Compulsion

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, fu

“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.”

CHAPTER 37

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, su

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, a

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.