“I acknowledge.”
Mario Fortuno said, “Do you believe this guy? Like I’m important.”
Wanamaker’s hand drew back his coat and revealed his shoulder weapon. Another eye flick at his watch: “Four minutes gone.”
Petra said, “May we start?”
Wanamaker stepped away. Fortuno picked his nose.
No chairs in sight, so we stood in front of him. His jaunty smile was dimmed by green-tinged jailhouse pallor. His white hair was thin, greased back, curling behind his ears. Puny, pocked chin, a bulb nose embroidered with gin blossoms. Squinty, hyperactive eyes the color of cigar ash were dragged down by pouches of skin. He fooled with his nose again, ground his index finger against his thumb.
Another lazy smile, off kilter and saurine. The offspring of a human-iguana mating.
Petra said, “Mr. Fortuno, we’re here about Peterson Whitbread aka Blaise De Paine. Please tell us everything you know about him.”
“Who says I’m cognizant of anything?” said Fortuno. Flat, mid-western inflection. Hint of emphasis on “cognizant.” As if he’d just memorized the word.
“You recommended him for tenancy at a house on Oriole Drive.”
“When was this?”
“Shortly before you went to jail.”
“Boy, my mind must be slipping.” Fortuno pointed at the pizza box. “Maybe too many carbs.”
Petra turned to Wanamaker.
He said, “Nonfederal matters don’t fall under compliance regulations.”
“Meaning,” Milo said, “he can jerk us around while you time us.”
Fortuno said, “God forbid.”
Petra said, “If you’re going to be uncooperative, Mario, let us know right now and we’re out of here.”
Fortuno tensed. Forced a smile. “A feminist.”
Petra turned heel. We followed.
When she reached the door, Fortuno said, “Ease up. There’s no free lunch.”
Milo said, “Spoken by someone getting federal babysitting at a four-star hotel.”
Wesley Wanamaker frowned.
Fortuno said, “Don’t fret, Ms. Pro-Choice. I don’t want a meal, just an amuse-bouche—that’s ‘hors d’oeuvre’ in French. And I’m not talking The Ivy or Le Dome or Hans Rockenwagner’s place, I love that place.”
Wanamaker said, “Food again? We’ve been through this. Our per diem budget is preset and no one but the FBI is authorized to—”
“I’m not talking cuisine, Mr. Literal.” To us: “These guys have no clue about metaphors and similes.”
“An English major,” said Milo.
“Journalism,” said Fortuno. “City College of Chicago, did a year until all the perfidy and falsehood got to me.”
Petra touched the doorknob.
Fortuno said, “I’m crushed. You just got here.”
She turned the knob and had a foot out in the hall when Fortuno said, “Let me talk to the shrink.”
S.A. Wanamaker said, “The door must remain closed at all times.”
Petra said, “No solo interviews, Mario.”
“Oh boy, another literal one,” said Fortuno. “What is it, all the TV and video games and microwaves in the brain, no one reads the classics anymore?” He waved. “Come back, honey, don’t let me rile you, I’m really a sociable person.”
“Plastique and machine guns in your office is sociable?”
S.A. Wanamaker said, “That topic is off limits, Officer.”
Fortuno’s arrest had been in the papers for weeks.
“Close the door, Officer.”
Petra complied, shot Fortuno a long, dark look.
Fortuno said, “You’ve got gorgeous melting eyes. No offense, I’m avuncular not lecherous. What I’m trying to get across here is I can possibly offer you some satisfaction vis-à-vis your subject. But the shrink’s the one who can make me happy.”
Wanamaker said, “Nine minutes down.”
Petra ignored him and moved closer to Fortuno. “You can possibly help us?”
“Let’s upgrade to probably.”
“What do you want from Dr. Delaware?”
“Come closer, dear,” said Fortuno. “Conversing so far away makes my throat hurt. All the artificial coolants in the AC system, dries up the sinuses, they won’t let me open the window. Or the curtains, I’m living like a gopher.”
Wanamaker said, “It’s dark, anyway. Stop complaining.”
Petra said, “How do I know you can help us?”
Fortuno said, “How’s this: The individual under question is a no-talent punk kid who purloins other people’s songs and cobbles them together in what the popular parlance terms ‘mixes.’”
The three of us returned to our former positions facing the couch.
Fortuno said, “Dr. Alexander Delaware, you’ve got street cred for helping kids. Anxieties, phobias—I like that paper you published on sleep problems. Could’ve used that with a few of mine, I have eight. From five wives, but that’s another story. Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease—July, five years ago. Is my memory serving me well?”
My name had been given to the feds a few hours ago. Fortuno had managed to research me.
I said, “What can I do for you?”
“One of my progeny, the youngest, Philip, he’s six. Quiet, a very quiet boy, know what I mean?”
“Shy?”
“That, too. Extremely quiet. Sits and draws, doesn’t go outside to play, doesn’t like sports. His mother’s young, not too experienced in the parent department. With Philip, she’s a pushover, spoils him completely. He used to go to private school but now he’s in public school, due to the fact that I’m temporarily inconvenienced financially. Am I making myself lucid?”
“Philip’s having problems in his new school.”
“The other kids,” said Fortuno, “do not appear to appreciate him. In public school, you’ve got some tough little rats. A tough kid—a resilient kid—could cope. Philip, being quiet, does not cope so well. If I was there, perhaps I could aid him, but I am not and that makes me feel regretful. His mother tells me Philip comes home crying. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep well.” Throat clear. “He has also started to have…accidents. Number one and number two. Which does not help his popularity with his peer group. I, being out of the picture, feel partially culpable for all this. Then I find out you will be visiting and lo and behold I experience epiphanization: Saint Agnes has sent me someone who can help the problem.”
“I’ll be happy to see Philip.”
“As I said, my financial resources are limited. However, I do see that changing some time in the future and when that time comes you’ll be recompensed ably.”
“I understand.”
Fortuno clapped his hands, as if summoning a servant. “Excellent. When will you see Philip?”
“Have his mom call me.”
“She will do that. They live in Santa Barbara.”
“That’s ninety miles away. Maybe the best thing would be for me to find you a referral there.”
Fortuno’s mouth tightened and his eyes were black lines. “Maybe not.”
“It’s a long drive for a young chi—”
“You drive to Philip,” he said. “When I am in a position to do so, I will compensate you for your fuel and your time—portal-to-portal, like what lawyers get. Like what I used to get. I’m not talking long-term Freudian or Jungian psychoanalysis. One visit, maybe two, three four—a consultation. In one of those articles you wrote, you said a lot of child therapy can be done short-term. Journal of Clinical and Consulting—”
“I can’t guarantee that in every case, Mr. Fortuno.”
“I’m not asking for a guarantee, Dr. Delaware. Two sessions, maybe three, four. After that, if you feel Philip’s needs are best served by a local expert, I will accept that. But you start the ball rolling, Dr. Delaware. Meet my son face-to-face and give me feedback. He’s a very quiet boy.”
“Okay,” I said.
Another clap. “Excellent. When?”<
br />
“Have his mother call me.”
“Give me something more specific.” An order, not a request. He sat up straighter, buoyed by the shred of control.
“Have her call and I promise I’ll drive up and meet with Philip as soon as I can,” I said. “You’ve done what you can, the rest is up to her.”
Fortuno breathed in sharply. “She will call you soon. Perhaps Philip can come visit you at that nice pretty white house. See those pretty fish in your pond.”
My gut tightened. “Happy to show them to him.”
Petra said, “Enough small talk.”
CHAPTER
28
Blaise De Paine,” said Mario Fortuno. “Rotten kid.”
“How so?”
“I do not approve of thievery. However…” Throat clear. “…in the course of my profession, I am forced to deal with individuals of dubious morality. Much the same as it is with you, Detectives.” To me: “You, too, given your long association with law enforcement. My Philip will be a breath of fresh air.”
Petra said, “What business did you do with De Paine?”
“His profession, such as it is, places him at various clubs and the like. Many of these nightspots feature so-called VIP lounges where inhibitions are relaxed, not to mention lavatories equipped surreptitiously with peepholes and hidden cameras by individuals of dubious ethics.”
“He sold you incriminating pictures of celebrities.”
Wanamaker said, “Be careful.”
“Wesley, I owe these good people something.”
“Be careful.”
Fortuno sighed. “Skirting some paper-thin ice here, what I believe I can tell you within the bounds of Special Agent Wanamaker’s approval is that Mr. De Paine found himself in possession of data concerning various individuals of interest to me for reasons I cannot and will not get into.”
“Does he also sell drugs?” said Petra.
Fortuno glanced at Wanamaker. The agent was silent. “If he did, I would not be shocked. However, I have no firsthand knowledge of such transactions and, in fact, possess a strong aversion to toxic substances as they de-oxidify the body.” Hoisting the orange juice. “Vitamin C.”
“Which substances does De Paine peddle?”
“I’d term his activities…eclectic.”
“Heroin?”
“It would not shock me.”
“Cocaine?”
“Same answer.”
“Ecstasy?”
“Detective Connor,” said Fortuno, “the young man in question is enterprising. A type I’m sure we’re both familiar with.”
“What type is that?”
“The me generation. So many of them yearn for stardom but lack talent. Not to mention a moral core.”
Petra said, “What did you give De Paine for his information?”
Wanamaker waved a finger. “Uh-uh.”
“Did you trade him personal data for narcotics?”
Wanamaker said, “Change the subject, Detective.”
Fortuno’s cheeks quivered. “Wesley, throughout my relationship with you, your colleagues and your superiors, has anyone—anyone— come across a shred of evidence suggesting my active association with narcotics other than helping children of clients get clean and sober?”
Wanamaker looked at his watch.
Petra said, “How long were you and De Paine in business?”
“Awhile,” said Fortuno.
“Months or years?”
“The latter.”
“How many years?”
“I’d have to check my records.”
“Take a wild guess.”
“Five’s a nice round number.”
“What about Robert Fisk?”
“Who would that be, Detective?”
“A known associate of De Paine.” Petra showed Fortuno the mug shot.
“He looks like an extremely resentful person. Bad eyes…is he De Paine’s conduit for violence?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Because De Paine is a sissy who avoids confrontation. Because you didn’t take time out from your busy day to visit me due to a shoplifting violation.”
“You don’t know Fisk.”
“Never heard of him, never laid eyes on him.”
“What about Moses Grant?” Flashing the DMV shot.
Fortuno said, “This person I have witnessed in De Paine’s company. I believe De Paine termed him his disk jockey. Another would-be music person. If you call that music.”
“Call what?”
“In less enlightened times, what would’ve been termed jungle rhythms. Being a Chicago person, Sinatra is more to my taste.”
“Sinatra was from New Jersey.”
“His music is esteemed in Chicago.”
“Tell me about Moses Grant.”
“I have seen him in the company of Mr. De Paine several times—three or four times. He never spoke in my presence. My impression was he was a lackey. I believe I saw him driving Mr. De Paine’s car.”
“What kind of vehicle?”
“Two vehicles, to be precise. One of those gas-guzzling Hummers and a Lexus sedan. The Lexus belongs to Mr. De Paine’s mother.”
“Mary Whitbread.”
Fortuno chuckled.
“What’s funny?” said Petra.
“How she came to call herself that.”
“You know her.”
“That,” said Fortuno, “is quite a story.”
“We’ve got time.”
Wanamaker said, “Forty-one minutes to be exact.”
Fortuno removed a loafer, slipped a finger between his toes, dug and scratched, produced something that seemed to intrigue him.
Petra said, “Mary Whitbread.”
“Her given name is Maria Baker. Her hometown is Chicago.”
“Old neighbor?” said Petra.
“We grew up in different neighborhoods. I became acquainted with Maria through my activities in law enforcement.”
“You were a cop?”
“I contemplated becoming one. Only briefly, all the perfidy and corruption…no offense, assorted gendarmes, but Chicago was quite a city back then and sometimes it was difficult to differentiate the good guys from the miscreants.”
“What was your association with the cops?”
“I did some security consulting to various political figures. Occasionally that led me to interface with your Windy City counterparts. Because of my familiarity with various individuals of Italian ancestry—”
“Uh-uh, nope,” said Wanamaker.
“Wesley,” said Fortuno, “at some point you need to develop a sense of trust. I have no intention of breaching our agreement, if for no other reason than a breach would not be in my best interests. The events that interest Detective Connor predate any you’d be concerned with and I am simply providing context—”
“Provide it another way.”
Fortuno drew back his lips, scratched pale, pink gum. “I met Maria Baker over thirty years ago.”
“Where?” said Petra.
“If my recollection serves me well, the first time was at a club called The Hi Hat. Maria danced there, as well as at other nighteries.” Lizard-smile. “Sans clothing. The Hat and the others were owned by various individuals of…a certain Mediterranean descent. From time to time, Maria became romantically entangled with some of these various individuals as well as with other individuals.”
“Other?”
Fortuno smiled. “Comedians, drummers, assorted riffraff. Maria was rather…easy to please. Unfortunately, there came a time when one of the individuals—of a certain descent—became deceased in a highly non-natural manner and Maria Baker became concerned for her personal safety. I, having just moved to Los Angeles, and through my associations with law enforcement in both cities, was able to facilitate her passage here. Maria took well to the climate. Meteorologically and professionally.”
“The profession being stripping.”
“As well as other aspects of sh
ow business.”
Milo said, “She became a casting agent.”
Fortuno broke into laughter.
“What’s funny?” said Petra.
“Who told you that?”
“She did.”
“Maria, Maria,” said Fortuno. Humming a few bars from the West Side Story tune. “That was music, Leonard Bernstein…Detectives, the primary aspect of casting that Maria Baker ever encountered was removing her clothing for gentlemen in Canoga Park.”
“Porn actress?” said Petra.
“I’m sure none of us are devotees of the genre,” said Fortuno. “However, we all know that the real Hollywood is Canoga Park.”
“Mary Whitbread was her stage name? That doesn’t sound too sexy.”
“The genre relies upon clichés, Detective. Or used to, back when the product was shown in theaters and plots were believed essential. One common motif is the innocent maid debauched. One rather successful film was a full-length feature titled Losing Her Innocence. The story line was hackneyed but effective. A Victorian chambermaid travels to London and is seduced by lords and dukes and the like.”
“The maid was Mary Whitbread.”
“Thirty years ago,” said Fortuno, “she had girl-next-door looks. The director thought she was so perfect that he used her real name as the basis for her nom de film.”
“Baker to Whitbread.”
Fortuno closed his eyes. “The essence of wide-eyed Victorian purity. Even as her orifices were explored.”
“Who was the director?”
“A gentleman named Salvatore Grasso. Deceased.”
“In a highly unnatural manner?”
“If you consider a stroke unnatural.”
“Wide-eyed purity,” said Milo. “You’re a fan of her work.”
“On the contrary, Lieutenant Sturgis. It bores me.” Half shutting his lids. “As I’m sure it does you.”
“Did your relationship with Mary ever turn personal?”
“With me,” said Fortuno, “everything is personal.” Turning away from Milo he faced Petra and leered. “Did I fuck her?”
She didn’t budge.
“The answer is yes. I fucked her. I fucked her at will, every which way, on numerous occasions. That doesn’t make me the member of an exclusive club. Nor was the relationship emotional.”
“Casual sex.”
“Your generation didn’t invent it, dear.”
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