Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

“What?”

“You fell asleep and now you’re wired.”

“It’s that obvious?”

She put her chisel down, touched my face. “The leather couch. You’ve got marks from the seams.”

“Sherlocka,” I said.

“Want me to go with you?”

“Where?”

“One of your drives.”

“I wasn’t planning on driving anywhere.”

“No?” she said. “Okay, I’ll stop and we can play Scrabble.”

The fiddle-grain maple back of the dot-com guy’s mandolin sat on the spotless bench. Neat pile of shavings on the floor. “I do not obstruct genius.”

“Hardly,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

“Maybe I’ll join Milo. He’s watching Tony Mancusi, may haul him in for questioning.”

She smiled. “Now I know it’s really you and not some alien clone. Give me a kiss and be off.”

I phoned from the road.

He said, “Your myelin will wither.”

“Probably have too much anyway.”

“Mr. Mature.”

“Not by choice.”

He’d borrowed a dented brown Camaro from the police lot, was parked ten yards cars north of Tony Mancusi’s building, positioned so streetlight glanced the rear of the car, avoided the driver’s seat.

He saw me, unlocked the car.

The interior reeked of sweat, tobacco, and pork. Three cartons of short ribs gnawed to the bone shared the backseat with a tub specked with fried rice, a collection of little plastic cups emptied of sweet-and-sour sauce, grease-spotted napkins, used Wash’n Dris, a pair of broken chopsticks. Three Red Bull cans had been crushed to disks. In Milo ’s lap was a tartan-patterned thermos.

His face and body fused into a single dark mass. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that he’d changed into black velour sweats, a nylon shoulder holster housing his 9mm, and new-looking Keds.

“Spiffy.”

He removed the earpieces from his iPod, clicked the machine off. “You say something?”

“Just hi.”

“I’d offer you some grub, but.”

“I ate.”

“Another high-tax-bracket salad?”

“We cooked.”

“Man of the people.”

“What were you listening to?”

“Stereotype to the contrary, not Judy or Bette or Liza or Barbra. Guess.”

“Doo-wop.”

“Beethoven. Eroica. ”

“What a classy guy,” I said.

“Rick’s iPod. I took it by accident.”

We sat for an hour. Hollywood Patrol called in. No sign of Wilson Good.

By one thirty a.m., the tedium of surveillance started to hit me. I figured I’d give it another hour, return home to crash, get my time zones back in order.

Milo said, “Long as you’re here. Punch me if anything happens.” Pushing the bucket seat as far back as it would go, he lowered his head to the seat back. Twenty minutes later, he awoke with a frighteningly guttural start and wild eyes. “What time is it?”

“Ten to two.”

“Wanna nap yourself?”

“No, thanks.”

“Wanna split?”

“Maybe in a while.”

“Tedious. Told you so,” he said. “Nighty-night.”

“Must be nice to be right once in a while,” I said. “Emphasis on once. ”

“My oh my, sleep deprivation brings out the vicious side – ” Something to his left made him turn sharply.

I followed his glance, saw nothing. Then the front door to Tony Mancusi’s building opened. As if Milo had smelled it.

A man stepped out to the street. Slumped, pudgy, shuffling gait.

Tony Mancusi walked south to his Toyota, got in, and drove toward Sunset.

Milo cranked down the driver’s window and watched. Most of my view was obstructed by parked cars but I could see the twin dots of taillights twenty yards up.

Mancusi covered a block and rolled through a stop sign.

“First violation,” said Milo, starting up his engine. “Hopefully, there’ll be others.”

The Toyota headed west on Sunset, passing Western Pediatric Medical Center and continuing through Hospital Row. At that hour, the boulevard was deserted until Vine, where the nightscape was peppered with drifters, addicts, minimum-wage workers waiting for buses.

Sparse traffic meant Milo had to stay well behind the Toyota but it also turned Mancusi’s taillights into beacons. The signage of a big-box office supplies barn lit up a red-sauce stain blotching the corner of his mouth. Toss in the black hair and the gray skin and you had Dracula with a penchant for trans fat.

Mancusi caught a red light at Highland, backed up illegally, switched into the left-turn lane.

Milo muttered, “Tony, Tony,” and stayed half a block behind.

The green arrow flashed, Mancusi turned into a darkened parking lot on the east side of the avenue. Headlights off as he rolled to a halt near a shuttered food stand.

Milo doused the Camaro’s lights and watched from across Highland.

A huge painted sign on the roof of the stand starred an elated pig sporting a sombrero and a serape. Gordito’s Tacos.

Mancusi stayed in his car. Ninety seconds later, three women emerged from the shadows.

Big hair, micro-skirts, stilt-heels, purses on chains.

Loose-hipped and sashaying as they strolled over to Mancusi’s open driver’s window.

Huddled conversation, heads thrown back in laughter.

Two of the women left. The one who remained had a teased platinum do, a big shelf of bust, skinny legs. A red wife-beater exposed flat belly above a minuscule lipstick-pink skirt – no, hot pants, let’s hear it for tradition.

The blonde wiggled her way to the Toyota ’s passenger side, fussed with her hair, tugged at her top, got in.

“Guess Tony’s not gay,” I said.

Milo smiled.

Mancusi drove faster, taking Highland south to Sixth Street, turning left and speeding past Hancock Park and into Windsor Square, with its ancient trees, broad lawns, and landmark mansions.

A sudden turn took him north to Arden Boulevard, where he covered a block, stopped, parked in front of a mini-Tara.

Silent, dark street. Wide-open landscaping and a gap where a street tree had succumbed.

The Toyota ’s brake lights remained on. Ten seconds later, it pulled away, continued another block north, and parked again, this time facing a Georgian masterpiece nearly obscured by three monumental deodar cedars.

An equally massive sycamore on the parkway umbrellaed the car.

The lights went off.

The Toyota remained in place for ten minutes, then started up again and returned to Gordito’s Tacos.

Mancusi idled at the curb as the blonde got out. She fooled with the waistband of her hot pants, leaned in, said something through the passenger window. Whipped out a cigarette and smoked as the Toyota drove away.

Milo jogged across the street, flashed the badge. The blonde punched her thigh. Milo spoke. The blonde laughed the way she had when approaching Mancusi. Milo pointed to her cigarette. She stubbed it out. He patted her down, took her purse.

Holding her by the elbow, he guided her across Highland and straight to the Camaro.

No expression on his face. Her eyes were wide with curiosity.

Milo pulled a steel-handled straight razor out of the hooker’s purse.

“Hands on the car.”

“That’s for protection, sir.” Husky voice.

“On the car.” Pocketing the knife, he stashed the purse in the trunk, put the hooker in back of the car, squeezed in next to her.

“Your turn to drive, pard.”

I slid behind the wheel.

The hooker said, “I love company.”

Next to Milo, she looked small and frail. Mid-to late thirties, hair stiff and shagged, platinum at the roots, copper at the tips. A hatchet face oatmealed by pimples gleamed through bronze pancake. Pert nose, plump lips, glitter-flecked cleavage, big hoop earrings.