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-tunnel wild and the flannel shirt he wore over a frayed red T-shirt and rumpled khakis was misbuttoned. Blanche rubbed herself against his cuff. He muttered, “French bulldog,” as if answering a pop quiz.
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 y
ears, 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.”
“America watched and counted,” I said.
“Told you she’s a snoop. She says Tanya stopped at seven, then started doing the same thing with Dad’s shoes. She asked me if seven was a magical number, had this look in her eyes like Tanya was some kind of devil-worshipper. She’s unsophisticated, what the hell would she know about stress reactions?”
“Did you explain anything to her?”
“I probably should’ve but I just got pissed. Told her Tanya was my friend, whatever she does is fine, don’t come finking to me. She didn’t like that but I don’t give a shit. She’s only been working at the house for five years and I find her annoying.”
“But you’re concerned about Tanya’s routines.”
“Tanya told me about her OCD, how you cured her.”
I kept silent.
“So that was also denial,” he said. “Is it incurable?”
“People have tendencies,” I said. “Stress brings them out. Habits can be unlearned.”
“So I’m expecting too much of Tanya right now—that’s the last thing I wanted to do.”
“I’m hearing concern, not expectation.”
“I’m not concerned about a few behaviors, Dr. Delaware. It’s the root cause that bothers me. How much stress she must be under, not being able to talk about it. How can I help her?”
“You’ve given her friendship and shelter.”
“That’s obviously insufficient.”
“Because she’s not happy all the time?”
His jaw tightened. He closed his eyes and massaged the lids. “I’m thinking about my worries rather than hers. Jesus, why can’t I focus on what needs focusing?”
“You’re doing a good job, Kyle.”
He waved that off. “Should I bring anything up with her? Would venting help?”
“Right now, no.”
“Why not?”
“Lightbulb wisdom.”
He stared at me. “So what, I just let her pace around and never sleep and pretend she’s fine?” Pummeling his temple. “Listen to me. ‘Let her.’ Like I’m the parent, where the hell did that come from?”
“Deep caring.”
His mouth hung open. Bending down sharply, he yanked a shoelace loose, retied a sneaker. “Deep caring…you’ve got that right. I frickin’ love her.”
“I know you do.”
Several moments passed. When he spoke next, his voice was low and indistinct. “Is there any chance it’s reciprocal?”
“She accepted your shelter.”
“But that could be desperation—oh, shit, here we go again, ego ego ego…so you’re saying I do nothing?”
“I’m saying let her lead, be there to listen.”
“And the pacing, the routines—it’s temporary because of crapola hitting the fan?”
I didn’t answer.
He said, “Yeah, yeah,” and scratched his chin. “Next topic: Any progress in the detection department?”
“Nothing earth-shattering but good people are working on it.”
“Pete killed his own father,” he said. “That’s beyond the frickin’ pale…okay, I’m going, thanks for your time.”
On his way out, he stooped and petted Blanche and said, “Sorry for ignoring you. You really are as cute as my girlfriend said.”
I rested my hand on his shoulder. His muscles twitched.
“You really are doing okay, Kyle.”
“Yeah, yeah, thanks for the plug, bye.”
At two p.m. Milo came by and we sat in the kitchen eating cold Mexican food.
“No other properties are registered to Maria Baker or Mary Whitbread in six surrounding counties. If she used a third name, tough breaks. Petra finally got the phone records. Most of Whitbread’s calls are to stores in B.H. and Brentwood. The exception is a cell that keeps coming up three or four times a day. Unfortunately, the account traces back to her.”
“She bought a phone for Junior.”
“Or he had her do it as cover. Once we find him, maybe we can get Mommy Dearest as an accessory. While I was in the assessor’s office I saw some interesting aerial maps—some new contract they’ve got with a global positioning service, plug in the address of the plot plan and you get a nice, sharp photo. The citizen in me says Orwell was right. The gendarme in me says fantastic, let’s get some shots of Mary’s real estate, see if there’s any sign of burial.”
“Any burial took place ten years ago.”
“Gee, thanks, now I’m back to being depressed,” he said. “Ever think of working for the IRS?”
I said, “Here’s some insight that might make you feel better: Patty definitely knew about the girls, the bags, the van.” I repeated everything I’d heard from Herbert Stark.
“And that will make me happy because—”
“It clarifies the situation. When Bandini tried to break into Patty’s place, she knew what he was and had prepared herself.”
“Pistol-packing mama,” he said. “No time for chitchat with Tanya sleeping a few feet away. She planned a way to control the situation, managed to jam him with a hot-shot.”
I said, “The puncture wound wasn’t in the back of his head or any other unusual spot. Right in the crook, where you’d expect it to be. He’d need to be completely subdued for that.”
“Premeditation in service of maternal duty,” he said. “Make it look nice and natural. I’m picturing it and feeling sorry for her. Having to work fast, hoping Tanya doesn’t wake up. Dragging the body out to the street praying no neighbor happens to notice. But she had the presence of mind to leave Bandini’s burglar kit under his body.”
“Patty was all about focus.”
“When she’s done, she’s focusing on escape. Waits a while so no one’ll make a connection to Bandini, and tells Whitbread she can’t afford the rent. Lives ten years with the secret, telling no one.”
“Except Lester Jordan.”
“Tattling to Petey’s daddy. Why would she do that?”
“Maybe initially she wanted to hear that Herbert Stark’s suspicions about the missing girls were unfounded. Maybe instead of calming her down, Jordan heightened her anxiety by telling her about Pete’s other felonies.”
“Lowball Armbruster.”
“Jordan and Armbruster were known associates from the drug world. Jordan had to know, or at least suspect, that his son had murdered Armbruster.”
“Precocious criminal,” he said. “Jordan says no telling what my boy’s capable of. That spurs Patty to load her .22 and sit up at night. But why would Jordan let on to her?”
“Patty saved Jordan’s life more than once. They had a deep enough relationship for Jordan to write that angry letter after Patty left Cherokee. Patty saved the letter and a picture of the two of them, meaning on some level it was mutual.”
“Despite that, Jordan knows his kid’s dangerous but never turns him in. Even dope-filled blood can run thick.”
“Then years later, we come around, bring up Patty, Jordan suspects it has to do with Pete. Jordan calls Pete, maybe to warn him, maybe to I-told-you-so. Or even to say if the pressure mounts, I’m not backing you up. Pete has hated his daddy for years, now Daddy becomes a direct threat—the last straw. He has Fisk strangle his father while he watches. The twin payoffs are keeping Jordan quiet and Oedipal joy.”
“Lovely,” he said, cupping one ear with his free hand. “Is that a Greek chorus I hear in the background?”
CHAPTER
39
For the next three days, Raul Biro followed Mary Whitbread as she shopped. Her pattern was to buy armloads of designer clothing, return everything the next day, run up another charge on her platinum Amex.
Petra got hold of charge account records and Southwest
Airlines Visa bills. Mary paid her bills on time, she hadn’t cashed in on the mileage, and nothing in a year’s worth of purchases tipped off the whereabouts of her son or Robert Fisk.
The cellular number assumed to be Pete Whitbread’s remained inactive until four p.m. on the third day, when Mary called it. Retracing the path of the towers revealed southward movement originating east of the downtown Civic Center. When the conversation ended, the recipient was somewhere north of Chinatown.
Minutes from the 110 ramp where Moses Grant’s body had been dumped.
That sent Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau back to the abandoned auto shop where Grant had been shot. Recanvassing produced three more transients claiming to have seen a black Hummer cruising the industrial streets east of Los Angeles Street late at night. No details about the driver, passengers, or destination. Saunders drove to the dump site and canvassed Chinatown.
Milo stayed at home, playing with databases. Even Face of America produced nothing on Pete Whitbread/Blaise De Paine or Robert Fisk. Neither had filed any Social Security claims or paid income tax. Aerial photos of Mary Whitbread’s property revealed no recent disturbances. A records clerk at the assessor’s office opined that a sonar scan might be helpful. When Milo asked where to go for that, the clerk said, “Saw it on Forensics File, or something.”
I phoned Tanya twice, was reassured both times that she was doing great, had a couple of big exams she needed to concentrate on. She sounded tired and faded, but maybe my opinion had been colored by Kyle’s account of insomnia and compulsive routines.
Kyle didn’t try to contact me again.
With nothing to do, I picked up two more consults from family court and prepared for another nosedive into the cesspool known as child custody conflict.
At nine p.m., Robin was reading in bed. I’d just finished an evening meeting with a man who hated his ex-wife so much that mention of her name caused his eyes to bulge and his neck veins to throb. She’d sat in the same chair earlier that day; her pet name for him was “Fucking Asshole.” They had two kids who wet the bed and were failing in school. Both parents claimed they were determined to do “what’s best for Amy and Whitley.”
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