“Figure out a way,” I said.
“To what?”
“Let them know I’m persona grata.”
The SWAT team had tucked its vehicles around the corner.
Keeping as low a profile as possible, given a squadron of sharp-jawed men in full assault regalia. The night nourished concealment, but the air was charged.
The team leader was a tall, rangy lieutenant named A. M. Holzman with a gray brush cut and mustache, and mirror-shard eyes one shade lighter. Milo called him Allen and Holzman acknowledged him with a brief smile. Recognition didn’t mean small talk. Everyone was focused on Mary Whitbread’s duplex, where Robert Fisk had entered thirty-three minutes ago.
Fisk had approached on foot, walking east from La Cienega, dressed in a black shirt, matching sweatpants, and sandals. As he knocked on the door, he’d stepped under the porch light. Raul Biro had seen his face clearly and called for backup.
Now Biro went over it for Holzman. “Guy was empty-handed, looked relaxed. I got a close enough look at his clothes to tell you there was definitely no firearm. As far as a knife, I can’t say for sure, but she opened the door and let him in, no resistance.”
Allen Holzman said, “He knocks, entrez-vous?”
“You got it, Lieutenant.”
Petra said, “We’re sure she’s aware of at least some of her son’s crimes. At the very least, accessory after the fact.”
Holzman said, “So maybe this guy Fisk was sent by the son to get money, provisions, whatever.”
“That would make sense.”
“Or,” said Holzman, “he got in using guile and did something bad to Mommy. We’re talking a known associate of someone who already killed his own daddy.”
He smiled. “Probably going to ask for clemency ’cause he’s an orphan.”
Petra: “If that’s the case, we’re too late, aren’t we?”
“Unless he’s in the process of torturing her.”
Milo said, “You’re a font of good cheer, Al.”
“This is happy times compared to the anti-terrorism squad.” To Petra: “You know Eric Stahl, right?”
Petra smiled. “A bit.”
“I didn’t make the trip to Tel Aviv where he stopped that suicide asshole, which is a shame, I’ve got cousins in Jerusalem. But we were together in Jakarta, went to Bali, saw the damage. Anyway, enough b.s., what’s your wish-list?”
“In a perfect world,” said Petra, “you go in and get them both out alive.”
“In a perfect world, I’m squeezing blood out of Osama’s liver while he sits in a tub of acid and watches…okay, let’s see if we can get the rear neighbors to allow us visual access to the back of the place. Depending on what we see or hear, we’ll figure out a plan. I don’t see any time exigency here. If she’s alive, they’re pals. If she’s not, it’s time for the mop-and-tweezers squad.”
Petra said, “The neighbor on top is a doctor named Stark, owns the building and he’s already cooperated.”
“Excellent,” said Holzman. “Community involvement and all, huh, Milo? Remember those P. C. seminars we had to do?”
Milo nodded.
“Total horseshit, this is better,” said Holzman. “Okay, find Dr. Stark and involve him some more.”
Byron Stark looked on as a laser scope aimed from his bedroom revealed that the rear door to Mary Whitbread’s ground-floor unit had been left ajar.
An inch.
Allen Holzman said, “If she’s in the shower, doesn’t hear the front door, he can let himself in? That make sense, Milo?”
“As good a theory as any, Al.”
“Or she’s just careless.”
Stark said, “She leaves it open all the time.”
Blushing.
Holzman said, “Guess we’ve got a relaxed lady. Okay, let’s go in fast.”
No crash-bang like on TV. The SWAT team entered silently and took control of the apartment within seconds.
Mary Whitbread and Robert Fisk were sleeping in bed. A fake fireplace glowed orange, a tape loop simulated crackling flames. New-age music piped in through wall speakers added another layer of mellow. A tray on the floor beside Mary’s side of the bed held honey-macadamia muffins, Godiva chocolates, sliced kiwi, champagne flutes filled with what turned out to be organic mango-lychee nectar.
Whitbread and Fisk were naked and entwined. By the time they reached full awareness, both had been flipped on their bellies and cuffed.
Mary Whitbread screamed, then whimpered, then started to hyperventilate. Fisk thrashed like a fresh-caught cod on a slimy deck. The prod of a rifle barrel stopped all that.
“Silicone Tits and Mr. Macho Tattoo Kickboxer,” one of the SWAT guys reminisced as the squad peeled off armor and drank Gatorade.
“Silicone Tits and Thimble-Weenie,” said another.
A third chimed in: “Miniature Vienna sausage dehydrated, compressed, and extruded through a pinhole. No excuses, dude, the room was
“We
“Mini-mini-mini, dude, even accounting for the shrivel factor. Bad career choice, Pencil-Dick.”
“Uh, uh, uh-” Exaggerated falsetto. “-is there something
Allen Holzman said, “Good job, guys. Now shut the hell up and someone volunteer for the paperwork.”
The career the cops had mocked was porn actor. Videos found in Mary Whitbread’s apartment documented Robert Fisk’s audition, two years ago, for a Canoga Park outfit called Righteous & Raw Productions.
Financial documents in Mary’s attic showed her to be a shareholder in the company, which had folded thirteen months after incorporation.
No sign Fisk had ever worked for her or anyone else.
Plenty of tapes and CDs from Righteous & Raw’s backlog in a small half basement, but no souvenirs of Mary’s career.
No evidence of excavation there, or in the backyard.
Mary’s terror had left her thighs urine-stained, but she calmed down quickly and asked for a robe while flaunting her body.
Petra found a kimono and helped her slip into it. “Where’s Peterson?”
Mary said, “That little shit? Why would I know? Or care?”
“Robert Fisk is a-”
“No, no, no,
CHAPTER 40
Robert Fisk didn’t ask for an attorney.
Thanking Petra for getting him the bottled water, he sat Buddha-placid.
