Compulsion

Milo said, “You’re talking, now, Bradley. You’re a good man.”

“Yeah, I’m a saint.”

“What happened to Twan?”

“What happened? He went with Zint, didn’t come back. Went into Zint’s van and the van drove off. Which was different, usually Zint parked on a quiet street, stayed in place to party. Like the van was his house – he had housekeeping stuff in there. Food, drinks, books, games, all kinds of shit.”

“Zint changed his style that day and drove off.”

“Don’t ask me where, I’ve been asking myself that for sixteen years.”

Maisonette sprang up, circled the room, wedged his head in a corner, stood that way for a while. When he returned to the table, he put his head down, closed his eyes.

His lips moved. After a while, sound came out. “First time.”

I said, “It was the first time Twan went into the van?”

Nod; his hair scraped the table. “Twan didn’t trust him. Twan was smarter than us. But that day…”

His eyes clenched. “Oh, God, this is so…” He flung one hand over his cheek.

Milo touched his shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Maisonette sat up, stared at something miles away. Sunken cheeks vibrated. His eyes were red and wet. “Twan went in there ’cause we said it was cool. Zint paid us fifty bucks to convince Twan it was cool. Will didn’t want to admit what happened to him, same with me. We told Twan it was cool to go in there and he did and we never saw him again and now nobody’s going to forgive me.”

Howard Zint, diabetic, tubercular, HIV-positive, made the deal from a prison infirmary bed.

Two extra candy bars a month and no additional sentence.

He told the tale concisely, with no emotion.

Antoine Beverly had resisted Zint’s overtures, tried to escape the van. Zint hit him in the face and Antoine’s head snapped back, colliding against the edge of a miniature slot machine Zint had just purchased.

Zint drove to the undeveloped wilderness north of the La Cienega oil fields and buried the boy on a dune, somewhere on the eastern edge of what was now the Kenneth Hahn Recreational Area.

Sixteen years later, he drew a map.

Development had resected the land in some places, augmented others. It took a while to find the spot.

Bones.

The autopsy revealed no serious head injury but did highlight multiple cut-marks on Antoine’s ribs.

Ever the con, Zint had reached for one more guilt-minimizing lie.

There was talk about negating the agreement and putting him on trial for murder.

Sharna and Gordon Beverly said, “Just give us Antoine and leave us alone.”

The funeral was held on a beautiful autumn morning. Over two hundred friends, relatives, and well-wishers, the predictable sprinkle of politicians, journalists, and “community activists” trawling for photo ops.

Bradley Maisonette was nowhere to be found and neither was Wilson Good. Good and Andrea had been staying at a motel in Tarzana, picked up their dog the day before we’d found Maisonette, left town for parts unknown.

Milo said, “Hopefully someplace without a pier.”

After the ceremony, we queued up to pay our respects.

Gordon Beverly clasped our hands, moved forward as if to embrace us, stopped himself.

Sharna Beverly pushed aside her veil. Her face was carved mahogany, her eyes clear and dry.

“You did it, Lieutenant.”

Taking Milo ’s face in both hands, she kissed each cheek. Lowered the veil.

Turned away and waited for the next person in line.

CHAPTER 39

Robin pulled an all-nighter and had the mandolin bound and varnished six hours before her patron was due to arrive.

She wrapped it in green velvet, carried it to the dining room table.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

“He just called, definitely sounded off.”

She’d showered, towel-dried her curls, avoided makeup, put on a brown knee-length dress I hadn’t seen in years.

“I know,” she said.

“Know what?”

“Not exactly something Audrey would wear.”

Fooling with her hair.

I brewed coffee.

She said, “Decaf, right?”

I tried to occupy her with a guessing game.

What Kind of Car Will He Bring?

I’d looked up Dot-com on the Internet he’d helped develop. He was thirty-three, a Stanford grad and a bachelor, with a net worth of four hundred seventy-five million dollars.

Robin said, “I figured it was in that ballpark.”

“So what kind of wheels?”

“Who knows?”

“How about you, Blondie?”

Blanche looked up and smiled.

Robin said, “Could be anything – one extreme or the other.”

“Meaning?”

“Ferrari or hybrid.”

I thought: Bentley or VW bus.

The coffee machine beeped. I fixed two cups. She took a sip, muttering, “I’m such a wimp,” got up and parted the living room shutters.

“Nice day,” she said. “Might as well wait outside.”

“Want to take your coffee?”

“Pardon – oh, sure, thanks.”

And the answer is: blue Ford Econoline van.

A large man in black jeans and T-shirt got out. Logo of Dot-com’s company on the shirt.

He saw us on the terrace. Studied the house. Walked to the rear of the van.

“Muscle,” I said. “In case you don’t want to give up the goods.”

“Not funny,” said Robin. But she smiled.

Large Guy opened the van’s rear doors. A ramp descended electrically. He reached in and guided out a wheelchair.

The figure in the chair was slight, pale, crew-cut, baby-faced.

Wearing a black sweatshirt with the same logo and blue jeans. Nothing much filled the jeans. As the chair rolled down the ramp, his body flopped. Held in place by a leather strap around his middle.

One of his fingers pushed a button. The chair rolled forward. Stopped.

He looked at the house, just as his driver had.

Taking in the steep, stone steps that lead to the terrace. On the other side, an acutely sloping grass and rock