“Visiting her mom.”
“True,” said Weyland. “But she’s not coming back—we’re breaking up, Felice.”
“Paul, I’m so sorry.”
“It happens.” He shrugged. Poked a finger under a lens and wiped something from his left eye. To us: “Sorry, don’t want to interrupt.”
Felice walked over to him, arms spread.
As Milo and I left, the two of them were still embracing.
* * *
—
Halfway up the block, Milo looked over his shoulder. No one around. “Touching scene. Makes you wonder.”
“About suburban intrigue?”
“About the future on Evada Lane.” He rubbed his face. “She’s tired of Chet, who’s less Chet than ol’ Paul?”
“Could happen,” I said.
“Meanwhile, Chet’s off doing who-knows-what on the road, Chelsea could be hanging with the creepy neighbor, and the boy’s got the emotional range of a newt. Does anyone lead an uneventful life?”
I said, “Hope not.”
“Why?”
“Neither of us is ready for retirement.”
* * *
—
We drove back to the station where he phone-photo’d Braun’s face and sent it to Chet Corvin’s cell, then scanned his message slips.
Wastebasket, wastebasket, wastebasket. Then: “Crypt says Braun was A-negative, which isn’t rare but also not that common. They got a decent match between blood from his body and a speck they found on the boxer shorts I got from EmJay, best guess, a popped zit. Some subtests—HLA—also match…basic DNA’ll be back in a few days. Once it’s confirmed I’ll tell her what she already knows.”
He pocketed his phone. “Mary Ellen, too, maybe one of them will remember something else about the Happy Warrior.”
I said, “There was a first wife. Barbara in Stockton.”
“Who died of cancer.”
“So Braun said.”
He looked at me. “Good point, I’ll check on her tomorrow, enough for today, Rick’s off call, we’re aiming for some quality time.”
“Have fun.”
“Since you didn’t probe for specifics, ‘quality’ means dinner at a new Argentinian place on Fairfax. I’ll relax my standards and eat grass-fed steak. He’ll do tilapia, sauce on the side, and shoot me the cholesterol glare.”
Before I drove off, I checked my own messages. Lots of junk and a call forwarded by my service from “Mr. Joseph.” That meant nothing until I looked up the 239 area code. Florida.
Lanny Joseph, the record producer who’d referred Iggy Smirch to Bitt.
I tried the number, no answer or voicemail. First thing the following morning I made my second attempt and got the woman with the Cuban accent.
“Hol’ on.”
Several minutes, then: “Doctor, buena morninga. Talking about that asshole Bitt got me thinking, thinking got me remembering, remembering popped a name into my head. I talked to her yesterday, she said she’d talk to you.”
“She being…”
“Let’s leave it at someone you’ll want to talk to,” said Lanny Joseph. “If you still want to learn about that asshole Bitt.”
“We do.”
“We?”
“As I told you, I work with the poli—”
“I got that, Doctor, but let me give you some wisdom: Go easy on that. She’s not jazzed about talking to you, singular, I did you a big favor and convinced her. But no way will she get officially involved with the cops.”
“Got it. Thanks for taking the time.”
“Iggy said your girlfriend’s beyond hot and you been with her forever. I like faithful people and also Bitt was a total asshole. Here’s the name, she’s right by you, in L.A.”
* * *
—
Maillot Bernard.
I was pretty sure a maillot was some kind of bathing suit—one of those factoids you have no memory of actually learning.
The Internet confirmed that and added dancer’s tights to the mix.
Artistic woman? I looked her up on the Web, found nothing, made the call.
* * *
—
A tentative voice trilled, “Yes?”
“Ms. Bernard, Dr. Alex Delaware.”
“Yes?”
“Lanny Joseph gave me your number.”
“Yes. I told him he could.”
“This is about Trevor Bitt.”
“Yes.”
“Could we talk about him?”
“I guess,” said Maillot Bernard. “Somewhere basically…out in the open.”
“Whatever works best for you, Ms. Bernard.”
“Best,” she said, as if learning a new word. “There’s a place on Melrose, Cuppa. Serves breakfast all day. I’m going to be there by ten.”
“See you then.”
“Wait a few minutes, come at ten after,” she said. “So I have time to figure out what I want to eat.”
“Ten ten it is.”
“Yes.” A beat. “Lanny said you’re a police psychologist, like on TV.”
“I don’t actually work for the police, more of a freelance.”
“How interesting,” said Maillot Bernard, with scant conviction. “I used to freelance as a dancer. Then I taught dance to children. Freelancing always has you wondering. When’s the next check coming in. Now I do nothing.”
“Ah.”
“Make it ten fifteen,” she said. “I’ll be wearing orange.”
* * *
—
Cuppa sat beneath two stories of undistinguished, brick office building. Lampshade store on one side, Chinese laundry on the other. The restaurant’s front was all glass.
Inside, a boomerang-shaped, gold-flecked Formica counter faced chartreuse vinyl booths. Bullfighting posters and a wall menu served as art. The young woman behind the counter, white-uniformed with Lucille Ball hair and crimson lipstick, had nothing to do. The pass-through to the kitchen offered a view of a white-capped man smoking an e-cig.
What had once been a coffee shop transformed to a place that sold eight-dollar mocha drinks, six-dollar Postum, and omelets/scrambles/frittatas offered with options like ramps, glassfish, Belgian wheat beer, and sweetbreads.
Cheap oatmeal, though. Three bucks and represented with pride as “not steel-cut.”
A corner booth was occupied by a rabbinically bearded, brooding hipster genuflecting before a tiny cellular screen. Two other stations were taken up by white-haired throwbacks to the Kerouac era, reading newspapers and spooning oatmeal.
A woman in an orange dress sat in the farthest booth, watching me and ignoring a glass of red juice, a mug of something, and a bowl of what looked like lawn shavings sprinkled with fried onions.
Painfully thin would’ve been Maillot Bernard after a month of gorging.
She could’ve been anywhere between thirty-five and sixty; when emaciation sets in, distinctions blur. Her hair was long, white-blond, frizzy, her face a spray-tanned stiletto.
I waved and she smiled painfully. Enormous green eyes, contours that suggested genetic beauty long eroded. The dress looked flimsy, with glass beads studding a scoop neckline.
“Alex Delaware.”
“Mai-la.” The fingers she offered were flash-frozen shoestring potatoes. As I sat, she said, “Coffee? They do it great, here.”
“Sure.” I looked over at Lucy. She remained behind the counter and shouted, “What can I get you?”
“Coffee, any kind.”
“Be careful, that includes Jamaican Blue Mountain. Twenty bucks.”
“Thanks for the warning. What can I get for ten?”
Crimson-framed grin. “The world.”
“You have African?”
“Do we,” she said. “Kenyan’s always great.” To Maillot Bernard: “A smart one.”
Bernard said, “He’s a doctor.”
“Whoa,” said Lucy. To me: “I feel great, maybe I shouldn’t.” Grinning and giving her hips a rhumba shake.
One of the ol
d men looked up. “Someone’s son the doktuh? You take Medi-keah?” He laughed moistly. His female companion kept eating oatmeal.
Lucy brought the coffee, winked, and left.
I said, “Mai-la, I really appreciate your taking the time.”
“Yes,” she said. “Lanny said the cops were investigating Trevor. I suppose that makes sense.”
“How so?”
She shook her head, toyed with her salad. “Confession, first: I used to like him. More than like. We were together for half a year.”
She poked some more. Up close, mowed grass was alfalfa sprouts and some sort of stunted-looking lettuce. What I’d taken for onions were desiccated threads of a bacon-like substance, maybe from an animal.
“Trevor used to be a handsome man,” she said. “Might still be.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Ages. Eons, light-years…twenty real years. I was living in San Francisco, dancing ballet, jazz, and modern interpretive.”
Her fork lowered. “That didn’t pay the bills so I also danced in North Beach clubs.”
The mecca of topless. I said, “Branching out.”
“That’s a nice way to put it,” she said. “The money was good but the decision wasn’t.”
She placed a hand on a flat chest. “They convinced me to enhance. Not only did it ruin ballet, it messed me up physically. It was just loose silicone those days, not even bags. I leaked, got infected, spent four months in the hospital, and ended up like this.”
“What an ordeal.”
“It was a long time ago.” She reached over and touched my hand. “Life’s an ordeal, no?”
“It sure can be.”
“Maybe not for you? You seem like a happy man.”
“I work at it.”
“Yes, it is work,” said Maillot Bernard. “I gave up on happiness a long time ago, am aiming for content. I think that’s a more mature emotion, no?”
“There’s an adage,” I said. “Who’s rich? Someone content with what they have.”
“That’s brilliant, Doctor—I’m enjoying talking to you, wasn’t sure how I felt about facing a therapist again. But I’m glad I agreed. So what’s the story with Trevor?”
“That’s not clear, yet. And even if it was, I’m sorry, I couldn’t give details.”
“One-way street, huh? No problem, I don’t really care about him. Just making conversation.”
She picked at her salad. I drank coffee. The hipster left with his cellphone. The old wag watched and said, “All that ink on him, a wawking hi-ro-glyphic.” Lucy laughed. The old woman got oatmeal on her face and wiped it away.
I said, “So you and Trevor were—”
“An item, yes we were,” said Maillot Bernard. “When I first met him, he ticked off some serious boxes. Handsome, super-talented. Rich, too, that never hurts. But it was mostly his acceptance. Of me. After I got out of the hospital I was feeling maimed and deformed and he didn’t care, he really didn’t.”
Another pat of her chest.
“I was upfront with Trevor, after I got maimed, that was my approach, put it on the line right away, expect them to bail. Most men did. Trevor didn’t. He said he liked me the way I was. I think he meant it, but who knows?”
“How’d you meet?”
“Where else? A party, don’t ask where, who threw it, whatever, because I have no idea. I was in serious pain and taking serious painkillers, a lot back then is a blur. All I can tell you is one of those parties that seem to crop up, you get invited but can’t figure out why. I do remember it being in some incredible house—maybe Pacific Heights?”
Shrugging. “Amazing mansion, amazing drugs for anyone who wanted them: coke, pills, heroin, of course weed, weed was like cocktails, they served doobies on silver trays. I arrived already grokked out, only did weed. It was good stuff and it totally downed me and I shrank off to a corner and just sat there. I must’ve fallen asleep because I woke up and found this tall good-looking guy in a blazer and of all things an ascot, standing over me, smiling. Like he cared.”
She lifted another bacon filament with her fingers. Murmured, “Bison, low fat, calories like halibut,” nibbled half a thread, put the rest back atop the salad. “An ascot, when’s the last time you saw one of those except in a British movie? I thought I was dreaming, some duke had appeared, was going to say something with an accent and take me off in his Rolls-Royce. He sat down next to me, asked if I was okay without an accent, and we started talking and I didn’t wake up. So I realized I was already awake. Am I making sense?”
“Total sense.”
“I hope you’re right.” She glanced over at Lucy. “Can you pack this up, Angela?”
“You bet.” The waitress came over, picked up the bowl, shot me a conspiratorial glance. This is what she always does.
When she left, Maillot Bernard said, “Where was I?”
“You realized you were awake.”
“Yes. He was very nice. Soft-spoken, offered to drive me home and I said sure. He didn’t have a Rolls but he did have a nice Jaguar and he walked me to my door, didn’t try anything. So of course I said yes when he asked for my number. I’m a yes-girl, in general, always had trouble with no. It’s made life hard but I’d still rather be that way.”
“Keeping it positive.”
“Keeping it obedient, Doctor.” She sighed. “Okay, full disclosure: I’m a submissive. I hope you don’t find that psychiatric or anything.”
“Different strokes,” I said. “Long as you stay safe.”
“I didn’t always pay enough attention to safety but I do now. If you’re thinking Trevor was a dominant and that’s why we hooked up, he wasn’t. He was a normal. In that regard, anyway. No control issues but I still liked him. Maybe it was because of the gold piano.”
I sat there.
“Of course you’d have no idea,” she said. “Okay, one of the clubs, there was this gold piano hooked up to pulleys. A girl would sit on it and they’d lower her to the stage while she stripped.” Smiling. “We were the showpieces. Served up like a meal. Anyway, one of the bouncers used to have a thing for me and one time I stayed late with him and he wanted to…use the piano for you-know-what. I said sure but while we were doing it, Billy—that was his name—must’ve triggered a switch and the piano started climbing toward the ceiling. By the time we realized what was happening, it was pushing up close to the ceiling. Billy was a big guy, like a football player, and he got crushed between the piano and ceiling until I finally figured out where the switch was. He didn’t die but he broke a lot of things inside and got crippled. Only reason I was okay is I was a lot skinnier than him so all the crushing was happening to him.”
She pinged a bitten nail against her mug. “After that, I decided always to be skinny. The piano freaked me out, I didn’t go back to the club, wanted a different environment so I started teaching little girls ballet for crap money. I lost my apartment, had to room with some…not-so-great people. It was around then that I met Trevor. No control issues with regard to you-know-what. In fact, he wasn’t much into it, period.”
“Asexual?”
“More like super-low-sexual. Which was fine with me. My body the way it was, the pain, feeling deformed, last thing I wanted was someone jumping my bones.”
She smiled. “Top of that, he had an amazing house. Victorian that he restored, close enough to the wharf to walk. At the time I thought he was my savior.”
“That changed.”
She looked out the window, watched cars pass for a while. “It’s the same old story, I’m sure you hear it all the time. Especially working for the police.”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“Relationships,” she said. “They go bad. With Trevor it wasn’t dramatic, it just crept in. He got more and more possessive. Not physically, just—okay, here’s the thing: We never went anywhere, which was fine with me in the beginning. I was happy to have a refuge. And his house was big, beautiful, and quiet. Trevor drew all day, then he sl
ept, then he drew some more, then he slept. At first, I didn’t mind.”
“What changed?”
“I got bored,” she said. “Felt like getting out. Just once in a while, maybe start teaching kids again—’cause I’d quit that job. All I was doing was watching TV and videos of dance exercises. I ended up sleeping a lot, myself, and it made me tired. So I asked Trevor if I could go out for a while and he said don’t do it, I was vulnerable. I wasn’t ready to stress myself out, so I agreed. Then I started doing it—sneaking out when I knew Trevor would be locked up in his studio. Nothing weird, I took walks. It felt like I landed on another planet. I liked the feeling. But then I’d rush back, afraid he’d find out.”
I said, “Sounds a little like prison.”
“I guess it does,” said Maillot Bernard. “I guess it was. One night, late at night, Trevor was doing one of his marathon drawing things. Even when he came out of the studio, he’d been super-quiet, ignoring me when I talked to him. So I went out and took a longer walk than ever and when I got back he was in the doorway, just standing there, no expression on his face. I thought, He’s not going to allow me back. But then he stepped aside. And once I was inside, his face got different.”
“Angry?”
“No, that’s the thing, angry I could understand. I was raised with it.” Lowering her eyes. “But that’s another story…no, Trevor didn’t show angry, he just got cold. Like I was there, in his house physically, but I didn’t matter spiritually—humanly.”
“Dismissing you.”
“Exactly, Doctor. I knew I was being punished but figured it would end. Then, when I said I was ready to go to bed, he pointed to a chair and had me sit there while he left. Then he came back with a gun and stood over me.”
“He pointed it at you?”
“No, he just held it at his side,” she said. “But it was a gun.”
“What kind?”
“How would I know?” she said. “I hate guns.”
“Was it long like a rifle or small like a pistol?”
“Long,” she said. “Made out of wood.”
I pulled out my phone, called up an image of a 12-gauge Remington.
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