He said, “Can you please get that out of my eyes?”
Milo lowered the light.
“See, Lieutenant, it really is me. No one else wears shoes this ugly.”
Milo said, “I’m going to frisk you, son. Turn around.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Anything but.” He patted Kyle down, had him sit on the curb. “You next, passenger.”
The voice from the car said, “I don’t believe this.”
Kyle rubbed his eyes. Saw me and smiled. “In a surreal, kind of Jean-Luc Godard way, this is cool.”
The passenger laughed.
“Out!”
Kyle jumped.
The passenger said, “My name’s not Mohammed so why go to all the trouble?”
“For laughs,” said Milo. “Careless people have been known to get shot.”
“What’s funny about that?”
“Exactly.”
Kyle said, “That’s-”
“Okay, okay,” said the passenger. “I’m getting out. Don’t shoot me for God’s sake.”
The man who emerged was taller than Kyle and fifty pounds heavier, with a commodious paunch. Late fifties, deep tan, clean dome. The remaining hair was dark and long enough to collect in a ponytail that drooped past his shoulder blades. Sideburns fuller than Milo’s traveled toward a soft jawline. John Lennon glasses rode a beak nose. Both his chins were strong.
The overall image was Ben Franklin in Italian duds. A beautifully styled cream cashmere blazer was custom-tailored for a slimmer body. Chocolate slacks broke perfectly over caramel mesh loafers. The open collar of an electric-blue silk shirt was topped by a yellow-and-azure ascot. A wine-colored handkerchief tumbled from his breast pocket. I counted six gold rings on two hands, lots of glimmer.
A smile rich with scorn danced across thin lips. “Do I put my hands up? Say ‘Uncle’? Recite the Pledge of Allegiance?”
“Just stand there and relax, sir.”
“Due-diligence time, Lieutenant whatever-your-name-is. There’s a fifteen-gizmo Swiss Army knife in my right front trouser pocket, don’t nick yourself on the can opener. The only other potentially dangerous object on my person is my billfold. But seeing as there are no females in sight, I wouldn’t worry.”
His smile widened as Milo did the pat. “As long as we’re tangoing, I might as well introduce myself. Myron Bedard.”
Kyle said, “This is kind of cool, don’t you think, Dad?”
Myron Bedard laughed. “Son, I guess I’ll need some time to see it that way.”
When Milo finished, he apologized to Myron and allowed Kyle to get up from the curb.
Kyle brushed off the seat of his pants and stood next to his father. “Think any neighbors saw this, Dad?”
“If they did,” said Myron Bedard, “to hell with them.” To Milo: “Was that really necessary?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Bedard removed his glasses and wiped them with a corner of cashmere. “Doing your job…no hard feelings. Actually I don’t get it. I mean I see your point about being cautious for your personal safety, but Kyle said you know him, so why the hell go through that?”
“I’ve met Kyle once, Mr. Bedard. Don’t know him well enough to be sure of anything.”
“Oh, that’s-”
“We spotted you watching Tanya Bigelow’s duplex.”
“Spotted? We were just…” Sidelong glance at his son.
Kyle kept silent.
Milo said, “You were just what?”
Kyle looked down.
Myron Bedard said, “My son has a crush on the girl-is that okay to say, Kyle?”
Kyle cursed under his breath. “Guess it is now.”
“He’s concerned about her, wants to make sure she’s okay, that’s all. To show you the extent of his devotion, he picked me up from the airport and rather than head straight home, insisted we-”
“Dad!”
“These are the police, son. No sense dissembling.”
Kyle faced us. “It was a dorky thing to do, I’m sorry.”
Milo said, “Why are you worried about Tanya, son?”
Myron Bedard said, “I pay his tuition so only I get to call him that.” Slapping Kyle’s back. “Just kidding, go on, Lieutenant-I didn’t catch your last name…”
“Sturgis.”
Bedard extended his hand. He and Milo shook.
“Sturgis,” he said, “as in the big Harley meet. Ever been there, Lieutenant?”
“Nope.”
“You should, it’s a blast. I’ve made it twelve years in a row. I alternate between a 95 Fatboy and a 2004 Speedster 883 Custom XL. There’s absolutely nothing like the Black Mountains in August, you make a pit stop in Keystone, near Mount Rushmore. There’s some serious partying going on.” He nudged Kyle. “Next year, you’ve got to make good on that promise and go with me, son.”
Kyle didn’t answer.
“Noncommittal,” said Myron Bedard. “He reverts to that when I’m being a pain in the ass. You should go, too, Lieutenant. I assume you bike.”
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t all cops bike?”
“Not this one.”
“Maybe it’s the highway patrol I’m thinking of. What’s Erik Estrada doing nowadays?”
Milo turned to Kyle. “Why are you worried about Tanya?”
“For the same reasons you are.”
“Such as?”
“Such as Uncle Lester being murdered right after you talk to him about Tanya’s mom. Such as Tanya living near Mary and Pete, such as the relationship between Mary and Uncle Lester.”
“Pete as in Peterson Whitbread.”
“He hated to be called that.”
“You know him.”
“We weren’t friends.”
“Same question,” said Milo.
“I saw him from time to time.”
“How long ago?”
“When we were kids.”
“How’d that happen to be?”
Myron Bedard stepped in front of his son. “Could we continue this discussion inside, please? I don’t want to be a spectacle.”
CHAPTER 31
Bedard unlocked the mansion and disabled the alarm. “Entrez-vous.”
We followed him through the limestone marble hall, past the George Washington look-alike and the library where Kyle had set up his research post. The clutter had grown; more crumpled paper than hardwood floor.
Myron stopped to take in the mess.
“I know, Dad.”
“Eventually you will have to organize, Kyle.”
“I’m organized cognitively.”
“Different rules for geniuses?” Clapping his son’s shoulder again.
Kyle winced. Myron marched ahead of him, ponytail swinging, switching on lights, pausing to scan a stack of mail on an onyx table and slapping it back down.
An arched limestone passage took us to a vast, hexagonal room backed by the glass doors that showcased subtly lit formal gardens. The trees where Tanya remembered hiding out were Chinese elms and sycamores, manicured but lush. A fifty-foot swimming pool, old enough to retain a diving board, reflected the waffled contours of a lattice gazebo. A wet bar on the west end of the room sported enough bottles to stock a cruise ship.
Myron Bedard went straight for the bar, pausing to fool with more lamps-on, off, dim, dimmer, brighter. Settling for a heavy orange ambience, he selected a crystal Old-Fashioned glass, held it up, and squinted.
Kyle had lingered near the entrance to the room, staring at his shoes. The first time I’d seen him he’d looked like a squatter. Two days of beard growth fed the image. Given the opulence, I wasn’t sure Milo and I fit in much better.
The room was bigger than most homes, walled with Shantung silk the crimson of venous blood. The ceiling was a domed riot of plaster curlicues set off by yards of crown molding. Fruitwood stands hosted Chinese horses and camels and bewildered-looking deities, all glazed in the same green and gold. Gilded cases of glass and porcelain and silver boasted of exuberant acquisition.