Compulsion

fabric.

She bragged about it. “Silk with silk, linen with linen.”

Nick flashed his big, white smile. Removed his glasses and looked at her with clear brown eyes.

Felicia loved the fact that she could please someone. Her own happiness was an elusive thing, she knew Stuart wrote as often as he could but…

Nick said, “Why don’t you take a break?”

Cool fingers grazed the nape of her neck. When had he moved close enough to do that?

Felicia drew back, feeling the scorch of her cheeks. Wondering if she’d done something to let him know what was flying through her head…

His smile turned crooked. “I’m going to look over these boxes, see if there’s anything I want you to change.”

“I hope there’s more work,” said Felicia. “You’re a great boss.”

Why had she said that?

Nick laughed. “Boss? We’re two people who’ve reached an agreement. Take a break, Felicia. Go chill by the pool, drink something, you’re sweating.”

Running a finger along her arm.

She shivered. “Sure.”

He closed the door to the master bedroom and she went to the kitchen, brought a Diet Peach Snapple outside, along with a carton of strawberries from the collection of luscious fresh fruit Nick had bought at the Country Mart this morning.

She stretched out in a lounge chair. The same one she’d imagined Nick in. Stretched and yawned and half a bottle of tea and seven berries later, the sun did a number on her head.

When she awoke, the sky was dark and her watch said she’d been out for thirty-five minutes.

Now she’d have to bus back later than she liked, walk those streets where gangbangers sometimes cruised.

Omigod, Emilio hadn’t eaten dinner!

Then why wasn’t he crying?

She hurried inside to the toy room.

No Emilio.

She called his name.

Heard a funny sound – like a bird when its wings were restrained.

From the master bedroom.

Rushing there, she found the door closed.

Opened it.

Nick had pushed boxes out of the way and created a narrow space where Emilio now sat in his stroller. Surrounded on three sides. Like her baby was being walled in.

He saw her and wailed, “Maaamaaa!”

Nick said, “Poor little guy, he woke up cranky.”

She turned to him. Gaped.

Nick was dressed in a lavender satin ball gown, low-cut, something stuffed in the bodice to plump his chest up to cleavage.

Hairy cleavage.

He had on dangling violet-colored earrings, tacky purplish lipstick, real whore-y fake eyelashes. Combined with his short hair and beard stubble it was… it was…

Pivoting and cocking a hip, he wiggled his butt.

At her. Then at Emilio.

“Maaamaaa!”

“Voila,” said Nick. “Tres chic, non?”

Emilio cried louder.

For some crazy reason, Felicia laughed.

She didn’t know why. No matter how many times she’d try to figure it out she would never come up with why.

Because she didn’t think it was funny, not any of it, what she did feel was grossed out and freaked out and -

What came out was laughter.

And that changed everything about Nick.

And he had a gun.

CHAPTER 36

I spent most of the day after at Western Pediatric Medical Center, listening to Felicia Torres, guiding her through the hospital system. Observing Emilio.

The little boy clung to his mother, mute and tense.

Physically okay, according to Dr. Ruben Eagle, an old friend and head of the Outpatient Division. We agreed that Rochelle Kissler, a brilliant young psychologist who’d been my student, would be perfect for the long term.

I introduced both of them to Felicia, stayed with her after they left, and asked if there was anything else she wanted to talk about.

“No… I’m so tired.”

“Is there someone who can stay with you?”

“My mom,” she said. “She lives in Phoenix, but she’ll come if I ask.”

I dialed the number, sat there as she talked.

She hung up, smiling wearily. “She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Do you need someone till then?”

“No, I’ll be fine… this is so nice of you.”

“We’re all here to help you.”

She began shaking.

“What is it?”

“The way you said that, Dr. Delaware. Being helpful. That’s what he pretended. What kind of sick joke was that?”

I didn’t answer.

“I never trusted him, Doctor. Not from the minute I met him.”

Milo and I decompressed at a bar in Santa Monica. Eleven p.m.; he’d spent his day with Raul Biro and two other Hollywood detectives, going through the house on Altair Terrace.

One of the homes Dale Bright had bought as Nicholas Heubel. The other was a cabin near Palmdale, where he’d confined Felicia Torres in a bathroom. Forced her to imagine what he was doing to Emilio.

Mostly, he’d ignored the child. Letting him cry, then scream. No food or water. Then a quick drop into a shipping carton.

Airholes, to prolong the ordeal.

Milo said, “I know I’m supposed to have a reaction to shooting anyone. But, God help me, Alex, I wish I’d had more bullets.”

Three of five rooms on Altair were filled with mementos. Nice view of the Hollywood sign from a corner of the deck. White Lexus in the garage.

The Bentley had been moved from the LAPD motor lab to the same department-sanctioned tow yard where Kat