Obsession

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Short ride past newer cafés and masses of valet-parked vehicles, then south on Orlando.

  Milo said, “Hang at the corner.”

  We watched the convertible cover a few blocks then turn left onto Fourth Street. Again, no signal.

  “At the least I can get him for traffic violations. Switch off your lights and move up a bit.”

  I pulled over just short of Orlando and Fourth and we watched as the Mercedes cruised up the block and paused in front of Mary Whitbread’s duplex.

  Sitting there, in the middle of the street. A full minute passed before the brake lights went off.

  Milo said, “He’s heading back to San Vicente, go, Alex.”

  The Benz sped east on Beverly. I stayed three car lengths behind, followed the sleek white chassis through the Fairfax district and into Hancock Park.

  When the Benz turned onto Hudson Avenue, Milo had me hang back again. “Let’s make sure any surprises are the ones we dish out.”

  The Benz turned exactly where we knew it would.

  I raced onto Hudson, pulled to the east side of the street, positioned the Seville the wrong way, directly in front of the Bedard mansion.

  The white Mercedes was behind the green Bentley. Lights off, no engine sound. A weathered plastic rear window killed any view of the occupants.

  No one exited the vehicle.

  Milo pulled his little Maglite from a jacket pocket, unholstered his gun, and got out. Standing just behind the Benz, he aimed a sharp, bright beam through the plastic.

  “Police! Driver, open the door slowly.”

  Nothing.

  “Do it. Driver out.” His rumble echoed amid the silent elegance. Jarring, but nary a light went on in the neighboring houses. People slept well on Hudson Avenue. Or pretended to.

  “Out.”

  The driver’s door opened partially. “Lieutenant? It’s me. Kyle.”

  “Get out of the car, Kyle.”

  “I—this is my own house.”

  “Do it. Now.”

  A voice from the passenger seat said, “This is absur—”

  “Quiet, passenger. Kyle, out.”

  The door swung wider and Kyle Bedard stepped out squinting and blinking. He had on a fuzzy gray sweatshirt over olive cargo pants and the same yellow running shoes. The tips of his hair glinted in the flashlight beam like Fourth of July sparklers.

  He said, “Can you please get that out of my eyes?”

  Milo lowered the light.

  “See, Lieutenant, it really is me. No one else wears shoes this ugly.”

  Milo said, “I’m going to frisk you, son. Turn around.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Anything but.” He patted Kyle down, had him sit on the curb. “You next, passenger.”

  The voice from the car said, “I don’t believe this.”

  Kyle rubbed his eyes. Saw me and smiled. “In a surreal, kind of Jean-Luc Godard way, this is cool.”

  The passenger laughed.

  “Out!”

  Kyle jumped.

  The passenger said, “My name’s not Mohammed so why go to all the trouble?”

  “For laughs,” said Milo. “Careless people have been known to get shot.”

  “What’s funny about that?”

  “Exactly.”

  Kyle said, “That’s—”

  “Okay, okay,” said the passenger. “I’m getting out. Don’t shoot me for God’s sake.”

  The man who emerged was taller than Kyle and fifty pounds heavier, with a commodious paunch. Late fifties, deep tan, clean dome. The remaining hair was dark and long enough to collect in a ponytail that drooped past his shoulder blades. Sideburns fuller than Milo’s traveled toward a soft jawline. John Lennon glasses rode a beak nose. Both his chins were strong.

  The overall image was Ben Franklin in Italian duds. A beautifully styled cream cashmere blazer was custom-tailored for a slimmer body. Chocolate slacks broke perfectly over caramel mesh loafers. The open collar of an electric-blue silk shirt was topped by a yellow-and-azure ascot. A wine-colored handkerchief tumbled from his breast pocket. I counted six gold rings on two hands, lots of glimmer.

  A smile rich with scorn danced across thin lips. “Do I put my hands up? Say ‘Uncle’? Recite the Pledge of Allegiance?”

  “Just stand there and relax, sir.”

  “Due-diligence time, Lieutenant whatever-your-name-is. There’s a fifteen-gizmo Swiss Army knife in my right front trouser pocket, don’t nick yourself on the can opener. The only other potentially dangerous object on my person is my billfold. But seeing as there are no females in sight, I wouldn’t worry.”

  His smile widened as Milo did the pat. “As long as we’re tangoing, I might as well introduce myself. Myron Bedard.”

  Kyle said, “This is kind of cool, don’t you think, Dad?”

  Myron Bedard laughed. “Son, I guess I’ll need some time to see it that way.”

  When Milo finished, he apologized to Myron and allowed Kyle to get up from the curb.

  Kyle brushed off the seat of his pants and stood next to his father. “Think any neighbors saw this, Dad?”

  “If they did,” said Myron Bedard, “to hell with them.” To Milo: “Was that really necessary?”

  “Unfortunately, yes.”

  Bedard removed his glasses and wiped them with a corner of cashmere. “Doing your job…no hard feelings. Actually I don’t get it. I mean I see your point about being cautious for your personal safety, but Kyle said you know him, so why the hell go through that?”

  “I’ve met Kyle once, Mr. Bedard. Don’t know him well enough to be sure of anything.”

  “Oh, that’s—”

  “We spotted you watching Tanya Bigelow’s duplex.”

  “Spotted? We were just…” Sidelong glance at his son.

  Kyle kept silent.

  Milo said, “You were just what?”

  Kyle looked down.

  Myron Bedard said, “My son has a crush on the girl—is that okay to say, Kyle?”

  Kyle cursed under his breath. “Guess it is now.”

  “He’s concerned about her, wants to make sure she’s okay, that’s all. To show you the extent of his devotion, he picked me up from the airport and rather than head straight home, insisted we—”

  “Dad!”

  “These are the police, son. No sense dissembling.”

  Kyle faced us. “It was a dorky thing to do, I’m sorry.”

  Milo said, “Why are you worried about Tanya, son?”

  Myron Bedard said, “I pay his tuition so only I get to call him that.” Slapping Kyle’s back. “Just kidding, go on, Lieutenant—I didn’t catch your last name…”

  “Sturgis.”

  Bedard extended his hand. He and Milo shook.

  “Sturgis,” he said, “as in the big Harley meet. Ever been there, Lieutenant?”

  “Nope.”

  “You should, it’s a blast. I’ve made it twelve years in a row. I alternate between a 95 Fatboy and a 2004 Speedster 883 Custom XL. There’s absolutely nothing like the Black Mountains in August, you make a pit stop in Keystone, near Mount Rushmore. There’s some serious partying going on.” He nudged Kyle. “Next year, you’ve got to make good on that promise and go with me, son.”

  Kyle didn’t answer.

  “Noncommittal,” said Myron Bedard. “He reverts to that when I’m being a pain in the ass. You should go, too, Lieutenant. I assume you bike.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Don’t all cops bike?”

  “Not this one.”

  “Maybe it’s the highway patrol I’m thinking of. What’s Erik Estrada doing nowadays?”

  Milo turned to Kyle. “Why are you worried about Tanya?”

  “For the same reasons you are.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as Uncle Lester being murdered right after you talk to him about Tanya’s mom. Such as Tanya living near Mary and Pete, such as the relationship between Mary and Uncle Lester.”

>   “Pete as in Peterson Whitbread.”

  “He hated to be called that.”

  “You know him.”

  “We weren’t friends.”

  “Same question,” said Milo.

  “I saw him from time to time.”

  “How long ago?”

  “When we were kids.”

  “How’d that happen to be?”

  Myron Bedard stepped in front of his son. “Could we continue this discussion inside, please? I don’t want to be a spectacle.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  Bedard unlocked the mansion and disabled the alarm. “Entrez-vous.”

  We followed him through the limestone marble hall, past the George Washington look-alike and the library where Kyle had set up his research post. The clutter had grown; more crumpled paper than hardwood floor.

  Myron stopped to take in the mess.

  “I know, Dad.”

  “Eventually you will have to organize, Kyle.”

  “I’m organized cognitively.”

  “Different rules for geniuses?” Clapping his son’s shoulder again.

  Kyle winced. Myron marched ahead of him, ponytail swinging, switching on lights, pausing to scan a stack of mail on an onyx table and slapping it back down.

  An arched limestone passage took us to a vast, hexagonal room backed by the glass doors that showcased subtly lit formal gardens. The trees where Tanya remembered hiding out were Chinese elms and sycamores, manicured but lush. A fifty-foot swimming pool, old enough to retain a diving board, reflected the waffled contours of a lattice gazebo. A wet bar on the west end of the room sported enough bottles to stock a cruise ship.

  Myron Bedard went straight for the bar, pausing to fool with more lamps—on, off, dim, dimmer, brighter. Settling for a heavy orange ambience, he selected a crystal Old-Fashioned glass, held it up, and squinted.

  Kyle had lingered near the entrance to the room, staring at his shoes. The first time I’d seen him he’d looked like a squatter. Two days of beard growth fed the image. Given the opulence, I wasn’t sure Milo and I fit in much better.

  The room was bigger than most homes, walled with Shantung silk the crimson of venous blood. The ceiling was a domed riot of plaster curlicues set off by yards of crown molding. Fruitwood stands hosted Chinese horses and camels and bewildered-looking deities, all glazed in the same green and gold. Gilded cases of glass and porcelain and silver boasted of exuberant acquisition.

  Enough space for three large seating areas and a like number of Persian rugs. Damask couches, tapestry chairs, a few leather pieces thrown in for variety, inlaid tables strategically placed.

  Myron Bedard uncapped a silver ice bucket. “Drink, anyone?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Ditto.”

  “Then, I’ll drink alone.” Mixing himself a bourbon Manhattan on the rocks, he ambled over while sipping, dropped into one of the sofas, kicked off his loafers, half reclined.

  A longer swig of his cocktail evoked a thumbs-up and a sigh of pleasure. “Just discovered this stuff—Knob Creek, Jim Beam premium booze. The best they had on the plane was Wild Turkey, and we’re talking a Gulfstream.”

  Licking his lips, he extricated the maraschino cherry, bit down, wiped scarlet juice from his chin, swallowed. “Why’s everyone standing?”

  Milo and I sat down as close to him as the layout allowed. Kyle hesitated for a moment before placing himself far from all of us.

  Myron said, “Aw, c’mon, kiddo, it’s been months,” and motioned him closer. Kyle chewed his lip, found an armchair perpendicular to Myron’s sofa.

  Milo said, “For starts, let’s hear about the relationship between Mary Whitbread and Lester Jordan.”

  Neither Bedard responded.

  “All of a sudden, the plague of shyness?”

  Myron said, “I suppose I should be the one to tackle that.”

  Kyle said, “Good guess, Dad.”

  “Son, maybe you should go calculate or something.”

  “The kids’ table?”

  “Kyle, I’ve never shielded you, but some things are best said in private.”

  “I’m aware of everything, Dad.”

  “Humor me, son.”

  Kyle didn’t budge.

  Myron said, “It’s a matter of propriety, Kyle.”

  Kyle played with his shoe. The toe was cracked.

  Myron said, “Is that the style, now? Affected poverty?”

  “I don’t give a shit about style, Dad.” A trace of whine raised the young man’s pitch. More moody adolescent than budding research scientist.

  Being with a parent could do that.

  Myron said, “And I never pressured you in that regard, did I, Kyle?”

  Kyle didn’t answer.

  Milo said, “Why don’t you take a breather, Kyle, but stick around.”

  Before Kyle could answer, Myron sprang up, drink sloshing, placed himself, once again, between us and his son. He touched Kyle’s cheek. Kyle stiffened. Myron withdrew his hand but kissed the same spot.

  Kyle’s chin twitched.

  “I’m sorry, son. For any iniquity you can think of at present and the multitude that haven’t yet crossed your mind but are sure to. However, you might consider putting it in context. I’m fifty-seven, habitually overindulge in food and liquid refreshment, despise exercising, ignore my cholesterol. So my longevity is—”

  “Dad!”

  “—in serious question. Therefore, if I—”

  Speaking quickly but with a mild slur. Wild Turkey hadn’t been too rough for an in–flight appetizer.

  Kyle said, “Stop it, Dad. I hate when you do that.”

  Myron crossed his heart. “Mea culpa. My eternal mantra.”

  He tousled Kyle’s hair. “C’mon, bro, give me a little dignity and chill for a while.”

  Kyle shot to his feet and stomped away.

  “We’ll chat later, son. I want to tell you all about Venice.”

  With the young man gone, Myron said, “He’s ambivalent about me, how could he not be? But I love him unconditionally. If I had to have only one kid, he’d be the one. Well behaved from day one—never had the imp in him. And, brilliant, I’m talking a whole different intellectual stratosphere. He’s only twenty-four and a year away from a Ph.D. in plasma physics. I can’t even comprehend what that is.”

  Paternal pride gave way to tension that halved the width of his mouth. “Must be a generation-skipping thing. As Father frequently told me. He was a scientific type, too. Self-taught but a bushel-peck of patents to his name. Kyle thinks he’s anti-materialistic but he’ll be loaded, despite himself, probably some high-tech invention. One day you’ll open up Forbes there he’ll be, on the big-list. When that happens, I hope he likes me a little. Do either of you have kids?”

  “No, sir,” said Milo.

  “It’s educational. There’s a good chance that I’ve been a shitty father. Back then, of course, I thought I was a pretty good father.”

  “Back when, sir?”

  “When Kyle was young. I was never controlling or dominating but I do have a tendency to be impulsive and I suppose that could be…” Hoisting his drink, he emptied the glass, returned to the bar, poured a double. By the time he got back to the couch, half was gone.

  “Your impulsiveness affected Kyle?”

  “It’s complicated, Lieutenant.” Bedard’s eyes closed and his breathing slowed.

  “How so?”

  Bedard didn’t move. Milo’s head-cock told me to take over.

  Mention of Peterson Whitbread had caused Bedard to seek the refuge of his house. Once inside, he’d wanted Kyle gone.

  I said, “Impulsive as in taking Kyle along to see your mistress?”

  Bedard’s eyes fluttered open. “Mistress.” The word amused him. “Mary was a nice stopover, nothing more.”

  Milo said, “You have a lot of those?”

  “What can I say, I love women. Adore each and every one of them.” Bedard drank and cracked ice w
ith his teeth and used one hand to outline the guitar-contours of the female form. “I guess you could say I’m enamored of half the world—what’s that, three billion? Minus one—my ex-wife. Lord, can you imagine working your way through that mass of femininity? The concept’s staggering.”

  Hoisting again, he said, “Here’s to the X chromosome.”

  Milo said, “When did you start stopping over at Mary Whitbread’s?”

  “Let’s see…way back—fifteen years or so.”

  “Are you still doing it?”

  “She’s over fifty. Far too mature for me.”

  “She was a stopover but you sold her four buildings.”

  “So I did.”

  “Quid pro quo?”

  Bedard laughed. “Mary paid fair market value. The fact that no agent’s commission was involved gave me a bit more flexibility and she didn’t need to wait for financing.”

  “She paid cash?”

  “A cashier’s check to be exact.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “Hmm,” said Bedard. “That long ago, I’d say…a million, million five.”

  “Where’d she get that kind of money?”

  “I have no idea. What has she done to get you so interested in her?”

  “Who initiated the sale?” said Milo.

  “All questions, no answers, eh? The decision was mutual. Mary was living in Carthay Circle, had sold some apartments in the Valley and was looking to trade up, possibly go the owner-occupied route. We’d owned the duplexes long enough to make a nice profit but as pure rentals, the returns weren’t optimal. I didn’t want to waste time on properties with less than a dozen units, so the timing was perfect.”

  Rocking his glass, he stared at the wave motion. “It’s like playing Monopoly, one trades houses for hotels. There’s a school of thought that says hold, never sell, but I find that uncomfortably static.”

  Another tightening of his lips.

  I said, “Your father’s school of thought?”

  Little eyeglass lenses flashed as he focused on me. “You’re playing psychologist with me. But yes, you’re correct. And no doubt Father would insist he was right. Those four buildings have got to be worth five, six mil. But I did fine on the ones I bought.”

  Adolescent strain in his voice. Kyle had told me his father and grandfather loathed each other. Cashmere and silk were nice, but they made for poor bandages.