Obsession

As we climbed, the houses got smaller and plainer, some of the punier ones obviously subdivides of old estates. Oriole Drive began with the thirteen hundred block. We parked at the base and began a steep upward hike.

Petra’s long, lean legs were made for climbing and my self-punishing runs made the grade no big challenge. But Milo was panting and trying hard to hide it.

Petra kept an eye on him. He forged ahead of us. Wheezed, “You…know…CPR?”

She said, “Took a refresher last year but don’t you dare, Lieutenant.”

Glancing at me. I threw up my hands.

The scrape-scrape of his desert boots became our marching cadence.

A No Outlet sign appeared at the advent of the fourteen hundred block.

Fourteen sixty-two meant the top of the hill or close to it.

Milo gasped, “Oh, great.” Rubbed his lower back and trudged.

We passed a huge white contemporary house, then several plain-faced fifties boxes. What the Orwellian dialect known as Realtor-Speak would euphemize as “midcentury charmers.”

The part about “drop-dead views” would be righteous.

Milo pressed forward. Mopping his face with a handkerchief, he sucked in air and pointed.

Empty space where 1462 should’ve been.

What remained was a flat patch of brown dirt not much bigger than a trailer pad and surrounded by chain link. The gate was open. A construction permit packet hung on the fence.

A man stood at the far end of the lot, a few feet from the precipice, staring out at smoggy panorama.

Milo and Petra checked nearby vehicles. The closest was a gold BMW 740, parked at the crown of the cul-de- sac.

“Car’s not much bigger than the property,” he said. “L.A. affluence.”

Petra said, “That’s why I don’t paint landscapes.”

Unmindful of us, the man lit a cigarette, gazed, and smoked.

Milo coughed.

The man turned.

Petra waved.

The man didn’t return the gesture.

We walked onto the lot.

He lowered his cigarette and watched us.

Early forties, five eight or nine, with heavy shoulders, bulky arms and thighs, and a hard, round belly. A square, swarthy face was bottomed by an oversized chin. He wore a pale blue dress shirt with French cuffs, chunky gold cufflinks shaped like jet planes, sharply creased navy slacks, black croc loafers grayed by dust. The top button of the shirt was undone. Gray chest hair bristled and a gold chain nestled in the pelt. A thin red string circled his right wrist. A beeper and a cell phone hung from his waistband.

Wraparound Ray-Bans blocked the windows to his soul. The rest of his face was a tight mask of distrust.

“This is private property. If you want a free view, go to Mulhol-land.”

Petra flashed the badge.

“Police? What, he’s gone crazy?”

“Who, sir?”

“Him. Troupe, the lawyer.” Cocking his head toward the house to the south. “I keep telling him, all the permits are in order, there’s nothing you gonna do about it.”

Some kind of accent-familiar but I couldn’t place it.

“Now, what, he’s again yelling about the noise? We graded a week ago, how can you grade without noise?”

“We’re not here about that, Mr…”

“Avi Benezra. Then what do you want?”

I got the accent. A few years ago, we’d worked with an Israeli police superintendent named Daniel Sharavi. Benezra’s inflections were harsher, but similar.

Petra said, “We’re looking for the residents of 1462.”

Benezra removed his glasses, revealed soft, hazel eyes, squinting in amusement. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

“Wish we were trying to be, sir.”

“The residents? Maybe worms and bugs.” Benezra laughed. “Who’s your intelligence source? The CIA?”

“How long has the house been gone, sir?”

“A year.” Thumb curl toward the neighboring house. “Troupe had quiet for a year so he got spoiled.”

“Fussy guy?”

“Fussy asshole,” said Benezra. “A lawyer.”

“Is he home?”

Avi Benezra said, “Never home. That’s why he’s crazy to complain. Maybe you can tell him to stop bothering me. You know why he’s mad? He wanted to buy it, put a pool on it. But he didn’t want to pay what it’s worth. Now I don’t wanna sell. Gonna build for myself. Why not?” He waved at the view. “It’s gonna be something, all glass, views to Palos Verdes.”

“Gorgeous,” said Petra.

“It’s what I do,” said Benezra. “I build, I’m a builder. Why not finally for me?”

“So you tore down the house a year ago?”

“No, no, no, a year ago is empty. I tore down five months ago and right away he’s driving me nuts, that bastard, complain to the zoning board, the mayor.” Spiraling a finger toward his temple. “Finally, I get the okay.”

“How long have you owned the property, Mr. Benezra?”

Benezra grinned. “You interested in buying?”

“I wish.”

“I buy five years ago, house was a piece of crap but that!” Another flourish at the view.

He smoked, shaded his eyes with his hand, gazed up at a jetliner climbing from Inglewood. “I’m gonna use as much glass as they let me with the new energy rules. I just finished building a gorgeous Mediterranean on Angelo Drive, nine thousand square feet, marble, granite, home theater, I’m ready to sell. Then my wife decides she wants to live in it. Okay, why not? Then, I get divorce and she gets the house. What, I should fight?”

“Have you ever rented to a man named Blaise De Paine?”

“Oh, boy,” said Benezra. “That one. Yeah, he was the last.”

“Problem tenant?”

“You call trashing every room and not paying a problem? To me, that’s a problem. My fault. I broke the rules, got clucked.”

Petra said, “Clucked?”

“I’m talking polite to a lady.”

She laughed. “Which rules did you break?”

“Avi’s rules. Two months in advance, plus damage deposit up front. Him I let go one month, no deposit. Stupid, I shoulda known better, the way he looked.”

“How’d he look?”

“Rock and roll,” said Benezra. “The hair, you know. But he was recommended.”

“By who?”

Benezra put his shades back on. “A guy.”

“Which guy, sir?”

“This is important?”

“It might be.”

“What’d he do?”

“Who referred him?” said Petra.

“Listen,” said Benezra, “I don’t want no problems.”