“But that could be desperation-oh, shit, here we go again, ego ego ego…so you’re saying I do nothing?”
“I’m saying let her lead, be there to listen.”
“And the pacing, the routines-it’s temporary because of crapola hitting the fan?”
I didn’t answer.
He said, “Yeah, yeah,” and scratched his chin. “Next topic: Any progress in the detection department?”
“Nothing earth-shattering but good people are working on it.”
“Pete killed his own father,” he said. “That’s beyond the frickin’ pale…okay, I’m going, thanks for your time.”
On his way out, he stooped and petted Blanche and said, “Sorry for ignoring you. You really are as cute as my girlfriend said.”
I rested my hand on his shoulder. His muscles twitched.
“You really are doing okay, Kyle.”
“Yeah, yeah, thanks for the plug, bye.”
At two p.m. Milo came by and we sat in the kitchen eating cold Mexican food.
“No other properties are registered to Maria Baker or Mary Whitbread in six surrounding counties. If she used a third name, tough breaks. Petra finally got the phone records. Most of Whitbread’s calls are to stores in B.H. and Brentwood. The exception is a cell that keeps coming up three or four times a day. Unfortunately, the account traces back to her.”
“She bought a phone for Junior.”
“Or he had her do it as cover. Once we find him, maybe we can get Mommy Dearest as an accessory. While I was in the assessor’s office I saw some interesting aerial maps-some new contract they’ve got with a global positioning service, plug in the address of the plot plan and you get a nice, sharp photo. The citizen in me says Orwell was right. The gendarme in me says fantastic, let’s get some shots of Mary’s real estate, see if there’s any sign of burial.”
“Any burial took place ten years ago.”
“Gee, thanks, now I’m back to being depressed,” he said. “Ever think of working for the IRS?”
I said, “Here’s some insight that might make you feel better: Patty definitely knew about the girls, the bags, the van.” I repeated everything I’d heard from Herbert Stark.
“And that will make me happy because-”
“It clarifies the situation. When Bandini tried to break into Patty’s place, she knew what he was and had prepared herself.”
“Pistol-packing mama,” he said. “No time for chitchat with Tanya sleeping a few feet away. She planned a way to control the situation, managed to jam him with a hot-shot.”
I said, “The puncture wound wasn’t in the back of his head or any other unusual spot. Right in the crook, where you’d expect it to be. He’d need to be completely subdued for that.”
“Premeditation in service of maternal duty,” he said. “Make it look nice and natural. I’m picturing it and feeling sorry for
“Patty was all about focus.”
“When she’s done, she’s focusing on escape. Waits a while so no one’ll make a connection to Bandini, and tells Whitbread she can’t afford the rent. Lives ten years with the secret, telling no one.”
“Except Lester Jordan.”
“Tattling to Petey’s daddy. Why would she do that?”
“Maybe initially she wanted to hear that Herbert Stark’s suspicions about the missing girls were unfounded. Maybe instead of calming her down, Jordan heightened her anxiety by telling her about Pete’s other felonies.”
“Lowball Armbruster.”
“Jordan and Armbruster were known associates from the drug world. Jordan had to know, or at least suspect, that his son had murdered Armbruster.”
“Precocious criminal,” he said. “Jordan says no telling what my boy’s capable of. That spurs Patty to load her.22 and sit up at night. But why would Jordan let on to her?”
“Patty saved Jordan’s life more than once. They had a deep enough relationship for Jordan to write that angry letter after Patty left Cherokee. Patty saved the letter and a picture of the two of them, meaning on some level it was mutual.”
“Despite that, Jordan knows his kid’s dangerous but never turns him in. Even dope-filled blood can run thick.”
“Then years later, we come around, bring up Patty, Jordan suspects it has to do with Pete. Jordan calls Pete, maybe to warn him, maybe to I-told-you-so. Or even to say if the pressure mounts, I’m not backing you up. Pete has hated his daddy for years, now Daddy becomes a direct threat-the last straw. He has Fisk strangle his father while he watches. The twin payoffs are keeping Jordan quiet and Oedipal joy.”
“Lovely,” he said, cupping one ear with his free hand. “Is that a Greek chorus I hear in the background?”
CHAPTER 39
For the next three days, Raul Biro followed Mary Whitbread as she shopped. Her pattern was to buy armloads of designer clothing, return everything the next day, run up another charge on her platinum Amex.
Petra got hold of charge account records and Southwest Airlines Visa bills. Mary paid her bills on time, she hadn’t cashed in on the mileage, and nothing in a year’s worth of purchases tipped off the whereabouts of her son or Robert Fisk.
The cellular number assumed to be Pete Whitbread’s remained inactive until four p.m. on the third day, when Mary called it. Retracing the path of the towers revealed southward movement originating east of the downtown Civic Center. When the conversation ended, the recipient was somewhere north of Chinatown.
Minutes from the 110 ramp where Moses Grant’s body had been dumped.
That sent Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau back to the abandoned auto shop where Grant had been shot. Recanvassing produced three more transients claiming to have seen a black Hummer cruising the industrial streets east of Los Angeles Street late at night. No details about the driver, passengers, or destination. Saunders drove to the dump site and canvassed Chinatown.
Milo stayed at home, playing with databases. Even Face of America produced nothing on Pete Whitbread/Blaise De Paine or Robert Fisk. Neither had filed any Social Security claims or paid income tax. Aerial photos of Mary Whitbread’s property revealed no recent disturbances. A records clerk at the assessor’s office opined that a sonar scan might be helpful. When Milo asked where to go for that, the clerk said, “Saw it on Forensics File, or something.”
I phoned Tanya twice, was reassured both times that she was doing great, had a couple of big exams she needed to concentrate on. She sounded tired and faded, but maybe my opinion had been colored by Kyle’s account of insomnia and compulsive routines.
Kyle didn’t try to contact me again.
With nothing to do, I picked up two more consults from family court and prepared for another nosedive into the cesspool known as child custody conflict.
At nine p.m., Robin was reading in bed. I’d just finished an evening meeting with a man who hated his ex-wife so much that mention of her name caused his eyes to bulge and his neck veins to throb. She’d sat in the same chair earlier that day; her pet name for him was “Fucking Asshole.” They had two kids who wet the bed and were failing in school. Both parents claimed they were determined to do “what’s best for Amy and Whitley.”
As the door closed on the husband, I headed to the dining room liquor cabinet, figuring this was an occasion to break open an old gift bottle of Chivas Century.
The phone rang. Milo’s voice was tight. “Robert Fisk just showed up at Mary’s. Petra called for the flak-jacket squad. I’m on my way, would invite you to attend but with all that artillery-”
