Obsession

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?”

“Is that a direct order?”

“As direct as it gets. Give me any more lip and I’m coming up and bleeding all over you.”

The cop laughed uneasily and moved aside. I climbed the stairs.

Peterson Whitbread/Blaise De Paine was stretched on his back, head to one side, whitewashed in profile by the overhead bulb.

He’d shaved his head shiny, wore a two-carat diamond in his ear, a pair of chunky diamond rings on his left hand, three on his right. The gem-clogged bracelet of his Rolex Perpetual had been styled for a football tackle’s wrist and hung halfway down a narrow, pale hand.

Polished nails, blue-silver.

Slender young man, puny shoulders, bland baby-face, boy-sized wrists. Small frame diminished further by an oversized sweat suit, black and yellow and white velour, Sean John logo. Black patent-leather ru

New shoes for a big night out.

Lettering on the back of the sweat jacket read La Familia. Havana.

Below that: The Good Life.

Black, yellow, white. A little crushed bumblebee.

A clean black-cherry hole freckled one of his hands. Fabric puffed where bullets had entered his belly.

Eyes closed, mouth agape, no movement. Too late for any sort of confession.

Then I saw it: shallow up-and-down heaving of the bloodied torso.

The cop said, “He breathes once in a while but forget it. They shoulda called for a meat wagon.”

I stood there and watched Blaise De Paine fade away. A walnut-grip shotgun lay a foot from his right ankle. Three ejected pellet casings formed a rough triangle behind his body, inches from the shattered door.

Light behind the door, splinters on kitchen tile.

I said, “Anyone inside?”

The cop said, “The residents.”

“Girl and a boy?”

“Yup.”

“They okay?”

“She’s the one blew this loser away-you’d best be going back down now, coroner will need to certify the-”

Milo called, “You been watching too much TV, Officer.”

The cop gnawed his lower lip. “I were you, Lieutenant, I’d avoid too much exertion. Keep the metabolism as low as possible so you don’t bleed u

“As opposed to all those necessary bleeds?”

“Sir-”

Milo’s obscene retort was obscured by the clank of a gurney on wheels, human voices, bright lights.

EMTs charging in with that bright-eyed, adrenalized look the good ones have.

The cop at the top of the stairs said, “Lieutenant’s right down there.”

Milo said, “Like it’s a mystery? Jee-sus.” Standing and removing his jacket and dripping blood. Shouting, “O-positive, in case anyone’s remotely interested,” as they rushed him.

I started to descend the stairs, was halted by a strange whistling noise behind me.

Blaise De Paine’s eyes had opened.

His lips quivered. Another whistle, higher-pitched, just a teapot-squeak, emerged from between his lips.

Final air seeping out.

The lips formed a smile.

Nothing intentional, he had to be way past volition.

Then his eyes shifted quickly.

Toward me.

Fixed on me.

His head from the ground. Dropped down hard.

A seizure? Some terminal neurological burst-too much intention. He repeated the movement.

Watching me?

A third rise and fall of his head.

I hurried to his side, leaned in close.

His lips moved. Formed a smile.

I kneeled down next to him.

He croaked. Made eye contact. Laughed gutturally, or something awfully close to it.

I looked into his eyes.

He reared up.

Spat blood in my face.

Died.

As I wiped my face with my jacket, movement behind the door caught my eye. Tanya, standing behind the shattered panels, gazing out through the window that had, miraculously, remained intact.

The scene came together in my head.

De Paine blasting away at Milo, hearing something behind him, wheeling, shooting low.

Getting off one last round through the door before the opening he created allowed return fire and sudden pain burned through his hand and belly and the shotgun.

I waved at Tanya.

Maybe she didn’t see me. Or she did and it didn’t matter. She remained motionless. Staring at the corpse.

Kyle Bedard materialized behind her.

The cop who’d been at the top of the stairs returned and climbed halfway up.

“How’s he-”

“Gone.”

“You need to go, sir. Right now.”

“She’s my patient-”

“I don’t care, sir.”

“I’m stepping over him,” I said, still tasting blood.

And I did.

CHAPTER 44

Eruption, then excavation.

The way I saw it, Law Enforcement ended up with the light shovels.

A key found in the mess Blaise De Paine had left in Perry Moore’s house was traced to a rental storage bin in East Hollywood. Double unit, complete with fluorescent lighting, a sleeper sofa, and electrical hookup.

The refrigerator at the rear hummed nicely. Next to the cooler was a sealed box of heroin packets, a host of over-the-counter painkillers, and thirty-five soap-bar-sized chunks of hashish. Inside the fridge were six-packs of Jolt Cola, a nice variety of microbrewed beers, and a trash bag filled with human bones, some still dusted with desiccated flesh. The bones offered up four distinct DNA patterns, all female. Mitochondrial matches were eventually made to Brenda Hochlbeier and Renée Mittle, aka Brandee Vixen and Rocksi Roll. Those remains were sent back to Curney, North Dakota, where the girls’ families offered thanks for the chance to provide a proper Christian burial.

The other two samples remained Jane Does.

Benjamin Baranelli ran an ad in Adult Film News a

Robert Fisk’s public defender offered to plead his client to obstruction of justice. The D.A.’s office proclaimed its “unalterable” intention to charge Fisk with multiple first-degree murders. The compromise reached four days later had Fisk plead to two counts of voluntary manslaughter with a fifteen-year sentence. The nugget Fisk offered up was the fact that De Paine had bragged about killing “two bitches from Compton.”

Further work on the unidentified bones confirmed likely African American heritage. Attempts to identify the sources continued.

Mary Whitbread was charged with nothing. Within a week of her son’s death, her ground-floor unit on Fourth Avenue was up for lease and she’d moved to parts unknown.

Whispers around town had Mario Fortuno incriminating a horde of Hollywood notables in illegal wiretapping, with indictments to come. East Coast papers covered the rumors with greater enthusiasm than the L.A. Times.

Petra, Raul Biro, David Saunders, and Kevin Bouleau all received departmental commendations. Biro nudged up against a fast-track promotion to Detective II.

When Milo was wheeled into the Cedars E.R., Rick was there to greet him. The surgeon broke his own rule about treating relatives and dug the pellets out of Milo’s arm personally. The procedure turned out to be more complex than expected, with several small blood vessels requiring repair. Milo insisted on nothing stronger than local anesthesia. Conscious sedation made him loopy and he peppered the operating room with a barrage of obnoxious comments.