Petra summed up what she knew about Grant. Saunders and Bouleau listened until she was through, then Saunders said, “This guy Fisk is the obvious choice, seeing as he’s already killed someone because of something the vic knew. Grant hung with these guys, probably also came to know too much. The only thing against that is Fisk strangled your vic.”
Petra said, “That went down in an apartment building full of people, so noise could’ve been a factor. And Grant was even bigger than Bowland, maybe too big to strangle.”
“So maybe he got shot somewhere secluded. No idea at all where he was living?”
“De Paine and Fisk were rooming together in the Hollywood Hills. No one saw Grant in the house, but it’s possible he was there. But even if he was, that was months ago.”
“Club dudes,” said Bouleau. “There’s lots of club activity on our turf. Abandoned buildings east of the Civic Center, it’s basically industrial, dead at night. Club dudes break in, bootleg electricity, run raves, peddle dope, take the money and run. Once the party’s over, it’s nice and quiet.”
Saunders said, “There’re a few places we can check out, see if any copious body fluids show up.”
Bouleau said, “That place on Santa Fe, for starts.”
Saunders nodded. “Used to be a textile warehouse, amazing what you find in these places.”
Petra said, “The one place the three of them were spotted together was the Rattlesnake.”
“That one’s long gone,” said Saunders. “Looks like we’re going to be up nights, Kev. You’re doing that, anyway, but my social life’s going to die.”
“You don’t deserve one,” said Bouleau. “Be like the rest of us and suffer.”
Saunders grinned. “Kev’s wife just had a baby.”
Milo said, “Congrats.”
Petra said, “That’s great, Kev. Boy or girl?”
Kevin Bouleau said, “Girl, Trina Louella. Best-looking baby in the known universe but she’s not into sleep.”
“If she can do thirty-six straight she can follow in her daddy’s footsteps.”
“Not going to happen,” said Bouleau. “Trina’s going to be a doctor.”
The banter died and the Central detectives began walking around the dump site, looking for casings that wouldn’t materialize. The LAPD Crime Scene van arrived and two techs got out carrying black cases.
As they began working, Petra corralled Raul Biro, asked him to watch Mary Whitbread’s duplex.
He said, “I can do that.”
“Are you free tonight?”
“I can be.”
She turned to us. “All this bloodshed just to squelch information? Whatever memory Patty resuscitated must’ve been major-league. I’m away from the idea that it was anything less than murder. So maybe Isaac didn’t pull anything up because it’s unreported, like you said. Which is not hopeful.”
She watched the techs crouch near the body. “Nothing for us to do here.”
We returned to our cars.
I said, “I know.22s are common but you might want to check the slugs in Grant against those taken from Leland Armbruster.”
Milo said, “De Paine shot Armbruster thirteen years ago and held on to his piece?”
“Thirteen years ago, De Paine was fifteen. If Armbruster was his first, the gun could be psychologically significant.”
“Sentimental value.”
Petra said, “Plus, he got away with it, so why ditch a lucky weapon? I agree, it’s worth a try. Grant’s autopsy won’t be prioritized because six bullet holes is no whodunit. But let me go back to talk to Saunders and Bouleau and see if they can push a little. Once the slugs are fished out, I’ll coordinate the ballistics. Raul, stick with me and let’s talk about tonight. See you later, guys.”
I got onto the 110 and sped south.
Milo said, “You can slow down now.”
I said, “I’m heading over to Tanya’s. Two people are dead in order to keep a secret. She’s outside the loop but De Paine and Fisk have no way of knowing that.”
“Did you talk to her about finding temporary lodgings?”
“Not yet.”
“Timing wasn’t right?”
“I should’ve made it right. Do me a favor and call her now.”
He tried her landline and her cell. Voice mail on both. “She’s probably studying.”
“Hope so.”
“One thing in her favor, Alex: With De Paine and Fisk doing the Osama bit, maybe they won’t risk coming out in the open.”
“They weren’t too scared to shoot Grant. Want me to drop you at your car or go straight to her place?”
“Straight’s always best,” he said. “So to speak.”
CHAPTER 30
No van in Tanya’s driveway. Lights ambered the living room drapes. The outdoor spots seemed to shine brighter and I said so.
Milo said, “She probably upped the wattage. Good girl, she’s paying attention. She’s likely still on campus, cramming for a test or something. But let me check the premises to make you feel better.”
As he started to get out, a car across the street pulled away and drove toward Pico.
White Mercedes convertible. Classic model, conspicuous in this middle-class neighborhood.
I said, “Get back in.”
Milo said, “What-”
“That Benz heading north. We’ve seen it before.”
The convertible made a rolling stop and continued east on Pico without signaling. Moderate traffic made the tail easy. At La Cienega, the Mercedes hooked a left, picked up speed, sailed past La Cienega Park and the old Restaurant Row before pausing for a light at San Vicente. Then on to Third Street and a right turn.
Short ride past newer cafés and masses of valet-parked vehicles, then south on Orlando.
Milo said, “Hang at the corner.”
We watched the convertible cover a few blocks then turn left onto Fourth Street. Again, no signal.
“At the least I can get him for traffic violations. Switch off your lights and move up a bit.”
I pulled over just short of Orlando and Fourth and we watched as the Mercedes cruised up the block and paused in front of Mary Whitbread’s duplex.
Sitting there, in the middle of the street. A full minute passed before the brake lights went off.
Milo said, “He’s heading back to San Vicente, go, Alex.”
The Benz sped east on Beverly. I stayed three car lengths behind, followed the sleek white chassis through the Fairfax district and into Hancock Park.
When the Benz turned onto Hudson Avenue, Milo had me hang back again. “Let’s make sure any surprises are the ones we dish out.”
The Benz turned exactly where we knew it would.
I raced onto Hudson, pulled to the east side of the street, positioned the Seville the wrong way, directly in front of the Bedard mansion.
The white Mercedes was behind the green Bentley. Lights off, no engine sound. A weathered plastic rear window killed any view of the occupants.
No one exited the vehicle.
Milo pulled his little Maglite from a jacket pocket, unholstered his gun, and got out. Standing just behind the Benz, he aimed a sharp, bright beam through the plastic.
“Police! Driver, open the door slowly.”
Nothing.
“Do it. Driver out.” His rumble echoed amid the silent elegance. Jarring, but nary a light went on in the neighboring houses. People slept well on Hudson Avenue. Or pretended to.
“Out.”
The driver’s door opened partially. “Lieutenant? It’s me. Kyle.”
“Get out of the car, Kyle.”
“I-this is my own house.”
“Do it. Now.”
A voice from the passenger seat said, “This is absur-”
“Quiet, passenger. Kyle, out.”
The door swung wider and Kyle Bedard stepped out squinting and blinking. He had on a fuzzy gray sweatshirt over olive cargo pants and the same yellow running shoes. The tips of his hair glinted in the flashlight beam like Fourth of July sparklers.