Obsession

I said, “I know.22s are common but you might want to check the slugs in Grant against those taken from Leland Armbruster.”

Milo said, “De Paine shot Armbruster thirteen years ago and held on to his piece?”

“Thirteen years ago, De Paine was fifteen. If Armbruster was his first, the gun could be psychologically significant.”

“Sentimental value.”

Petra said, “Plus, he got away with it, so why ditch a lucky weapon? I agree, it’s worth a try. Grant’s autopsy won’t be prioritized because six bullet holes is no whodunit. But let me go back to talk to Saunders and Bouleau and see if they can push a little. Once the slugs are fished out, I’ll coordinate the ballistics. Raul, stick with me and let’s talk about tonight. See you later, guys.”

I got onto the 110 and sped south.

Milo said, “You can slow down now.”

I said, “I’m heading over to Tanya’s. Two people are dead in order to keep a secret. She’s outside the loop but De Paine and Fisk have no way of knowing that.”

“Did you talk to her about finding temporary lodgings?”

“Not yet.”

“Timing wasn’t right?”

“I should’ve made it right. Do me a favor and call her now.”

He tried her landline and her cell. Voice mail on both. “She’s probably studying.”

“Hope so.”

“One thing in her favor, Alex: With De Paine and Fisk doing the Osama bit, maybe they won’t risk coming out in the open.”

“They weren’t too scared to shoot Grant. Want me to drop you at your car or go straight to her place?”

“Straight’s always best,” he said. “So to speak.”

CHAPTER 30

No van in Tanya’s driveway. Lights ambered the living room drapes. The outdoor spots seemed to shine brighter and I said so.

Milo said, “She probably upped the wattage. Good girl, she’s paying attention. She’s likely still on campus, cramming for a test or something. But let me check the premises to make you feel better.”

As he started to get out, a car across the street pulled away and drove toward Pico.

White Mercedes convertible. Classic model, conspicuous in this middle-class neighborhood.

I said, “Get back in.”

Milo said, “What-”

“That Benz heading north. We’ve seen it before.”

The convertible made a rolling stop and continued east on Pico without signaling. Moderate traffic made the tail easy. At La Cienega, the Mercedes hooked a left, picked up speed, sailed past La Cienega Park and the old Restaurant Row before pausing for a light at San Vicente. Then on to Third Street and a right turn.

Short ride past newer cafes and masses of valet-parked vehicles, then south on Orlando.

Milo said, “Hang at the corner.”

We watched the convertible cover a few blocks then turn left onto Fourth Street. Again, no signal.

“At the least I can get him for traffic violations. Switch off your lights and move up a bit.”

I pulled over just short of Orlando and Fourth and we watched as the Mercedes cruised up the block and paused in front of Mary Whitbread’s duplex.

Sitting there, in the middle of the street. A full minute passed before the brake lights went off.

Milo said, “He’s heading back to San Vicente, go, Alex.”

The Benz sped east on Beverly. I stayed three car lengths behind, followed the sleek white chassis through the Fairfax district and into Hancock Park.

When the Benz turned onto Hudson Avenue, Milo had me hang back again. “Let’s make sure any surprises are the ones we dish out.”

The Benz turned exactly where we knew it would.

I raced onto Hudson, pulled to the east side of the street, positioned the Seville the wrong way, directly in front of the Bedard mansion.

The white Mercedes was behind the green Bentley. Lights off, no engine sound. A weathered plastic rear window killed any view of the occupants.

No one exited the vehicle.

Milo pulled his little Maglite from a jacket pocket, unholstered his gun, and got out. Standing just behind the Benz, he aimed a sharp, bright beam through the plastic.

“Police! Driver, open the door slowly.”

Nothing.

“Do it. Driver out.” His rumble echoed amid the silent elegance. Jarring, but nary a light went on in the neighboring houses. People slept well on Hudson Avenue. Or pretended to.

“Out.”

The driver’s door opened partially. “Lieutenant? It’s me. Kyle.”

“Get out of the car, Kyle.”

“I-this is my own house.”

“Do it. Now.”

A voice from the passenger seat said, “This is absur-”

“Quiet, passenger. Kyle, out.”

The door swung wider and Kyle Bedard stepped out squinting and blinking. He had on a fuzzy gray sweatshirt over olive cargo pants and the same yellow running shoes. The tips of his hair glinted in the flashlight beam like Fourth of July sparklers.

He said, “Can you please get that out of my eyes?”

Milo lowered the light.

“See, Lieutenant, it really is me. No one else wears shoes this ugly.”

Milo said, “I’m going to frisk you, son. Turn around.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Anything but.” He patted Kyle down, had him sit on the curb. “You next, passenger.”

The voice from the car said, “I don’t believe this.”

Kyle rubbed his eyes. Saw me and smiled. “In a surreal, kind of Jean-Luc Godard way, this is cool.”

The passenger laughed.

“Out!”

Kyle jumped.

The passenger said, “My name’s not Mohammed so why go to all the trouble?”

“For laughs,” said Milo. “Careless people have been known to get shot.”

“What’s funny about that?”

“Exactly.”

Kyle said, “That’s-”

“Okay, okay,” said the passenger. “I’m getting out. Don’t shoot me for God’s sake.”

The man who emerged was taller than Kyle and fifty pounds heavier, with a commodious paunch. Late fifties, deep tan, clean dome. The remaining hair was dark and long enough to collect in a ponytail that drooped past his