the bottom of one pile, she found a bunch of cute little leather boxes filled with costume jewelry. Tucked in a corner were cool old hatboxes, round and hexagonal, containing feathery cloches, felt derbies, berets, delicate straws with fake wooden cherries sticking out of the bands. One blue plaid cap that looked like a man’s, but women with hat faces looked cute in them, too.

She tried that one on, tilted it at a jaunty angle, grinned at the mirror.

People had told her she had a hat face.

Parting two other stacks in the corner revealed a bunch of plastic bags containing tubes and jars of high-end cosmetics. Some of it all dried up, but she packed it anyway, Nick was the boss.

In a humongous plastic bag, she found a dozen wigs, with tissue paper between them. All different colors and styles. In a matching bag were the little foam dealies you put wigs on.

The
coolest
find was thirty-three of the nicest scarves Felicia had ever seen. Vuitton and Armani and Chanel and Escada and some others she’d never heard of. She counted them because she’d never seen so much gorgeous hand-painted silk in one place.

No men’s stuff, not a single sock.

Felicia wondered if Nick was a costume designer. Or maybe married to an actress who traveled, needed all those changes.

Big woman, maybe a character actress. She conjured an image: tall, buxom, had to be a blonde. Big but firm and shapely, you had to give Nick credit for not insisting on an X-ray.

Felicia had once been a totally slim size six. She’d lost all her preg weight, but twenty-five months later was still a little poochy in front, favored baggy sweatshirts.

No competition for Nick’s glamorous wife.

Stupid thought!

Like the fantasies that had begun filling her mind since last night.

Lying in bed, hoping Emilio would sleep through the night. Thinking about Stuart in Fallujah. It had been three weeks since she’d heard from him and no way would she listen to the news, all news did was make everything as horrible as possible.

Stuart’s face faded from view.

Nick’s took its place.

Felicia felt stupid and ashamed.

Fought the fantasy but it kept coming back and finally she gave in.

Her and Nick.

It starts off all friendly, totally innocent, they’re both good people.

The two of them in that vanilla-colored house. Beautiful, warm sunny day.

She’s mopping, dusting, sweeping stuff outside.

She goes outside, by the pool, to dustpan it up. It’s so hot. She peels off her sweatshirt. Underneath is that skimpy black tank top. The one Stuart always asked her to put on when they…

For some reason, she’d worn it to work.

No bra.

She stretches. Bends down, accidentally flashes a full view of her dangling boobs.

That’s okay, no one there.

Uh-oh; there
is.

Nick. Lounging under a palm tree, reading a book.

Wearing swim trunks, nothing else. Nice body, not an ounce of fat.

He sees her, smiles.

She smiles back, shyly.

Her eyes drift to his swim trunks.

Uh-oh.
That’s
kinda hard to miss.

Nick blushes. Tries to hide the evidence with a book.

She smiles. Walks over to him, real slow.

Both of them working at controlling themselves because they’re good people.

But…

Remembering last night’s fantasy, Felicia’s cheeks burned. Her knees felt weak.

From the corner room with the toys, Emilio cried.

Thank God for the interruption.

At the end of the third day, Nick came home around five p.m., whistling and looking happy and carrying a big brown leather bag that could’ve been a purse or one of those things guys use.

Felicia said, “You want me to pack that, too?”

“Not necessary. Looks like you’ve made excellent progress, Felicia.”

She had. Getting through most of the clothing, everything folded and organized perfectly by color and fabric.

She bragged about it. “Silk with silk, linen with linen.”

Nick flashed his big, white smile. Removed his glasses and looked at her with clear brown eyes.

Felicia loved the fact that she could please someone. Her own happiness was an elusive thing, she knew Stuart wrote as often as he could but…

Nick said, “Why don’t you take a break?”

Cool fingers grazed the nape of her neck. When had he moved close enough to do that?

Felicia drew back, feeling the scorch of her cheeks. Wondering if she’d done something to let him know what was flying through her head…

His smile turned crooked. “I’m going to look over these boxes, see if there’s anything I want you to change.”

“I hope there’s more work,” said Felicia. “You’re a great boss.”

Why had she said that?

Nick laughed. “Boss? We’re two people who’ve reached an agreement. Take a break, Felicia. Go chill by the pool, drink something, you’re sweating.”

Running a finger along her arm.

She shivered. “Sure.”

He closed the door to the master bedroom and she went to the kitchen, brought a Diet Peach Snapple outside, along with a carton of strawberries from the collection of luscious fresh fruit Nick had bought at the Country Mart this morning.

She stretched out in a lounge chair. The same one she’d imagined Nick in. Stretched and yawned and half a bottle of tea and seven berries later, the sun did a number on her head.

When she awoke, the sky was dark and her watch said she’d been out for thirty-five minutes.

Now she’d have to bus back later than she liked, walk those streets where gangbangers sometimes cruised.

Omigod, Emilio hadn’t eaten dinner!

Then why wasn’t he crying?

She hurried inside to the toy room.

No Emilio.

She called his name.

Heard a funny sound – like a bird when its wings were restrained.

From the master bedroom.

Rushing there, she found the door closed.

Opened it.

Nick had pushed boxes out of the way and created a narrow space where Emilio now sat in his stroller. Surrounded on three sides. Like her baby was being walled in.

He saw her and wailed, “Maaamaaa!”

Nick said, “Poor little guy, he woke up cranky.”

She turned to him. Gaped.

Nick was dressed in a lavender satin ball gown, low-cut, something stuffed in the bodice to plump his chest up to cleavage.

Hairy
cleavage.

He had on dangling violet-colored earrings, tacky purplish lipstick, real whore-y fake eyelashes. Combined with his short hair and beard stubble it was… it was…

Pivoting and cocking a hip, he wiggled his butt.

At her. Then at
Emilio.

“Maaamaaa!”

“Voilà,”
said Nick.
“Très chic, non?”

Emilio cried louder.

For some crazy reason, Felicia laughed.

She didn’t know why. No matter how many times she’d try to figure it out she would never come up with why.

Because she
didn’t
think it was funny, not
any
of it, what she did feel was
grossed out
and
freaked
out and -

What came out was
laughter.

And that changed everything about Nick.

And he had a gun.