Jonathan Kellerman: Obsession

Kenney smiled. “Lots of that going around.”

As the cruiser drove away, Raul Biro finished with America and let her return to the mansion. His hair was combed back smoothly above an unlined face. No wrinkles in his blue suit, either. His white shirt was snowy, gold tie knotted in a perfect half Windsor.

Milo’s hand drifted to his own limp ribbon of polyester as Biro talked. “According to Ms. Frias-the maid-here’s what happened. Mrs. Bedard showed up this evening around seven p.m., unannounced. She insisted on coming in, which put Frias in a tough spot because Mr. Bedard’s instructions are that she never be allowed in.”

“Domestic bliss,” said Milo.

“Frias says Mrs. Bedard has tried it before, but always when Mr. Bedard is here. Mr. Bedard handles it, trying not to provoke confrontation. This time, when Frias tried to close the door, Mrs. Bedard shoved her aside so hard she nearly fell, forced her way in, and started looking around the house for Kyle and ‘that girl.’ Apparently Kyle spoke to her earlier in the day and told her about Tanya and she didn’t approve.”

“Cuing Mommy in,” said Milo. “Wonder why?”

Biro shrugged. “Anyway, Mrs. Bedard found Kyle and Tanya up in one of the bedrooms and went off on them. A big argument ensued, Kyle and Mrs. Bedard screaming, Mrs. Bedard throwing stuff, there was some breakage. At approximately seven fifteen, Kyle and Tanya left the house with Mrs. Bedard trying to restrain Kyle physically. She’s yanking on his jacket sleeve, he slips out of the jacket, this time it’s her turn to fall. She lands on her butt, screams for Kyle to help her up. Tanya starts to help but Mrs. Bedard screams at her-‘Not you !’ Kyle gets p.o.’d, leaves with Tanya.”

“They take the Mercedes?”

“Yup,” said Biro. “Haven’t been heard from since. Mrs. Bedard punched Kyle’s cell number a hundred times according to Frias. Finally, she gives up, goes to the wet bar, and gets to work on Mr. Bedard’s private stash of single-malt whiskey. By eight, she’s stone-blasted, starts dumping on the maid-how could she let this shameful thing happen, ‘that girl doesn’t belong,’ can’t Frias even be trusted with running a house, and so on. Apparently, some racial comments ensued and Frias went to her room and locked herself in. Mrs. Bedard goes after her, bangs the door, starts yelling, finally gives up and leaves. Then the doorbell rings at three a.m., Frias answers it because she’s worried it’s Kyle, he’s in some kind of trouble. Instead, it’s Mrs. Bedard again, even drunker, a taxi’s driving away and she’s got a suitcase, says she checked out of the Hilton, is moving in until order is restored. Frias tries to bar Bedard’s entry. A struggle ensues, and both women end up on their butts. Frias runs to her room again, dials 911. Wilshire cruiser shows up three minutes later, the front door’s wide open and Mrs. Bedard marches out and orders the patrol officers to arrest ‘that taco-bending greaser bitch, deport her back to taco-land.’”

Lights went off serially in the mansion. Biro studied the Tudor facade. “Maybe it really is true, money doesn’t bring happiness.” Small smile. “Though I don’t imagine being poor would be much comfort if you’re crazy to begin with.”

The three of us returned to our cars. Biro’s civilian drive was an eighties Datsun ZX, chocolate brown, custom wheels, immaculately maintained.

“What next, Lieutenant?”

“I’d better find the kids, get ’em safe until De Paine’s in custody.”

“What about Mrs. Bedard? Once she sobers up, she’ll be out.”

“I don’t see her as any big criminal risk but if someone loses the paperwork for a day or so, no one’s crying.”

Biro smiled.

“That could happen. What else do you want me to do?”

“Go home and get some sleep.”

No reaction.

Milo said, “You don’t believe in sleep?”

“Spent some time in Afghanistan, my whole bio clock got disrupted. Since then I’m okay with three, four hours.”

“Listening for snipers.”

“Among other things,” said Biro. “You ex-military?”

“Way before your time,” said Milo.

“Asia?” said Biro. “My dad did that. He drives a catering truck now. Tacos and all that good stuff.”

Biro drove off. As the sound of his souped-up engine died, silence returned to Hudson Avenue.

Milo said, “Maybe Iona’s ugly scene’s for the best. Romeo and Juliet get upset, hightail it for parts unknown.”

I said, “You see those two cruising to Vegas?”

“If I had a mama like that, I’d elope, change my area code, maybe my country code.”

“Nice fantasy, but way too adventurous.”

“Where do you see them heading?”

“Everything’s been taken from Tanya. Kyle was a bright spot but Iona just polluted that. Tanya’s a creature of habit. I can’t see her heading anywhere but the home Patty created for her.”

“Exactly what we told her to avoid?”

“She’s got a hypermature facade, Milo, but that’s just playing grown-up. Think ‘ You’re not the boss over me .’”

“Yeah, she has been disregarding our wisdom, hooking up with Kyle in the first place…Okay, let’s check, maybe you’re wrong.”

“I hope I am.”

“Takes a big man to say that.”

“Not in this case.”

Half a block from the duplex on Canfield, Milo crushed his unlit panatela in the Seville’s ashtray and cursed. “Right there in the open, might as well hang up a sign.”

The white Mercedes ragtop blocked the mouth of the driveway. Tanya’s van sat in front of it.

Lights off in the building.

Milo said, “Stupid smart kids. I should wake ’em up right now, give ’ em Uncle Milo ’s scariest speech.” He squinted at his Timex. “Couple of hours until daybreak-let’s keep to the same schedule. Seven a.m., we’re back here, in their faces big-time. Meanwhile, I’ll check ’round back, make sure everything’s kosher. So I can sleep.”

He got out of the car. “If I don’t-”

“Yeah, yeah the pencil box.”

“Would my Flash Gordon lunch pail be more enticing?”

“You had one of those?”

“Nope. Everyone else lies, why not me?”

I cut the motor and sat at the wheel, watched him stride up the driveway and slip in front of the van. His right hand tickled the holster under his jacket. Probably a smart move, keeping the weapon under wraps. At his level of fatigue, blowing off a toe by accident was a serious risk.

Seconds after he’d rounded the building, the gunshot sounded.

Not the face-slap of a handgun.

Full-bodied roar; a shotgun.

I jumped out, began running back, ready to protect my friend.

With what?

I stopped, groped for my phone. Punched 911 so hard my fingertips burned.

Blast number two, then snap-crackle of a small-arms fusillade, at this distance no more ominous than a frog song.

Ring ring ring ring ring ring-“911 Emergency-”

I fought not to lose patience with the mechanical, just-be-calm-sir approach of the operator.

She said, “Sir, you need to answer my questions.”

I raised my voice. Maybe “ Officer down !” broke through her training-manual straitjacket. Or she could hear the third shotgun blast answered by a full-on ballistic chorus. In what seemed like seconds, sirens bansheed from the south. Four sets of headlights.

When the quartet of Westside units roared up the duplex, I was out of the Seville, standing on the street side of the car, hands up, feeling cowardly, useless.

Listening to a new, sick silence.

Eight officers advanced, guns drawn. I spoke my piece and they left one officer behind to watch me.