“How?”
“Hired him to write some documents, didn’t pay.”
“The lawyer’s name, please.”
“Oy,” said Benezra. “This is getting complicated. Okay, why not, I’m finished with him. Marvin Wallace, Roxbury and Wilshire.”
Benezra took a last drag of his cigarette, pinched it out, flicked it across the lot. “Always excuses for not doing the job, Fortuno. Finally he’s got a good one.”
“What’s that?” said Petra.
“The one you guys gave him. You put him in jail.”
CHAPTER 27
We left Benezra worshipping his view and descended Oriole Drive.
Petra phoned Captain Stuart Bishop and filled him in, then clicked off. “He’ll make calls, but wants a meeting.”
“When?” said Milo.
“As soon as we get back to Hollywood.”
“We?”
“You and me, Stu’s big on interdivisional communication.” She turned to me: “Your attendance is optional but certainly welcome. He said to thank you for helping his nephew.”
Last year the preschool-aged son of Bishop’s younger sister had been frightened by the evening news. Well-adjusted boy; a few sessions had been enough.
Confidentiality meant all I could do was smile.
Petra smiled back. “I thought you might say that.”
The captain’s office at Hollywood Division was a spare, white corner space livened by school art created by the six towheaded Bishop kids and masses of family photos. A white BYU Cougars mug shared a credenza with a case of Trader Joe’s bottled water. A window cracked two inches blew in air and heat and street noise.
Stu was a slim, closely shaven man around forty with searching gold eyes and wavy blond hair gone gray at the temples. He wore braided leather suspenders over a tapered pink shirt, a turquoise silk tie, glen plaid suit pants, glossy wingtips. A matching suit jacket hung on a bentwood rack. He reached for a water, offered us our own bottles. Milo accepted.
The son of an affluent Flintridge Mormon family, Stu had left the department while still a D III, cutting short a fast-track career to care for a wife with cancer. Kathy Bishop recovered but Stu stayed with corporate security work and occasional film consulting until he was wooed back as a captain by the new chief.
The new chief was a new golf buddy of Stu’s ophthalmologist father but few people carped. The amoral misanthrope Stu replaced had been shot to death by a jealous wife in a parking garage; three cops had attended the funeral, all out of obligation. Combine that with Stu’s street experience, his rep for backing up his colleagues, and an ability to work the brass without wholesaling his soul, and the honeymoon seemed durable.
As Stu’s former junior partner, Petra was in good shape for a promotion into administration. So far, she was sticking with detective work.
He filled his mug with water, sipped, and leaned back in his chair. “Your timing couldn’t be better, in terms of leaning on Fortuno. He’s become a person of exceptional interest to the federal government and no one wants a trivial matter like murder to get in the way. We’re not talking public knowledge but I called San Luis Obispo where he’s officially incarcerated, found out he was picked up a month ago by FBI agents and a U.S. Attorney and transferred to the downtown detention center. When I called there, I got a bunch of silence then a referral to the Feebie office at the Federal Building. A special agent I know played coy but finally let on that Fortuno’s been spending the month in a hotel at taxpayer expense.”
Milo said, “Spilling big-time.”
“I can only imagine.”
Petra said, “Thought Fortuno was into all that code of silence stuff.”
Milo said, “A little cell time can adjust your attitude.”
“You bet,” said Stu. “Assistant warden at San Luis said he bumped up against some genuine bad guys.”
Petra said, “I thought San Luis was a country club.”
“They’ve got tennis courts and dorm rooms, but it’s still prison. The idiots who kidnapped the Chowchilla school bus are up there and so’s Charleton Jennings.”
Milo said, “Cop killers get to play tennis?”
“They do after they work their way through the system for thirty years.”
Cop silence, all around.
Petra said, “Did you get any idea about who Fortuno’s going to spill on?”
“I got off-the-record semi-hints,” said Stu. “If my religion allowed me to bet, my wager would be on master manipulators of the defense attorney and showbiz honcho species.”
Milo whistled. “Straight to the top of the food chain.”
Stu said, “It’s definitely going to get interesting. Fortuno’s babysitters aren’t pleased about sharing him with us but they can’t risk us derailing them by leaking to the press. The deal is you can see him tonight at seven, one hour, no extensions. I put all three of your names down, figuring you might want Dr. D to analyze the guy.”
I said, “A hotel means a couch, why not.”
Petra said, “Which hotel?”
“Don’t know yet. Someone will call me at six and I’ll call you.”
She waved her hands. “Ooh, high intrigue.”
Stu said, “Helps federal types forget that mostly what they do is push paper.” Passing the flat of his hand over his own clean desk, he grinned. “As opposed to.”
Petra said, “Anytime you miss the gore.”
“Be careful what you ask for.” Stu stood, shrugged into his suit jacket. Smooth drape. “Got a budget meeting downtown. Talk to you at six, Petra. Good to see you guys.”
He held the door for us. As I passed through, he said, “I know you can’t say anything, but thanks again for Chad.”
Loews Beverly Hills was the usual case of Westside false advertising, located on Pico and Beverwil, half a mile south of the glitzy city. We took separate cars, parked with the valet, met in the lobby.
The same earth tones we’d seen at the Hilton.
Petra’s artist eyes picked up on it right away. “Welcome to Beige World, check your imagination at the door.”
No one paid us any attention as we crossed to the elevators. No sign of any special security, and when we were disgorged on the eleventh floor, the corridor was clear.
Petra’s knock on the door of Suite 1112 was met by silence. Then, padded footsteps. A chain held the door less than an inch ajar. Barely wide enough to see the expanding pupil of a light brown eye.
“I.D.,” said a boyish voice.
Petra showed her badge.
“Everyone’s.”
Milo flashed his credentials. My snap-on badge produced a “What’s that?” but no comment on the expiration date.
“Dr. Delaware is our behavioral consultant,” said Petra.
“This isn’t a profile case,” said the voice.
Another voice, from behind, shouted, “Let ’em in, I’m lonely.”
The door slammed shut. Muffled voices rose in pitch, then silenced.
We stood in the hall.
Milo said, “Shoulda brought my Aston Martin with the ejection seat, shot myself right through the goddamn win-”
The door opened wide. A young sandy-haired man in a gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie said, “Special Agent Wesley Wanamaker.” His face matched the boyish voice. He took another look at our I.D.’s, finally stepped back.
Two-bedroom suite, with nary a hue brighter than ecru. Ambiguous art dotted easy-care walls. Blackout drapes killed an eastern view Avi Benezra would’ve appreciated. The air was saturated with pizza and sweat. A greasy Domino box sat on an end table.
A pale, white-haired man waved from a stiff beige couch in the center of the living room. Sixty or so, narrow shoulders, widow’s hump bristling the hairs on the back of his neck. He wore a black cashmere V-neck, cream slacks that looked new, black Gucci loafers without socks. In his hand was a glass of something orange. As we approached, he winked at Petra and the same voice that had urged our admission said, “Long time, guys. And gal.”