Compulsion (27 page)

I spent most of the day after at Western Pediatric Medical Center, listening to Felicia Torres, guiding her through the hospital system. Observing Emilio.

The little boy clung to his mother, mute and tense.

Physically okay, according to Dr. Ruben Eagle, an old friend and head of the Outpatient Division. We agreed that Rochelle Kissler, a brilliant young psychologist who’d been my student, would be perfect for the long term.

I introduced both of them to Felicia, stayed with her after they left, and asked if there was anything else she wanted to talk about.

“No… I’m so tired.”

“Is there someone who can stay with you?”

“My mom,” she said. “She lives in Phoenix, but she’ll come if I ask.”

I dialed the number, sat there as she talked.

She hung up, smiling wearily. “She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Do you need someone till then?”

“No, I’ll be fine… this is so nice of you.”

“We’re all here to help you.”

She began shaking.

“What is it?”

“The way you said that, Dr. Delaware. Being helpful. That’s what
he
pretended. What kind of sick joke was that?”

I didn’t answer.

“I never trusted him, Doctor. Not from the
minute
I met him.”

Milo and I decompressed at a bar in Santa Monica. Eleven p.m.; he’d spent his day with Raul Biro and two other Hollywood detectives, going through the house on Altair Terrace.

One of the homes Dale Bright had bought as Nicholas Heubel. The other was a cabin near Palmdale, where he’d confined Felicia Torres in a bathroom. Forced her to imagine what he was doing to Emilio.

Mostly, he’d ignored the child. Letting him cry, then scream. No food or water. Then a quick drop into a shipping carton.

Airholes, to prolong the ordeal.

Milo said, “I know I’m supposed to have a reaction to shooting anyone. But, God help me, Alex, I wish I’d had more bullets.”

Three of five rooms on Altair were filled with mementos. Nice view of the Hollywood sign from a corner of the deck. White Lexus in the garage.

The Bentley had been moved from the LAPD motor lab to the same department-sanctioned tow yard where Kat Shonsky’s car had been ignored.

I said, “Maybe the chief can use it as his official ride.”

Milo said, “Harness a couple of thoroughbreds to the front bumper, be perfect.”

Ansell “Dale” Bright’s medicine cabinet yielded nothing stronger than aspirin and over-the-counter sinus remedies.

Under the sink was a polished black-walnut box filled with ampules of synthetic testosterone. Its bird’s-eye maple mate held plastic-sealed hypodermic needles.

“Pumping himself up?” said Milo. “To go with a dress?”

I threw up my hands.

He finished his Martini and told me about the passports under half a dozen aliases, the trove of documents that traced Bright’s path from New York to London, then Paris, Lisbon, back to England, Ireland, Scotland. Final stop: Zurich.

Trammel Dabson was another pilfered identity. Same DOB as Bright and the unfortunate Nicholas Heubel.

The original owner of the identity, an infant buried in the Morton Hall Cemetery in Edinburgh.

Bright had done a gravestone rubbing, mounted it in a scrapbook.

One of fifteen scrapbooks.

Chronicle of a life lived in costume.

The souvenirs weren’t limited to paper. In a small basement cut into the hillside behind the house, Milo discovered a trio of footlockers filled with firearms, knives, two acetylene blowtorches, stout rope, surgical gloves and tools, scalpels, probes, tissue spreaders, vials of poison.

Newspaper clippings from foreign papers created another chronology.

Unsolved murder of the landlord of a rooming house in the Eleventh Arrondissement of Paris.

Disappearance of an Oxford publican with a famously nasty disposition.

An article in Portuguese yet to be translated. But the grainy snapshot of a heavyset woman and the recurrent word
“assasinato”
said plenty.

The Brentwood house had served as a front and yielded nothing of forensic value. Upscale address for the social life Bright-as-Heubel had hoped to live as a financial advisor. Soraya Hamidpour had a client “from the industry” ready to move in.

Access to Bright’s computer was easy. No encryption and his password was “Bright Guy.”

His hard drive contained mostly financial files – algorithms for trading, performance histories, linkups to bourses around the world – and a scatter of sadistic pornography.

In a separate folder were five drafts of a prospectus “Nicholas St. Heubel, III” had composed and dated two years previous. Plans to start Hydro-Worth, a hedge fund emphasizing oil commodity trading. Bright had appended a puffed-up bio, lied about attending Eton, Harvard, and Wharton, termed himself “a brilliant tactician and financial soothsayer.”

The boast had some basis in fact. Upon arrival in London from New York, he’d used fake credentials to get a job at a brokerage house in London. Learned to trade futures well enough to earn enormous performance bonuses and a letter of commendation from the managing director.

Within eighteen months, he’d quit, was investing for himself. Nine years after inheriting $1.36 million, his savings had grown to $7.1 million.

Not counting the Swiss bank account, which would take a while to access.

Something else from Switzerland: Mounted at the back of one of the scrapbooks was an elegantly handwritten receipt from a clinic in Lugano. Nothing itemized; the franc conversion translated to fifty-five thousand American dollars.

“Maybe a drug problem, one of those high-end rehab places,” said Milo. “But except for the macho-juice, we didn’t find anything iffy.”

“Could’ve been successful rehab,” I said. “If so, too bad for society.”

“What do you mean?”

“He got his head clear enough to chop off other people’s.”

Despite Nicholas St. Heubel III’s financial acumen, he’d picked up no clients and Hydro-Worth remained a scheme.

I said, “Superficially charming but maybe when they got to know him, he spooked them like he did the sisters.”

“Too cute for his own good.”

“The game was too much fun.”

“Raul found something he wrote on a hard copy of the prospectus. ‘Time for a frugal lifestyle, funnel in on what’s important.’”

“Getting his priorities straight,” I said.

He said, “Another too bad.”

As we worked on our second round of drinks, Milo ’s phone vibrated on the bar.

Inaudible above the drone of bar-talk and an old football game on ESPN Classic.

He watched it jump like a Mexican bean, chewed his olive, swallowed, picked up.

“Sturgis
… you’re
up late, Doc… That so? Oh, man… I do appreciate it, anything else? True… I’ll ask him, thanks for letting me know.”

Emptying his glass, he waved for a refill.

I said, “Which doc was that?”

“Steinberg, at the coroner’s. Ol’ Dale’s autopsy was prioritized, orders from the chief.”

“All those bullet holes, an autopsy was necessary?”

“Police-involved shootings must be treated with utmost care,” he pronounced as if talking about someone else.

His drink came. He sipped. Hummed something I couldn’t make out.

I said,
“What?”

He placed his glass on the bar, twirled the stem. “Turns out Dale-Nick-Mr. Bizarro had no balls. Literally. Surgically removed, nice neat job all healed over.”

“The Swiss clinic.”

“I hear money buys you anything there.”

“He pays to get castrated,” I said, “takes testosterone to stay masculine.”

“No doubt, you’ve got an explanation based on your training and expertise.”

Above us, on screen, someone made a thirty-yard run for a touchdown. Ancient history but some of the drinkers at the bar got excited.

I said, “I could theorize about the desire for total control. Regulating his dosage, enjoying the fluctuation.”

“But?”

I snagged the bartender’s attention. Pointed at Milo ’s glass.

Mouthed, “Me, too.”

Two days after the rescue of Felicia and Emilio Torres, Milo was called to the chief’s office for what he assumed was a pat on the back.

That morning, we’d both been at the coroner’s and I stayed with him for the short ride to Parker Center.

The forensic pathologist had been asked to conduct a psychological autopsy and wanted my professional opinion on the psychological motivation behind Ansell “Dale” Bright’s self-mutilation, hormonal manipulation, and fascination with “macabre altruism.”

I’d rattled off a bunch of jargon that seemed to make everyone happy.

As Milo pulled into the headquarters staff lot, he said, “Why don’t you come up, His Majesty would probably like to meet you.”

“Probably?”

“He has his moods.”

“Thanks anyway, I’ll catch some air.”

He went inside and I took a walk. Nothing much to see but the fall air was clean for downtown L.A. and the homeless guys I passed seemed tranquil.

Half an hour later, I was back in front of headquarters and Milo was pacing.

“Been here long, Big Guy?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Short meeting,” I said.

“Cuz Jackson’s other claimed bodies have frittered to nothing, the only thing holding Texas back from spiking the bastard is Antoine.” Pointing his finger and beetling his brows. “‘
Do
something, Lieutenant.’”

“Not a word about Bright?”

“‘Cross-dressing bastard got what he deserved.’”

Back to the Hollywood Hills.

Watching Wilson Good’s house after dark.

A night of nothing, followed by a day of the same. Hard to find shelter on the high, sunny street but Milo really wasn’t hoping for much.

The second night, I offered to come along.

He said, “Too much free time?”

“Something like that.”

Mr. Dot-com’s executive secretary had phoned this morning, announcing her boss’s “intention to visit his commission” in three days. Robin was working overtime to assemble the mandolin.

She said, “You’re okay with being here?”

“Can I hold your tools?”

“When you get in a certain frame of mind, everything you say sounds suggestive.”

“And the problem is…”

“Absolutely nothing.”

I parked the Seville at the southern edge of Wilson Good’s street. Close enough for a long view of the house and the electric mesh gate that caged its frontage. A couple of low-voltage spots created useless puddles of illumination. Most of the enclosure was dark.

I said, “Where’s the Red Bull?”

Milo said, “Drank coffee all day.”

We settled in for the long haul.

No need to; two minutes later, we both spotted movement behind the mesh.

The man was trapped. Slinking into a corner, he ignored Milo ’s command to show himself, huddled low, trying to look small.

Milo stood out of view, hand on gun. He’d used the weapon more this week than in months previous. “Out, pal. Let’s have a look at you.”

Freeway hum.

“Put your hands on your head and walk backward toward the sound of my voice.
Now.
”

The distant, bovine moan of a truck horn.

Milo repeated the order louder.

Nothing.

“Suit yourself, friend. One way or the other you’re coming out.”

Silence.

“You like fire hoses?”

Zoom zoom zoom from miles away.

He called for three Hollywood patrol cars and a locksmith. Five officers arrived under the tutelage of a sergeant who scoped out the situation and said, “Don’t see what we can do.”

The locksmith showed up ten minutes later, squinted at the gate from ten yards away. “He armed?”

“Don’t know.”

“What do you expect me to do? That’s electric, anyway, I can’t do anything with it.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Use a tactical nuclear weapon.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Welcome. Can I go now?”

Five more minutes of nothing before Milo called out, “You up for a climb, buddy?”

No answer.

“Pal, one way or the other, you’re busted.”

The sergeant said, “Maybe he’s deaf. Central had a deaf guy last year, got shot, big trouble.”

Milo continued his monologue. Alternating cajoling with threats.

When he said, “Okay, do the tear gas,” a voice from behind the gate said, “I’ll come out.”

A figure stepped out to the center of the enclosure. The moon lit up half his face.

Thin, gaunt black man. Ragged hair, scruffy beard, sagging clothes.

“Hands on your head.”

Scrawny arms shot up fast.

“Turn around and walk toward me. Back up so you’re touching the gate.”

The man said, “I know the drill.”

Milo cuffed both his hands to the mesh gate.

“Thought you wanted me out of here, Officer. I climbed in, could climb out.”

Milo turned to the sergeant. “There should be some kind of manual control over there, near the motor. Anyone in good shape?”

The sergeant said, “Someone feeling like Tarzan?”

A short, stocky female officer said, “I used to do gymnastics.”

“Go for it, Officer Kylie.”

After a couple of false starts, Kylie got a foothold on the mesh. Moments later, she’d scrambled up and over. “Here it is, right on the box.”

Milo told the cuffed man: “Listen carefully: Gate’s gonna swing open, just move with it, don’t panic.”

“I never panic,” said the man.

“Unflappable.”

“That, too.”

Freed from the gate and recuffed, the man stared off into space.

Milo let the uniforms go, sat him on the curb.

“I finally get to meet you, Bradley.”

Bradley Maisonette hung his head.

“Here to see your old pal, Will? Interesting way to visit.”

“You know me?” said Maisonette. “’Cause I don’t know you.”

“Been looking for you, sir.”

The honorific gave Maisonette a start. He smiled. “You didn’t find me for a while.”

“Congratulations. Let’s talk.”

“How’d you do it?” said Maisonette. “Look for me, I mean. Like what’s your technique? I was in plain sight, living the good life on Fourth Street.”

“ Tent City?”

Maisonette flashed rotten teeth. “We call it the Sidewalk Suburb. I’m in and out of there all the time, all you had to do was ask. Flash enough trash, some junkie would’ve sold me out.”

Speaking softly, clearly. His clothes were in tatters but over the phone he’d sound like a refined man.

Milo said, “Your P.O. have any idea you crashed there?”

Bradley Maisonette laughed. “Those people? Never talk to them.”

We took Maisonette back to Hollywood station.

He said, “What are the charges?”

Milo said, “Offhand I can think of trespassing, attempted burglary, resisting arrest. Give me some time and I’ll come up with more.”

“Small stuff. I’ll cope.”

“No need to if you talk to us.”

“That simple, huh?”

“Why not?”

“Nothing ever is.”

Maisonette ended up in the same room Tasha had marked with a floral bouquet of perfume and lotions. He exuded the sour, unwashed reek that had filled the Seville on the drive over.

He sniffed, frowned, as if aware of his own odor for the first time.

Milo offered him something to drink.

Maisonette said, “I’ll take a steak. Filet mignon, medium rare inside, charred crisp on the outside, with some nice fried onions. Caesar salad to start, extra dressing. Red wine. I prefer California over French – Pinot Noir.”

“Cooperate, Bradley, I can get you caviar.”

“Hate that stuff. Tastes like bad pussy.”

“Turn either down often?”

Maisonette smiled.

“Why were you trying to break into Wilson Good’s crib?”

“No one was breaking in anywhere.”

Under bright light, Maisonette’s skin was sallow, scored, sun-spotted. Red-rimmed eyes drooped. Thirty-one years old, but he could’ve been his father’s age. Crude tattoos brocading his arms did nothing to hide tortured veins and knotted track-smudges.

Milo said, “What were you doing there?”

“Trying to see Will.”

“Why?”

“He called me.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“You have a phone?”

“I stand corrected,” said Maisonette. “He sent his
girlfriend
to Fourth Street and she invited me. Said Will and I needed to talk.”

“About what?”

“She didn’t say.”

“You went over anyway.”

“A week later.”

Milo said, “She didn’t have to spell it out. You knew.”

Maisonette’s eyes contemplated resistance.

He said, “What the hell.” Gave a slow, weary nod.

“What was the topic?” said Milo.

“Twan,” said Maisonette. “There’s nothing else between Will and me.”

“Good wanted to talk about Antoine Beverly.”

“Just the opposite. The girlfriend said Will wanted to discuss
not
talking. He’d explain when I got there.”

“Who’s this girlfriend?”

“White girl, freckles, calls herself Andy.”

I said, “That’s his wife.”

Maisonette grinned. “You believe everything you hear?”

“Why would she lie about that?” said Milo.

“Will’s been stringing her along for ten years. Coaches at a church school, has to look all respectable, so he tells the priests he’s married. But they never filed paper.”

“Ten years, huh?”

“Will’s one of those guys,” said Maisonette. “Commitment-shy.”

“The two of you have been in regular contact,” said Milo.

“Not regular, intermittent.”

“When was the last time?”

“While back, I don’t keep a calendar.”

“Years? Months?”

“Maybe a year,” said Maisonette. “The topic was I needed a loan to get me on my feet.”

“Will come through?”

“Sure did.”

“Good friend.”

“We go back.”

Milo said, “Let’s push things up to the present. Andrea the fake-wife came by to tell you Will would pay you not to talk about Twan.”

“I didn’t want to anyway,” said Maisonette. “Talk. Called him, got no answer. Fine with me.”

“Why was Will suddenly worried about you talking?”

Maisonette smiled. “Why ask questions you know the answer to?”

“I could use your answer.”

“Because things were stirring up.”

“Antoine’s case was reopened.”

Nod.

“After Andrea’s visit, you rabbited.”

Maisonette flashed a who-me look.

Milo said, “Bradley, I’m not as stupid as I look, been on Fourth Street plenty of times. Junkies said you were in the air.”

Smooth lie; not a trace of tell.

Maisonette shrugged. “I wandered around a little. You didn’t work hard enough.”

“Well,” said Milo, “at least you’re here and we’re having a great time. So what about Antoine worries Will?”

Maisonette scratched the crook of one ravaged arm. “You’re not going to charge me, correct? Once you get hold of Will, he’ll tell you straight-out I was invited to visit anytime, therefore no trespass and, for sure, no attempt 459.”

Milo laughed. “You climbed his fence.”

“Rang his bell first. I thought he was home.”

“No one answers the bell, he’s home?”

“Will can get like that.”

“Like what?”

“Depressed, goes to bed for days, doesn’t want to talk or see anyone. Last few years, he’s been better, taking meds. Likes his job, doesn’t want to rock any boats. But before – when we were in college – he’d miss a lot of classes, borrow my notes.”

“You went to college together.”

“Cal State Long Beach,” said Maisonette. “One year, I studied electrical engineering. Will did a Mickey Mouse major.” Flexing his hands. “P.E.”

I said, “Will has a long history of depression.”

“Ancient history.”

“Did it start before Antoine’s death, or after?”

Maisonette’s eyes rose to the ceiling.

Milo said, “Is that a tough question, Bradley?”

Maisonette slid around in his chair. “I’ll take some food now. And a Coke, real sugar, no Diet.”

“Answer the question first.”

Maisonette rubbed his palms together. Jammed his hands into his hair and yanked hard enough to shimmy his eyebrows.

I said, “Before or after?”

“After.”

“Antoine stayed on Will’s mind. Made dealing with life tough.”

“You sound like a shrink.”

“Happens sometimes. How did Antoine affect you?”

“Me? I’m cool.”

“Not Will.”

Maisonette hugged himself. “Cold in here, would you please turn down the A.C.?”

Milo said, “What preyed on Will? He did something to Twan? You and he did something together?”

Maisonette’s head turned slowly. His eyes filled with tears. “You think
that
?”

“Mr. Maisonette, I’ve got a sixteen-year-old homicide all stirred up, like you said, and two supposed friends of the victim rabbiting.”

“Supposed? Here are the facts: We were best friends.
Best.
I didn’t do anything to Antoine, Will didn’t do anything to Antoine.”

“Antoine disappeared into thin air?”

“
We
didn’t do it. Not Will or me.”

“Who did?”

Maisonette worked his hands through his hair. Dandruff snowed on the table.

Milo slammed the table hard enough to twang the metal. “
Enough
of this bullshit! What’d happened to
Antoine
?”

Real rage. Maisonette parried it with long, cool stare. “Nothing.”

Milo shot up to his feet. Leaned on the table, nearly upended it with his weight. “Sixteen
years,
Bradley. Antoine’s parents living with the pain of not knowing. You and your so-called friend were at that funeral, pretending to be all torn up. Sixteen fucking
years.
”

Maisonette’s skinny frame began to shake.

“
Say
it!”

Maisonette’s head dropped. “Damn Will.”

“Will did something.”

“He swore me.”

“To what?”

“Silence. Not ’cause we
did
something. Something got done to
him.
”

A beat.