Obsession

“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?”

“She died recently of natural causes and alluded to some terrible things that had happened while she lived on Fourth Street. That’s what got the current investigation going.”

“She believed me,” said Herbert Stark. “My God…couldn’t tell from her reaction.”

“What’d she say?”

“Nothing, that’s my point. She nodded and thanked me for informing her and asked me how Galen was doing, then she ushered me out. I thought it was ungrateful and a bit rude. I was trying to help. But she did move out soon after.”

“Did she ever say why she was moving?”

“We didn’t talk after that.”

“Did your wife talk to her?”

“I doubt it and she’s not here to ask, up in Seattle, some kind of knitting convention.”

“When you warned Patty did you mention both Pete Whitbread and Roger Bandini by name?”

“Of course, there was no doubt who loaded that van. Have you found the bodies?”

“Not yet.”

“What are the chances?” said Stark. “After all these years. Which is no one’s fault but the vaunted LAPD. Holmes and Marlowe are laughing.”

Click.

I tried Milo and Petra, got voice mail all around. While I brewed coffee, my service called. Herbert Stark recalling another detail?

The operator said, “Doctor, I’ve got a Kyle Bernard on the line.”

Kyle’s barely audible voice said, “Dr. Delaware? Sorry to bother you but is there any way we can get together? Tanya has a two-hour seminar right now, so on the off chance you’ve got an opening…”

“Is there a problem, Kyle?”

“It’s…I’d just like to toss some things around with you.”

“I can’t discuss Tanya, Kyle.”

“Yes, yes, I know, confidentiality. But there’s no rule against listening, is there?”

“What’s on your mind?”

“I’d really rather meet in person, Dr. Delaware. Here in the lab it’s near impossible to find a quiet place, that’s why I’m whispering. Outside reception’s not too great-the psych building blocks everything out. Tanya said your office is in Beverly Glen. I could be there in ten minutes.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Really? Fantastic.”

Where I live in the Glen, high above an old dormant bridle trail, even a mediocre day appears glorious. People who visit the first time are often compelled to comment on the green-blanketed hills, the sliver of Pacific peekabooing above the Palisades, the caramel light.

Since we’ve had Blanche, no one’s been able to resist petting her.

When I opened the door for Kyle Bedard, he tramped past her, pumped my hand too hard, and said, “I appreciate this.”

His hair was wind-tu

Then: “Speaking of which, my father left for the Loire Valley.”

I took him to my office. Blanche trotted after him, trolling for eye contact she didn’t receive. Hopping up on my lap, she fell asleep.

“Dad had enough of L.A.?”

“L.A., the house-he despises it because it’s Grandfather’s domain. Having convinced himself he fulfilled his paternal duty, it was time to resume living.” Rolling his shoulders, he tugged at his shirtfront, realized he’d misaligned and unbuttoned hastily. “There was also a bit of the old wink and nod. Three’s a crowd, son, don’t want to get in your way. I told him this wasn’t about romance, it was about keeping Tanya safe. Dad can’t conceive anyone being alone with an attractive female and not wanting to immediately get into her pants.”

Sudden blush. “Of course I’m attracted to her, I’m a guy. But that’s not the issue. I wanted to speak to you because Tanya’s not sleeping.”

“Not at all?”

“Not to any significant degree. The room where she’s staying is directly above the library and when I’m working I can hear her pace. Incessantly, she can do it for hours.”

“Sounds like you’re not sleeping, either?”

“I’m fine. I work when I want because I don’t have formal hours. Sometimes I even bunk down in the lab, there’s a futon all the grad students use. But it’s different for Tanya. Her life is structured, she has a schedule. I don’t know how long she can keep going like this.”

“Have you talked to her about it?”

“No, because I know what she’d say.”

“‘I’m doing fine, Kyle.’”

“Exactly. More than the insomnia, it’s the pacing that concerns me. Back and forth, as if she’s…I don’t know…caught up in something. Is it something to be worried about?”

I sat there.

“You can’t tell me that?”

“Why don’t you stick to statements rather than questions and we’ll try to make sense of things.”

“That’s basically it-no, I’m lying. It’s not just the pacing. It’s what it means-all her anxiety. It’s a stress reaction, right?-sorry, no questions. Stupid question, anyway, of course it’s anxiety. She’s probably scared out of her mind. Not to mention the grief over her mother-she doesn’t talk about that, either.”

“People talk when they’re ready.”

“Like that old joke?” he said. “How many shrinks to change a lightbulb, but the bulb has to want to change? But it’s hard when it’s someone…On top of all that, America-our housekeeper-told me about some other routines Tanya has. She happened to walk in while Tanya was…granted, she’s nosy, kind of a pain in the ass, actually, I liked Cecilia-her sister-a lot better. America’s extremely moralistic, since Tanya moved in she’s been walking around with this lemon-sucking self-righteous expression. No doubt she thinks something’s going on between Tanya and me, so maybe she walked into Tanya’s bedroom accidentally on purpose. But still, she did see it.”

“What did she see?”

He rebuttoned his shirt, bottom to top. Checked the order. “Maybe I’m making too big a deal out of this…there’s a dressing room behind Tanya’s bedroom and beyond that, a walk-in closet. The dressing room’s mirrored and the walls are angled at such a way that if you’re at the head of the bed you can see part of the closet. America claims she wasn’t spying, just fluffing Tanya’s pillows…She saw Tanya walking around the closet touching things. There’s tons of stuff in bags, mostly my dad’s overflow, stuff he hasn’t worn in years, he never gets rid of anything, keeps hoping I’ll eventually dig it. Like I’d do the whole smoking jacket and ascot thing-okay, okay, I’m getting off the topic. America says Tanya touched every single bag three times, then went back and repeated it four times, then five, then six, then seven.”