Wraparound Ray-Bans blocked the windows to his soul. The rest of his face was a tight mask of distrust.
“This is private property. If you want a free view, go to Mulhol-land.”
Petra flashed the badge.
“Police? What, he’s gone crazy?”
“Who, sir?”
“Him. Troupe, the lawyer.” Cocking his head toward the house to the south. “I keep telling him, all the permits are in order, there’s nothing you gonna do about it.”
Some kind of accent—familiar but I couldn’t place it.
“Now, what, he’s again yelling about the noise? We graded a week ago, how can you grade without noise?”
“We’re not here about that, Mr….”
“Avi Benezra. Then what do you want?”
I got the accent. A few years ago, we’d worked with an Israeli police superintendent named Daniel Sharavi. Benezra’s inflections were harsher, but similar.
Petra said, “We’re looking for the residents of 1462.”
Benezra removed his glasses, revealed soft, hazel eyes, squinting in amusement. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”
“Wish we were trying to be, sir.”
“The residents? Maybe worms and bugs.” Benezra laughed. “Who’s your intelligence source? The CIA?”
“How long has the house been gone, sir?”
“A year.” Thumb curl toward the neighboring house. “Troupe had quiet for a year so he got spoiled.”
“Fussy guy?”
“Fussy asshole,” said Benezra. “A lawyer.”
“Is he home?”
Avi Benezra said, “Never home. That’s why he’s crazy to complain. Maybe you can tell him to stop bothering me. You know why he’s mad? He wanted to buy it, put a pool on it. But he didn’t want to pay what it’s worth. Now I don’t wanna sell. Gonna build for myself. Why not?” He waved at the view. “It’s gonna be something, all glass, views to Palos Verdes.”
“Gorgeous,” said Petra.
“It’s what I do,” said Benezra. “I build, I’m a builder. Why not finally for me?”
“So you tore down the house a year ago?”
“No, no, no, a year ago is empty. I tore down five months ago and right away he’s driving me nuts, that bastard, complain to the zoning board, the mayor.” Spiraling a finger toward his temple. “Finally, I get the okay.”
“How long have you owned the property, Mr. Benezra?”
Benezra grinned. “You interested in buying?”
“I wish.”
“I buy five years ago, house was a piece of crap but that!” Another flourish at the view.
He smoked, shaded his eyes with his hand, gazed up at a jetliner climbing from Inglewood. “I’m gonna use as much glass as they let me with the new energy rules. I just finished building a gorgeous Mediterranean on Angelo Drive, nine thousand square feet, marble, granite, home theater, I’m ready to sell. Then my wife decides she wants to live in it. Okay, why not? Then, I get divorce and she gets the house. What, I should fight?”
“Have you ever rented to a man named Blaise De Paine?”
“Oh, boy,” said Benezra. “That one. Yeah, he was the last.”
“Problem tenant?”
“You call trashing every room and not paying a problem? To me, that’s a problem. My fault. I broke the rules, got clucked.”
Petra said, “Clucked?”
“I’m talking polite to a lady.”
She laughed. “Which rules did you break?”
“Avi’s rules. Two months in advance, plus damage deposit up front. Him I let go one month, no deposit. Stupid, I shoulda known better, the way he looked.”
“How’d he look?”
“Rock and roll,” said Benezra. “The hair, you know. But he was recommended.”
“By who?”
Benezra put his shades back on. “A guy.”
“Which guy, sir?”
“This is important?”
“It might be.”
“What’d he do?”
“Who referred him?” said Petra.
“Listen,” said Benezra, “I don’t want no problems.”
“If you haven’t done anything—”
“I didn’t do nothing. But this guy who referred him, he’s a little famous, you know?”
“Who, sir?”
“I don’t know nothing about his problems.”
“Whose problems, sir?”
Benezra sniffed the air, smoked greedily. “What I hired him for was legal. What he did for other people, I don’t wanna know.”
“Sir,” said Petra, “who are we talking about?”
“A guy I hired.”
“To do what?”
“Watch the wife. She wants the house on Angelo, nine thousand square feet, she can roll around in it, fine, okay. She wants the jewelry, okay. But my boat? Properties I had before I met her? Very very very not okay. I knew what she was doing with you-know-who, maybe this guy can prove it, she don’t get too pushy.”
“We’ve got no-fault divorce in California.”
“That’s the official stuff,” said Benezra. “But she got the fancy friends, the fund-raisers, lunch at Spago. Not gonna look good everyone knows she’s not so perfect. I hired him to get the evidence.”
“We’re talking a private investigator.”
“Yeah.”
“Because your wife…”
“You’re a woman. What do you think she did?”
“Slept around?”
“Not around. One guy, her eye doctor.” Tapping a black lens. “I pay ten thousand for LASIK so she don’t have to wear contact lenses, no more itchy itchy. She pay me back by getting another kinda treatment.” Chuckling.
“It’s good you can laugh about it,” said Petra.
“What, I should get an ulcer?”
“What’s the name of the private detective?”
“The famous one,” said Benezra. “Fortuno.”
“Mario Fortuno.”
“Yeah. He still in jail?”
“As far as I’ve heard, sir.”
“Good. He took my money, did nothing. The other stuff, I have no idea.”
“Did Fortuno say how he knew Blaise De Paine?”
Benezra ticked a finger. “A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend. ‘But he’s okay, Avi, trust me.’” He laughed louder. “Maybe I missed one of the friends.”
“What else did Fortuno tell you about De Paine?”
“Nothing else, I was stupid, but I figured a guy like that, he’s working for me, why would he cluck me? I even gave discount rent because the place was crap, it was gonna get tear-down soon.” Swiveling back toward the view. “Lookit that.”
Petra showed him one of the party photos taken off the Internet. “Is this the person we’re talking about?”
“That’s him. What’d he do?”
Moses Grant’s DMV shot produced a head shake. “Him I never seen. What, a gangster from Watts?”
Robert Fisk’s mug shot evoked raised eyebrows. “That one was here, seen him at least a coupla times. Maybe living here, even though the deal was only one person, we’re talking six hundred square feet, one bedroom, one bath. Used to be the garage of that bastard’s place back in the fifties, he buys two years ago, thinks everything should go back together but don’t wanna pay market. He drives me so crazy, I was going to leave green space but forget it, it’s gonna go inches from the property line.”
Petra waved Fisk’s image. “What makes you think this person was living here?”
“One time, I come for the rent, he was the only one in the house. No shirt on, crazy tattoos, doing exercises in front of the window—on a mat, you know? Judo, karate, something like that, clothes and crap all around. I try to make chat. I learned krav maga—Israeli-style karate—in the army. He said yeah, he knows it, then he shuts his eyes and goes back to breathing in and out and stretching the arms. I say sorry to bother you but what’s with the rent. He says he don’t know nothing, just visiting. Thos
e tattoos, all over here”—touching his own chest—“and up to the neck. He’s a bad guy?”
“We’d like to talk to him. What else can you tell us about De Paine and Mario Fortuno?”
“That’s it.” Benezra looked at his watch. “I hire him to find out about her. He tells me she’s clucking the eye doctor, thank you very much, big-shot detective. That I already know because she sees twenty–twenty and she keeps making appointments.”
Shaking his head. “Thirteen thousand dollars for that, thank you very much. He should rot in jail.”
Milo said, “So he never followed through?”
“Always excuses,” said Benezra. “It takes time, Avi. We need to make sure it’s gonna be bona fide evidence, Avi. The eye doctor’s office is locked, Avi, maybe it’s gonna cost a little more, Avi.”
A wide smile nearly bisected his face. “I finally figure out I’m being clucked twice. Now I’m thinking maybe sue my divorce lawyer—he’s the one sent me to Fortuno. I call him, he tells me Fortuno ripped him off, too.”
“How?”
“Hired him to write some documents, didn’t pay.”
“The lawyer’s name, please.”
“Oy,” said Benezra. “This is getting complicated. Okay, why not, I’m finished with him. Marvin Wallace, Roxbury and Wilshire.”
Benezra took a last drag of his cigarette, pinched it out, flicked it across the lot. “Always excuses for not doing the job, Fortuno. Finally he’s got a good one.”
“What’s that?” said Petra.
“The one you guys gave him. You put him in jail.”
CHAPTER
27
We left Benezra worshipping his view and descended Oriole Drive.
Petra phoned Captain Stuart Bishop and filled him in, then clicked off. “He’ll make calls, but wants a meeting.”
“When?” said Milo.
“As soon as we get back to Hollywood.”
“We?”
“You and me, Stu’s big on interdivisional communication.” She turned to me: “Your attendance is optional but certainly welcome. He said to thank you for helping his nephew.”
Last year the preschool-aged son of Bishop’s younger sister had been frightened by the evening news. Well-adjusted boy; a few sessions had been enough.
Confidentiality meant all I could do was smile.
Petra smiled back. “I thought you might say that.”
The captain’s office at Hollywood Division was a spare, white corner space livened by school art created by the six towheaded Bishop kids and masses of family photos. A white BYU Cougars mug shared a credenza with a case of Trader Joe’s bottled water. A window cracked two inches blew in air and heat and street noise.
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 there, I got a bunch of silence then a referral to the Feebie office at the Federal Building. A special agent I know played coy but finally let on that Fortuno’s been spending the month in a hotel at taxpayer expense.”
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 you guys.”
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 lonely.”
The door slammed shut. M
uffled 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?”
“Yessir,” said Petra.
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.”
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