Obsession

by Jonathan Kellerman

  As she stepped back to close the door, a male voice said, “Who’s there, America?”

  Before she could answer, a young man swung the second door wide, exposing a limestone-and-marble entry big enough for skating. Wall niches housed busts of long-dead men. The rear wall was ruled by a portrait of a white-wigged George Washington look-alike. To the right of the painting, a walk-through was brightened by glass doors that showcased expansive gardens.

  “Hey,” said the young man. Medium height, midtwenties, frizzy dark hair, uncertain brown eyes. Indoor complexion, the haunted good looks of a teen idol softened by residual baby fat. He slumped a bit. Wore a wrinkled blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, olive cargo pants, yellow running shoes with loose laces. Pen marks stippled his fingers. The Timex on his left wrist had seen plenty of action. Milo would’ve approved.

  “Police,” said America, hazarding another touch of Blanche’s forehead.

  The young man watched, amused. “Cool dog. Police? What about?”

  “I’m not a police officer but I am working with the police on an investigation into a woman who worked here around ten years ago.”

  “Working with how?”

  I showed him the clip-on.

  “Ph.D.? In what?”

  “Psychology.”

  “Excellent,” he said. “If all goes right, I’ll have one of those. Not psych, physics. Ten years ago? What, one of those cold cases? Profiling?”

  “Nothing glamorous. It’s a financial investigation.”

  “Into someone who worked here—you mean Cecilia? Dad neglected to take out Social Security?”

  America tensed up.

  I said, “Not Cecilia, a woman named Patricia Bigelow. But if Cecilia remembers her it would be helpful.”

  He looked at America. She said, “I tell him Cecilia in Guatemala.”

  “I remember Patty,” he said. “The nurse who took care of my grandfather.” Extending a soft, ink-speckled hand. “Kyle Bedard. What’d she do?”

  “She died but it’s not about murder. I can’t get into details.”

  “Hush-hush confidential,” he said. “Sounds interesting. Want to come in?”

  America said, “Meester Kyle, your father say—”

  Kyle Bedard said, “Don’t worry, it’s cool.”

  She walked away, wringing the chamois, as he let me in.

  All that stone lowered the temperature ten degrees. I took a closer look at the colonial painting and Kyle Bedard chuckled. “My parents overpaid for it at Sotheby’s because some art consultant convinced them it was a family heirloom. My bet is some hack turned out dozens of them for Victorian social climbers.”

  A walnut door to the left topped by a limestone pedicle opened on a book-lined room. The décor was Rich Man’s Library: enough leather binding to sacrifice a herd, gold-tasseled blue velvet drapes suspended from an etched brass rod that blocked out the day and spilled onto brass-inlaid parquet flooring, a massive blue-and-beige Sarouk covering most of the wood.

  A carved partner’s desk bore bronze Tiffany desk pieces. A dragonfly lamp emitted brandy-colored light. Leather armchairs sagged where bottoms had lingered. A few strategically placed paintings of hunting scenes completed the image.

  The room Tanya had described, the old man sitting in his wheelchair, reading, dozing.

  But warring elements had intruded: acid-green beanbag in the center of the rug, piles of textbooks and notebooks and loose papers, three empty fried chicken buckets, take-out pizza box, bags of chips in various flavors and hues, soda cans, beer cans, crumpled napkins, a dandruff of crumbs.

  A sleek silver laptop rested on the beanbag, flashing eerie light as the screensaver shifted: A bug-eyed Albert Einstein morphed to sullen Jim Morrison then to the Three Stooges engaged in some spirited eye-poking then back to Albie. A charging iPod suckled through a well-kinked electric cord.

  Rich man’s library meets college dorm.

  The room smelled like a dorm.

  Kyle Bedard said, “I’m working on some calculations, the solitude’s helpful.”

  “Who else lives here?”

  “No one. Dad’s somewhere in Europe and Mom lives in Deer Valley and Los Gatos.”

  “Ph.D. calculations?”

  “An infinite array.”

  “Where do you go to grad school?”

  “The U. Did my undergrad at Princeton, thought of staying back east. Realized I’d had enough ice and sleet and people who thought they were British.”

  “What area of physics are you working in?”

  “Lasers as alternative energy sources. If my committee accepts my dissertation, my big wish is snagging a postdoc working with a genius doing cutting-edge research at Lawrence Livermore Lab. It would be cool to be part of something millennium-changing.”

  “Getting close to finishing?”

  “My data’s in and my writing should be finished by next year. But you’ve been through it, there are no guarantees. Show up for the orals, some committee member wants to screw you, you’re screwed. I should practice my ass-kissing skills but the work keeps distracting me.”

  “That was my attitude,” I said. “It turned out fine.”

  “Psych, huh? Clinical?”

  I nodded.

  “Thanks for that snippet of confidence-building therapy—here, sit?” Removing the laptop from the beanbag, he plopped down.

  I positioned an armchair to face him, placed Blanche in my lap.

  “That is one idiosyncratic dog—kind of a primate thing going on there,” he said. “What is she, some kind of miniature bulldog?”

  “French bulldog.”

  “Don’t you mean Freedom bulldog?”

  I laughed. He smiled.

  “So you remember Patty Bigelow.”

  “I remember who she was. Grandfather was alive then and my parents were still together. We lived up in Atherton, didn’t come down to see him very often. I always liked coming here—to this room, the smell of the books. The room my parents would never think of entering, God forbid they’d learn something. So I was able to get some peace and quiet. He’s got some great stuff there, really rare editions.” Pointing to the shelves. “How’d Patty die?”

  “Cancer.”

  “That’s a drag. What kind of financial investigation did that elicit and why?”

  “All I can tell you is her death raised some questions and the police are going back and interviewing everyone she worked for.”

  “And they send you to interview the crazy people?”

  I smiled.

  He scratched his head. “Are you saying Patty embezzled? That would sure fit Mom’s preconceptions.”

  “No, she’s not suspected of anything.”

  “Hush-hush confidential? I can dig that. If I do get that fellowship at Lawrence it’ll be lips-sutured-shut.” He flexed his feet and the beanbag squeaked. “Cancer…I don’t remember her as being that old…I’m guessing she’d be in her fifties?”

  “Fifty-four.”

  “That’s way too young,” he said. “One-third of deaths are due to cancer. A fact Mom keeps reminding me of because she confuses lasers with radiation and is convinced I’m going to fry myself…Patty had a daughter, younger than me, seven or eight. Each time we visited, she’d run away and hide, I thought it was a crackup. One time I got bored and wandered out to the backyard. She was sitting in the bushes, counting leaves or whatever, talking to herself. I thought she looked lonely but figured she’d freak out if I startled her, so I left her alone. It’s got to be tough, losing her mom.”

  Squeak squeak. “Funny the things you remember.”

  “Do you remember anything else about Patricia Bigelow?”

  “Let’s see,” he said. “She seemed to be taking decent care of Grandfather and by the end he was pretty much out of it. Dad appreciated her.”

  “Mom didn’t?” I said.

  “Mom has an exaggerated sense of social class.”

  “Embezzlement fits her preconceptions.”
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  “She assumes the underclass will inevitably steal and the underclass is defined as anyone not as rich as her. When I was growing up, the maids had to open their purses for inspections every time they left the house. She’s a suspicious person, by nature. I don’t see her very often.” Weak smile. “We’re not exactly a cohesive social unit.” His foot nudged a pizza box. “I should clean this place up but I probably won’t. When Dad comes home and gets irate, my excuse will be that I was too busy. My real reason for noncompliance will be getting Dad irate. Immature, huh?” He threw back his head, poked at an eye. “Ouch, contact’s rubbing—okay, now it’s good.”

  I said, “When’s your father returning?”

  “A week, ten days, a month, a parsec. Basically, whenever he feels like it. He doesn’t work. Lives off Grandfather’s investments. Which I find a bit Edith Wharton. Even if you don’t need to work, why not do something useful? The plan was for me to get a token brokerage job, marry a rich, dull girl, sire the requisite dull child or two, retire early to a life of calculated indolence. The physics thing really makes Mom irate. ‘That’s work for hire, good for Jews and Chinese.’ She’s convinced I’m going to sire two-headed progeny.”

  “Scholarship as rebellion,” I said.

  “I could’ve been a dangerous felon or a drug-addled loser or joined the Green Party, but developing a work ethic seemed more subversive…so what else do I remember about Patty Bigelow…attentive to Grandfather, moved fast—as in ambulation. That definitely sticks in my memory. Always rushing around, making sure he had everything he needed. Maybe that was just for Dad’s benefit. If so, it failed. He believes any undue expenditure of energy is a vice. And he didn’t give a shit about Grandfather. They loathed each other.”

  “Father-son issues?”

  “Oh, boy,” he said. “Compared to them, Dad and I are drinking buds. As to why, no one clued me in on all the dirty little family secrets. Grandfather did appreciate the value of work. He made it on his own, joined the army in ’39—not a West Point deal, he started off as a technical noncom in Texas, ended up a lieutenant colonel designing communications systems in the ETO. After discharge, he got a job in television, switched to optics, then electronic components. He invented resistors and power cells and measurement equipment—oscillators, that kind of thing. Earned himself a slew of patents and made enough money for Mom and Dad to convince themselves we were Mayflower aristocracy.”

  His toe nudged the KFC box. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Maybe it’s what you guys call a demand characteristic—you want me to talk, so I do.”

  “That’s a pretty esoteric term.”

  “I took some psych as an undergrad. Found it interesting but I needed something less nebulous. Anyway, that’s all I remember about Ms. Bigelow.”

  “How’d she come to work here.”

  “I was a kid. Why would I know?”

  “Sounds as if you were a pretty attentive kid.”

  “Not really,” he said. “Actually, I was mostly in my own world. Just like Patty’s daughter, sitting in the bushes. I really need to get back to my calculations. World oil consumption depends on it. If you leave me your number, next time I talk to Dad I’ll tell him to call you.”

  “Thanks.” I placed Blanche on the floor and stood.

  She trotted straight to him. He chuckled and rubbed her neck. She smiled up at him.

  “Cool dog. She can definitely stay here.”

  “People keep making that offer.”

  “Charisma,” he said. “From what I know of Grandfather he had it in spades.”

  “Self-made man.”

  “It’s a nice ideal,” he said. “I’ll settle for accomplishing anything.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  Isaac Gomez had sent me an e-mail.

  Dear Dr. D,

  These are the open homicides with male victims that I was able to find for the time periods you specified, listed in chronological order. I used a geographical criterion of a quarter-mile radius. No cases were found on your exact streets. There’d obviously be a much higher frequency of closed cases.

  1. Cherokee Avenue Locus:

  A. Rigoberto Alfredo Martinez, 19, gunshot wound to the head

  B. Leland William Armbruster, 43, gunshot wound to the chest

  C. Gerardo Escobedo, 22, multiple stab wounds to the chest

  D. Christopher Blanding Stimple, 20, shotgun wounds to head and torso

  2. Hudson Avenue Locus:

  A. Wilfred Charles Hong, 43, multiple gunshot wounds to head and torso

  3. Fourth Street Locus: no open homicides

  4. Culver Boulevard Locus:

  A. D’Meetri Antoine Stover, 34, gunshot wound to the torso

  B. Thomas Anthony Beltran, 20, gunshot wounds to head and torso

  C. Cesar Octavio Cruz, 21, gunshot wound to the head (Beltran and Cruz were murdered during the same incident)

  Best wishes and good luck,

  Isaac

  I forwarded the text to Milo, busied myself with paperwork for a couple of hours, got no callback.

  Maybe he’d really gotten into a vacation mode.

  Maybe I should, too. No more work over the weekend.

  But Sunday morning I was up early, scanning cyberspace for the killings Isaac had found. Wilfred Hong’s unsolved murder was noted on a diamond dealer’s Web site. Gory details and warnings for his colleagues, but no new facts. None of the Hollywood cases were listed but the dual murder of Cesar Cruz and Thomas Beltran received notice in the Times archive. Cruz and Beltran were members of Westside Venice Boyzz with long police records, and their murders were termed “a possible gang retaliation slaying.” I crossed them off, along with Hong.

  I clicked away until noon, trying different approaches to the remaining cases, starting with those in the Cherokee Avenue zone. Nothing on three of them, but I unearthed notice of Christopher Blanding Stimple’s death in a newspaper morgue at The Philadelphia Inquirer. Stimple, a Philly native and high school athlete, had been eulogized in a brief, paid-for obituary. His demise was listed as “accidental while Chris was visiting California.”

  The family sanitizing the details of a shotgun homicide? No reason to do that in a case of murder, but suicide could inspire shame. Maybe the coroner had closed the case as self-inflicted but that conclusion hadn’t found its way into LAPD records. In any event, I couldn’t see Patty Bigelow blasting a twenty-year-old man with two barrels and crossed off Stimple.

  At four p.m., I took a punishing run, showered, made coffee, straightened the house. At six thirty, Robin’s truck pulled up in front of the house.

  She jumped out and hugged me hard. “Why do we ever stay apart?”

  Moist cheek. Tears weren’t often part of Robin’s repertoire. I tried to draw her face away for a kiss. She hugged me tighter.

  I’d made dinner reservations at the Hotel Bel-Air. She said, “I love that place but would you be disappointed if we just stayed in?”

  “Shattered and ground to dust.” I canceled and called out for Chinese from a place in Westwood Village.

  As she unpacked, she said, “Where’s Blondie?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “Smart girl.”

  She bathed, towel-dried her hair, put on some makeup, and emerged wearing a white sleeveless shift and nothing else. We were kissing in the kitchen when the food arrived. I overpaid the delivery boy, let the food go cold.

  By nine, we were sitting near the pond, tossing random bits of egg roll and noodles to the koi.

  “They’re Japanese,” she said. “But they sure go for Mandarin.”

  “Diversity has made its mark everywhere.”

  “Ha…this is so wonderful.” She winced, rubbed the side of her neck.

  “Sore?”

  “Stiff from all the driving.” Crooked smile. “Also, that last position.”

  “New one on me, too,” I said. “Creative.”

  “Nothing ventured.”

  I go
t up and massaged her upper shoulders.

  “That feels good…a little lower—lower—perfect…I learned one thing over the weekend. The whole convention thing is getting old.”

  “Too much like school.”

  “Not just the lectures,” she said. “The social scene, too—who’s making money, who’s sleeping with who.”

  “You made serious money on the F5,” I said.

  “Nice big check for a working girl but petty cash for Mr. Dot-Com.” She rolled her head. “A little lower, still—yes…maybe he’ll even learn to play.”

  “Not a note?”

  “Not even a bad one. After he paid me, he wanted to have dinner. Discuss the historical roots of luthiery.”

  “Good line.”

  “Not good enough. I stayed in my room and watched movies.” Crooked smile. “Not much plot, but some interesting positions.”

  “So I’ve seen.”

  “Honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  An hour later:

  “It is good to be home.”

  “Alex,” she said, “I’m the one who was gone.”

  “Whatever.”

  CHAPTER

  14

  Milo called back Monday, just after four.

  “All the Culver City cases were gang hits. CC detectives have a pretty good idea who the shooters were on Cruz, Beltran, and Stover but no one talked. Moving down the list, Wilfred Hong. The consensus is that Mrs. Hong was in on it. She was tied up but not tightly. A month after the funeral, she sold the house, moved with the kids to Hong Kong.”

  “Maybe she was scared.”

  “Not scared enough to avoid a new boyfriend. Guess what he does for a living.”

  “Sells gems.”

  “Ding. Onward to Hollywood. Gerardo Escobedo and Rigoberto Martinez are both in Petra’s fridge pile. Escobedo called himself Marilyn, wore hair and makeup to match. By nineteen he’d been hustling for three years, was known to get into anyone’s car. He was stabbed somewhere else, probably a park from the leaves and twigs, and dumped in an alley near Selma. Mucho overkill, everyone sees it as a trick gone bad. Martinez worked as a gardener with a crew out in Lawndale and had two priors for solicitation. Big guy, nearly three hundred pounds. Once he’d get in a room with a girl, he’d try to bully her out of full payment. Probably annoyed the wrong pimp. Christopher Stimple also had a hustler history—four busts. He was found in a rented room with a shotgun lying nearby, possible suicide, but since no one had ever seen him with any firearm and the position of the weapon wasn’t clear-cut, the coroner listed the COD as undetermined.”