Stu was a slim, closely shaven man around forty with searching gold eyes and wavy blond hair gone gray at the temples. He wore braided leather suspenders over a tapered pink shirt, a turquoise silk tie, glen plaid suit pants, glossy wingtips. A matching suit jacket hung on a bentwood rack. He reached for a water, offered us our own bottles. Milo accepted.
The son of an affluent Flintridge Mormon family, Stu had left the department while still a D III, cutting short a fast-track career to care for a wife with cancer. Kathy Bishop recovered but Stu stayed with corporate security work and occasional film consulting until he was wooed back as a captain by the new chief.
The new chief was a new golf buddy of Stu’s ophthalmologist father but few people carped. The amoral misanthrope Stu replaced had been shot to death by a jealous wife in a parking garage; three cops had attended the funeral, all out of obligation. Combine that with Stu’s street experience, his rep for backing up his colleagues, and an ability to work the brass without wholesaling his soul, and the honeymoon seemed durable.
As Stu’s former junior partner, Petra was in good shape for a promotion into administration. So far, she was sticking with detective work.
He filled his mug with water, sipped, and leaned back in his chair. “Your timing couldn’t be better, in terms of leaning on Fortuno. He’s become a person of exceptional interest to the federal government and no one wants a trivial matter like murder to get in the way. We’re not talking public knowledge but I called San Luis Obispo where he’s officially incarcerated, found out he was picked up a month ago by FBI agents and a U.S. Attorney and transferred to the downtown detention center. When I called
Milo said, “Spilling big-time.”
“I can only imagine.”
Petra said, “Thought Fortuno was into all that code of silence stuff.”
Milo said, “A little cell time can adjust your attitude.”
“You bet,” said Stu. “Assistant warden at San Luis said he bumped up against some genuine bad guys.”
Petra said, “I thought San Luis was a country club.”
“They’ve got tennis courts and dorm rooms, but it’s still prison. The idiots who kidnapped the Chowchilla school bus are up there and so’s Charleton Jennings.”
Milo said, “Cop killers get to play tennis?”
“They do after they work their way through the system for thirty years.”
Cop silence, all around.
Petra said, “Did you get any idea about who Fortuno’s going to spill on?”
“I got off-the-record semi-hints,” said Stu. “If my religion allowed me to bet, my wager would be on master manipulators of the defense attorney and showbiz honcho species.”
Milo whistled. “Straight to the top of the food chain.”
Stu said, “It’s definitely going to get interesting. Fortuno’s babysitters aren’t pleased about sharing him with us but they can’t risk us derailing them by leaking to the press. The deal is you can see him tonight at seven, one hour, no extensions. I put all three of your names down, figuring you might want Dr. D to analyze the guy.”
I said, “A hotel means a couch, why not.”
Petra said, “Which hotel?”
“Don’t know yet. Someone will call me at six and I’ll call you.”
She waved her hands. “Ooh, high intrigue.”
Stu said, “Helps federal types forget that mostly what they do is push paper.” Passing the flat of his hand over his own clean desk, he grinned. “As opposed to.”
Petra said, “Anytime you miss the gore.”
“Be careful what you ask for.” Stu stood, shrugged into his suit jacket. Smooth drape. “Got a budget meeting downtown. Talk to you at six, Petra. Good to see
He held the door for us. As I passed through, he said, “I know you can’t say anything, but thanks again for Chad.”
Loews Beverly Hills was the usual case of Westside false advertising, located on Pico and Beverwil, half a mile south of the glitzy city. We took separate cars, parked with the valet, met in the lobby.
The same earth tones we’d seen at the Hilton.
Petra’s artist eyes picked up on it right away. “Welcome to Beige World, check your imagination at the door.”
No one paid us any attention as we crossed to the elevators. No sign of any special security, and when we were disgorged on the eleventh floor, the corridor was clear.
Petra’s knock on the door of Suite 1112 was met by silence. Then, padded footsteps. A chain held the door less than an inch ajar. Barely wide enough to see the expanding pupil of a light brown eye.
“I.D.,” said a boyish voice.
Petra showed her badge.
“Everyone’s.”
Milo flashed his credentials. My snap-on badge produced a “What’s that?” but no comment on the expiration date.
“Dr. Delaware is our behavioral consultant,” said Petra.
“This isn’t a profile case,” said the voice.
Another voice, from behind, shouted, “Let ’em in, I’m
The door slammed shut. Muffled voices rose in pitch, then silenced.
We stood in the hall.
Milo said, “Shoulda brought my Aston Martin with the ejection seat, shot myself right through the goddamn win-”
The door opened wide. A young sandy-haired man in a gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie said, “Special Agent Wesley Wanamaker.” His face matched the boyish voice. He took another look at our I.D.’s, finally stepped back.
Two-bedroom suite, with nary a hue brighter than ecru. Ambiguous art dotted easy-care walls. Blackout drapes killed an eastern view Avi Benezra would’ve appreciated. The air was saturated with pizza and sweat. A greasy Domino box sat on an end table.
A pale, white-haired man waved from a stiff beige couch in the center of the living room. Sixty or so, narrow shoulders, widow’s hump bristling the hairs on the back of his neck. He wore a black cashmere V-neck, cream slacks that looked new, black Gucci loafers without socks. In his hand was a glass of something orange. As we approached, he winked at Petra and the same voice that had urged our admission said, “Long time, guys. And gal.”
Petra said, “Real long time, Mr. Fortuno. As in ever.”
Mario Fortuno said, “When you’re in love, everyone’s your friend.”
“Well then, since we’re all buddies, I’m sure you’ll be happy to tell us what we need to know about Peterson Whitbread aka-”
S.A. Wesley Wanamaker stepped between her and Fortuno. “Before we go any further, we need to get the rules straight. Mr. Fortuno is a convicted felon in custody of the FBI. As such, his movements and conversations are to be monitored at all times by the FBI. No inquiries regarding pending federal investigations will be allowed. You will have one hour to speak with Mr. Fortuno about approved topics…” Unbuttoning his coat, he drew out a pocket watch. “…three minutes of which have passed. Acknowledged?”
“
Behind Wanamaker’s back, Milo mouthed, “Asshole.”
When Wanamaker turned to face him, he said, “Ditto, Agent W.”
“Doctor,” said Wanamaker, “I need explicit acknowledgment from you, as well, seeing as you’re serving in the service of local law enforcement.”
“I acknowledge.”
Mario Fortuno said, “Do you believe this guy? Like I’m important.”
Wanamaker’s hand drew back his coat and revealed his shoulder weapon. Another eye flick at his watch: “Four
