Jonathan Kellerman - Obsession

“That’s our boy,” she said.

“Snappy dresser,” said the tech. “He walks around like that, who knows, you might even find him.”

She pointed a finger. “Go dig, mole.” The tech laughed and returned to the house. “Think you can convince the kid to leave town until we find Blaise?”

“She’s got nowhere else to go,” I said.

“No other family?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Maybe we can come up with a plan-well, look who’s back walking jauntily.”

Milo took several long steps, waved us over to the house. When we got there, he said, “Out back.”

One of the techs had spotted soil disturbance at the rear of the skimpy yard, what looked to be recent excavation along a shaded strip created by a mock-orange hedge. Except for the hedge, the property was mostly dry dirt, landscaping not Perry Moore’s thing.

The hand-dig took awhile, several sets of hands scooping inch by inch.

At three forty-seven a.m., Coroner’s Investigator Judy Sheinblum nudged something soft two feet below the surface. A minute later, she was staring into a face wrapped in clear plastic.

Caucasian male, midthirties, brown hair, orange soul patch. Black-green sludge around the lips and eye sockets advertised the early signs of decomposition. Some fluid condensation on the surface of the plastic, but no maggots; the sheeting was industrial-strength and bound with drapery cord. Cool dry nights would slow things down.

Everyone from Mission Road agreed this was days, not weeks.

Further search of the house produced a cheap blue nylon wallet under a pile of dirty underwear. The photo on Perry Moore’s lapsed driver’s license matched the corpse. Five years ago, Moore’s hair and patch had been tomato red.

The body was lifted out, examined. A protuberance on the left side of Moore’s forehead looked like blunt-force injury. Then the hole in the back of Moore’s skull put the lie to that.

“Bullet’s still in there,” said Judy Sheinblum. “No exit because not enough force.”

“Twenty-two,” said Milo.

“That’s what I’d double-down on.” Sheinblum returned to the corpse.

Other techs continued to search for additional earth movement, found nothing. Petra ordered a cadaver dog, anyway, learned it would take a couple of days.

We returned to her car. She leaned against the door and yawned. “Blaise is getting careless. Putting Moore in a shallow grave like that, leaving Moore’s and his own personal effects behind.”

I said, “He didn’t expect to be found.”

Milo said, “Fisk blew it for him. Speaking of which, Fisk had to know about Moore but he directed us right here.”

“He probably figured it was just a matter of time. If he ingratiated himself, things would go easier for him.”

“I fed that delusion,” said Petra. “The whole time we’re dancing around the murder thing, I’m pretending to buy his bull so he won’t lawyer up. Then I bring up breaking and entering again and he ends it.”

“Idiot focuses on the small stuff,” said Milo. “Knows we’re looking for him but visits Mary for a quick screw and walks right into it, anyway.”

“Thank God for criminal brain damage, huh? Maybe Blaise will screw up big-time, now that he’s sans entourage. Meanwhile, I’m going to sleep.” She opened her car door, rubbed her eyes. Stared at something over my shoulder.

Perry Moore’s body, wrapped in official crypt plastic, was being rolled into a white van. The sheath not that different from the one he’d been buried in.

“Kill you so I can get your house,” said Petra.

Milo said, “Location, location, location.”

I picked up the Seville at the Hollywood station and drove home with Milo sleeping in the passenger seat.

At Wilton and Melrose, eyes still closed, he said, “What’s the chance Blaise will pull a psycho and go for Tanya, as opposed to doing the rational thing and disappearing?”

“Don’t know.”

“There’s no logical reason for him to get rid of her to cover up old crimes. Perry Moore’s body is enough to put him away for life. He’s got to figure Fisk either got busted, or decided to bail on him. Either way, he’d know Fisk might talk about Lester and Moses Grant, tossing in a couple more life sentences, maybe even the needle.”

I said, “If I was out to make you feel better, I’d say sure. But cover-up’s only a small part of it. He’s been killing people since before he could shave and getting away with it. It’s always been about the thrill.”

He grunted, turned toward the window, lapsed into genuine slumber, and breathed through his mouth.

Five-minute nap; he jerked upright, rubbed his eyes. “You need to have a serious talk with Tanya, Alex. Kyle’s useless in a serious confrontation. Until Blaise is in custody, she needs to go somewhere.”

“Same thing Petra said.”

“Great minds,” he said. “When do you want to do it?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Let’s hit the mansion tomorrow before the two of them leave for school, say seven.”

“Okay,” I said. “Maybe you should do the scary talk.”

“Why?”

“More your line of work than mine.”

“Fine,” he said. “Make me the bad guy, I look like one anyway.”

Shifting position again, he slapped his pocket, muttering, “Damn thing’s on vibrator, feels like a ferret scurrying around in there,” yanked out his phone, barked, “ Sturgis …oh, hey…what…that’s all you know ? Okay, sure, sure, we’re close, anyway.”

Clicking off, he said, “That was Biro, guy doesn’t seem to need food or sleep or any other kind of human sustenance. Monitoring calls, one just came in from Hudson Avenue. Guess we hit the mansion, now.”

Iona Bedard, drunk, glassy-eyed, gunmetal sharkskin Prada suit twisted so severely that it corkscrewed her torso, screamed, “Get your greaser hands off me!”

The officer looking into the cruiser was a white man named Kenney, big and muscular and amused. His partner, a black woman named Doulton, stood on the front landing of the mansion listening as Detective Raul Biro spoke to America. The housekeeper wore a long pink robe, kept cinching the belt tighter and pointing at the cruiser that held Iona.

Amber flickers from a few neighboring houses, but most of Hudson Avenue remained dim and quiet but for the sound of Iona’s ire.

Lots of lights on in the Bedard mansion. The green Bentley occupied its usual place in the driveway. No sign of the white Mercedes. “Greaser!”

Iona slouched in the backseat of the police car, hands cuffed in front of her as a courtesy, black hair stiff and mussed, runny mascara evoking a grade D sad-clown painting. Skinny legs were spread apart, revealing a crescent of black panty under panty hose.

I could smell the booze from a yard away.

Iona pummeled the seat with cuffed fists. “Let me out let me out !”

Officer Kenney said, “You’ve been arrested for creating a public disturbance, ma’am. Now you need to calm down before you get yourself in any additional trouble.”

Iona’s mandible protruded. “That is my fucking house and you’re a fucking service employee! I order you to let me out !”

Kenney’s “Ma’am-” was met by a flood of invective. He shut the cruiser’s door.

A ratatattat sounded and the car’s window shuddered. Iona had sprawled on her back, raised her legs, and was bicycle-pumping the glass with stiletto heels.

Kenney said, “She doesn’t stop that, I’m going to have to hog-tie her.”

Milo said, “Be my guest.”

“She’s no one important?”

“In her own mind.”