Jonathan Kellerman - Obsession

The family sanitizing the details of a shotgun homicide? No reason to do that in a case of murder, but suicide could inspire shame. Maybe the coroner had closed the case as self-inflicted but that conclusion hadn’t found its way into LAPD records. In any event, I couldn’t see Patty Bigelow blasting a twenty-year-old man with two barrels and crossed off Stimple.

At four p.m., I took a punishing run, showered, made coffee, straightened the house. At six thirty, Robin’s truck pulled up in front of the house.

She jumped out and hugged me hard. “Why do we ever stay apart?”

Moist cheek. Tears weren’t often part of Robin’s repertoire. I tried to draw her face away for a kiss. She hugged me tighter.

I’d made dinner reservations at the Hotel Bel-Air. She said, “I love that place but would you be disappointed if we just stayed in?”

“Shattered and ground to dust.” I canceled and called out for Chinese from a place in Westwood Village.

As she unpacked, she said, “Where’s Blondie?”

“Sleeping.”

“Smart girl.”

She bathed, towel-dried her hair, put on some makeup, and emerged wearing a white sleeveless shift and nothing else. We were kissing in the kitchen when the food arrived. I overpaid the delivery boy, let the food go cold.

By nine, we were sitting near the pond, tossing random bits of egg roll and noodles to the koi.

“They’re Japanese,” she said. “But they sure go for Mandarin.”

“Diversity has made its mark everywhere.”

“Ha…this is so wonderful.” She winced, rubbed the side of her neck.

“Sore?”

“Stiff from all the driving.” Crooked smile. “Also, that last position.”

“New one on me, too,” I said. “Creative.”

“Nothing ventured.”

I got up and massaged her upper shoulders.

“That feels good…a little lower-lower- perfect …I learned one thing over the weekend. The whole convention thing is getting old.”

“Too much like school.”

“Not just the lectures,” she said. “The social scene, too-who’s making money, who’s sleeping with who.”

“You made serious money on the F5,” I said.

“Nice big check for a working girl but petty cash for Mr. Dot-Com.” She rolled her head. “A little lower, still- yes …maybe he’ll even learn to play.”

“Not a note?”

“Not even a bad one. After he paid me, he wanted to have dinner. Discuss the historical roots of luthiery.”

“Good line.”

“Not good enough. I stayed in my room and watched movies.” Crooked smile. “Not much plot, but some interesting positions.”

“So I’ve seen.”

“Honey, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”

An hour later:

“It is good to be home.”

“Alex,” she said, “I’m the one who was gone.”

“Whatever.”

Milo called back Monday, just after four.

“All the Culver City cases were gang hits. CC detectives have a pretty good idea who the shooters were on Cruz, Beltran, and Stover but no one talked. Moving down the list, Wilfred Hong. The consensus is that Mrs. Hong was in on it. She was tied up but not tightly. A month after the funeral, she sold the house, moved with the kids to Hong Kong.”

“Maybe she was scared.”

“Not scared enough to avoid a new boyfriend. Guess what he does for a living.”

“Sells gems.”

“Ding. Onward to Hollywood. Gerardo Escobedo and Rigoberto Martinez are both in Petra’s fridge pile. Escobedo called himself Marilyn, wore hair and makeup to match. By nineteen he’d been hustling for three years, was known to get into anyone’s car. He was stabbed somewhere else, probably a park from the leaves and twigs, and dumped in an alley near Selma. Mucho overkill, everyone sees it as a trick gone bad. Martinez worked as a gardener with a crew out in Lawndale and had two priors for solicitation. Big guy, nearly three hundred pounds. Once he’d get in a room with a girl, he’d try to bully her out of full payment. Probably annoyed the wrong pimp. Christopher Stimple also had a hustler history-four busts. He was found in a rented room with a shotgun lying nearby, possible suicide, but since no one had ever seen him with any firearm and the position of the weapon wasn’t clear-cut, the coroner listed the COD as undetermined.”

“I found his obit online,” I said. “High school football hero, the family listed the COD as accidental.”

“Easier for them. In any event, I don’t see Patty blowing away some confused kid. Which brings me to Leland William Armbruster. White male, heroin addict, convicted felon, and generally annoying habitué of the Boulevard. His street name was Lowball. Forty-three years old when someone propelled three.22 slugs into his chest. Why am I not shocked to learn that one of his known associates was Lester Marion Jordan?”

“Interesting,” I said.

“Could turn out to be fascinating. Armbruster’s body was found on Las Palmas, a block west of Patty’s apartment and three blocks north.”

“Was Jordan a suspect in the shooting?”

“Nope, just a name that popped up in the file. The D on the case died a few years ago but he was thorough. Interviewed Jordan and several others in Lowball’s social circle. The clear picture is that when Lowball wasn’t high he had an abrasive personality. One informant described his voice as ‘cat claws on glass.’ Another opined that for Lowball heroin shoulda been court-ordered as a mood modifier. Another interesting tidbit is when the guy couldn’t score smack, he took anything. Including fortified wine, which turned him ugly.”

“Drunks used to knock on Patty’s door,” I said. “Tanya said shouting made most of them go away.”

“And maybe the ones who didn’t required more forceful handling?”

“According to Tanya, there was never a need to follow through.”

“According to Tanya,” he said. “A little kid sleeping in back. Alex, even if she tried to find out what was going on, Patty woulda shushed her and sent her to bed. Maybe Lowball and Patty got into a verbal altercation that heated up ugly. Here I was thinking no way would we find a damn thing and Armbruster pops up. His being a buddy of Jordan would explain Jordan getting antsy when we brought up Patty. It could also place him in the building. Maybe one of those times, Armbruster spots Patty, gets ideas. Comes back late at night, pounds the door. Patty yells for him to split, he does but he stews on it, decides his urges will not be denied. Next time she goes out, he’s lying in wait and, as they say, a confrontation ensues.”

“Be good to know if Patty had any registered guns.”

“Or unregistered. If she wanted serious protection on the streets she’d have to break the law. You know the deal with carry permits.”

“Movies stars, millionaires, and friends of the sheriff.”

“For sure not a working nurse with no juice. This was a woman who grew up on a ranch, Alex. Got abused by her father, struck out by herself, and made a point of having her shit together. Rick says she reminded him of a pioneer woman. I can see her packing. A.22 wouldn’t be too bulky for a woman’s handbag. Armbruster attacks her, she’s prepared. She mighta even felt good about it, at first.”

He turned silent. No sense elaborating.

He’d killed several men in Vietnam, a few more in the line of duty. I’d ended one life. Self-defense, no question about the necessity. But at odd times it could chew at you. Thinking about the children my psychopath would never sire.

“She carries it around all these years,” he went on. “Then she gets sick, her inhibitions drop, and she blurts it to Tanya. Anything that doesn’t fit?”