Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

“True,” he said. “What was that family plot stuff about?”

“Arrogance.”

“Why spook the sisters if he wanted their husbands to invest with him, Alex?”

“By that time he probably knew the husbands wouldn’t bite, and taunting their wives was a subtle form of aggression. Or he just felt like being extra-naughty. What makes him a tough quarry is it’s hard to say what he wants. I’m not sure he always knows.”

“What do you mean?”

“I see his brain as a battlefield, with logic and compulsion constantly skirmishing. His lifestyle – his ability to adapt, to live simply when he needs to – says logic dominates. Then there are the times he needs to work off a little energy and people die.”

“That lifestyle of his was grubstaked by slashing his way to a million-plus inheritance.”

“Most psychopaths would’ve burned through the money quickly. He managed to parlay it into affluence. I wouldn’t be surprised if he really does trade commodities. It’s a loner job with high thrill capacity.”

He rubbed his face. “Eight years between the Safrans and Kat is way too occasional.”

“I agree. There’re bound to be more bodies.”

“No other black-car murders so far, but that means diddly,” he said. “Lots of stuff never hits the news.”

“The cars are props,” I said, “not his signature. He uses them in locales where everyone drives. He’s adaptable. Never registered a vehicle in New York.”

“Walking the Safrans somewhere and doing them… then what, off to Europe? Something he actually told the truth about?”

“Good liars mix it up. He used his own name in New York but adopted a new identity when he returned to California. That could be covering his tracks for the bad deeds he pulled off during the interim.”

“Nicko St. Heubel, continental naughty boy… wonder where he came up with the name.”

“Could be the old-fashioned way.”

He plugged Heubel into criminal databases, came up negative. A Web search proved no more fruitful.

“Okay,” he said, “the antiquated way.”

The chief’s secretary said the boss was in Sacramento, smoking cigars with the governor, she’d pass on the message.

I called Sal Polito and he greased access to his brother-in-law the Manhattan deputy chief. The D.C.’s secretary took down the information and ten minutes later a clerk in Albany phoned.

Nicholas Heubel, born in Yonkers the same year as Ansell “Dale” Bright, had died of meningitis at the tender age of five. No Social Security number issued until twenty-five months ago.

Milo wrestled with the IRS for half an hour in order to learn that Heubel had filed tax returns for the last two years.

I said, “Six years he’s out of the country. He comes back, goes the legal route.”

“I’ll get an Interpol thing going, but with the focus on terrorism, it’s gonna take time. Meanwhile, Tricky Nicky’s having leisurely breakfasts at the Brentwood Country Mart.”

He stood, grabbed his jacket, checked the magazine of his gun, and holstered up.

He asked the watch commander for six officers in plainclothes and three unmarkeds. That took another forty-five minutes to put together and it was nearly two by the time we convoyed to Brentwood.

No SWAT team because that would’ve been too conspicuous in Nicholas Heubel’s leafy, lovely neighborhood. But bulletproof vests for everyone, shotguns and rifles at the ready.

Milo had the other cars hold back a block, parked ten houses up from the vanilla house, told me to sit there and proceeded on foot.

Ambling, as if this were a casual visit.

He made it past six houses. Stopped. Pointed.

For Lease sign staked in the lawn of the vanilla house.

Taking out his weapon, he held it close to his pants. Dark pants, the gun was barely visible. Brief stop at the front door and a bell ring.

The inevitable silence. He walked around the side of the house. A similar foray last year had resulted in a date with a shotgun.

I sat there.

He reappeared, shaking his head. Weapon back in the holster.

Cell phone in his palm. He punched it hard enough to kill it.

Ten minutes later, a white Jaguar drove up to the house and a short, dark woman in an eggplant-colored pantsuit got out.

Milo greeted her. “Ms. Hamidpour?”

“I am Soraya. You are the lieutenant?” Straightening the For Lease sign.

“Lieutenant Sturgis, ma’am. Thanks for coming.”

“You say there is a problem with the house, I come. What is the problem?”

“How long has it been for lease?”

“Two days.”

“How long has it been vacant?”

“The owner doesn’t know exactly. What is the problem?”

“When’s the last time the owner heard from the tenant?”

“The owner doesn’t hear from the tenant. It’s a managed property.”

“Your company.”

“Now it is us.”

“Who was it before?”

She named a competitor.

Milo said, “Owner’s not happy with their performance.”

“Not at all. The tenant left without giving notice. Two months’ unpaid rent. At least he left it clean.”

Milo rubbed his face. “Have you cleaned it further?”

“Yesterday,” said Soraya Hamidpour. “The usual.”

“Vacuuming?”

“Carpet shampoo, to make it look extra-good. It’s scrubbed down pretty nice. Most of the rooms don’t even look as if they were lived in.”

“Who’s the owner, ma’am?”

“He lives in Florida.”

Out came the notepad. “Name, please.”

Soraya Hamidpour scrunched her lips. “It’s a little… tricky.”

“How so?”

“The owner likes to stay private.”

“Hermit?”

“Not exactly.” She turned back to the sign, scraped something from a corner.

“Ma’am-”

“Do we need to get into that?”

“We really do, ma’am.”

“The problem with the house is…”

“The tenant’s not a nice person.”

“I see … my problem is the owner… a certain type of exposure, he likes. But…”

“Loo?” A big, blond cop wearing an untucked denim shirt and jeans waved from ten feet away. As he got closer, the shirt’s flap billowed, exposing his sidearm.

Soraya Hamidpour seemed entranced by the weapon.

Milo said, “What’s up, Greg?”

“Sorry to bother you but calls are getting heavy and watch commander wants to know how long you’ll need us.”

“One car stays for right now, the rest of you go. Call for a crime scene team. We’re going to tear this place apart.”

“Tear?” said Hamidpour.

Greg said, “The warrant-”

“Signed, sealed, delivered.” Wink wink hidden from the Realtor’s view.

Greg grinned. “You got it, Loo.” He hustled back to the convoy.

Soraya Hamidpour said, “You can’t tear it up.”

“This could be a crime scene, ma’am.”

“Oh, no. Couldn’t be, it’s so clean-”

“We’ve got chemicals that go beyond the surface.”

“But I already have someone interested-”

“We’ll be as quick as possible, ma’am.”

Soraya Hamidpour threw up her hands. “This is a disaster.”

“Tell you what,” said Milo. “If we could speak with the owner, get some details on the tenant, it might mean less of a-”

“The owner is – I can get you details but the owner doesn’t like…” She took a deep breath. Recited the name of an A-list movie star.

Milo said, “Did he know Mr. Heubel?”

“No, no, never. It’s managed. He lives in Florida.” Cupping her hand around her mouth. “Something to do with community property. The last divorce. Also, he gets a place to park his airplane.”