She shook her head.
Kyle said, “You’re concentrating on Fourth because Pete lived there.”
“Yes.”
“You might want to consider a computerized database, some kind of algorithm that could classify crimes based on multifactorial indexes. Give me access to the data and I could set it up reasonably quickly.”
“We’ve got that.”
“Oh,” he said. “And still nothing?”
“Afraid not.”
“So Pete got away with something…why do you think you can get him now?”
“We’re drawing the net tighter,” I said. “It’s just a matter of time.”
“Well,” he said, “until that bright shiny day, Tanya stays with me.”
Not asking, telling.
I said, “Sounds like a plan.”
“It’s a great plan. I’ve also got weapons. Grandpa had a huge gun collection, there’s a special room in the basement for them.”
“Do you shoot?” I said.
“No, but how hard can it be?”
Tanya said, “There are seven bedrooms, I’ll have my own space.” Blushing.
Like a chameleon on a leaf, Kyle’s face soaked up her color. “She’ll be safe, I’ll see to it.”
I said, “Tanya, do your best to be reachable. And when you’re on campus, be especially careful.”
Kyle cleared his throat. “As in walking to and from the library.”
Tanya lifted her hand from his knee. “We’ve been through that. I need to work.”
“I don’t see why you can’t take a temporary leave-”
“Kyle-”
“-fine, fine. Just be careful.”
“I always am.”
He grazed the ends of her hair with his fingers. “Sorry. I don’t mean to patronize.”
She patted his thigh.
He sighed.
I said, “Do you remember what De Paine and Fisk look like?”
Reaching into her book bag, she withdrew a thin, glossy magazine. National Insider. Garish colors, suggestive headlines, the cover attraction a close-up of a starlet’s derriere insured for ten million bucks. Above the prized mounds, the actress looked over her shoulder and come-hithered the camera.
A yellow Post-it tagged a page toward the rear. Tanya flipped.
Group shots taken at various night spots in L.A. and New York, accompanied by snarky captions.
Tanya jabbed a photo in the lower left corner. Late-night party at the Roxbury. The paparazzi targets were a washed-up rock drummer and the pneumatic slattern with whom he’d sired six kids; the supporting players, a coke-eyed clothing designer and a NASCAR driver who should’ve known better.
Behind that quartet, just right of the designer’s rusty dreadlocks, was a thin, boyish face. Eye-shadowed and mascaraed.
Black hair spiked with yellow, elfin grin, chipmunk teeth. Hint of scarlet, gold-collared tunic.
Tension around the neck as Pete Whitbread aka Blaise De Paine strained to get in the picture. He’d succeeded but hadn’t made the caption.
I said, “This was in the pile you took from the hospital?”
Tanya nodded. “Mommy must’ve seen it.” Pointing to a sharp white diagonal crease, oily remnants of fingerprint. “I decided to throw them out, was carrying a stack out to the garbage when I broke down and started crying on the back steps. All of a sudden, I was going through them. This page had been folded, it caught my attention.”
I looked at the picture again.
She said, “Seeing him like that-knowing what a terrible person he was and here he was partying with celebrities. That’s what made her tell me. I’m certain she was trying to protect me.”
I said, “This may have been the tipping point but De Paine was already on her mind.” I told her about Moses Grant’s E.R. visit.
“You think he threatened her?” said Tanya.
“Subtly or otherwise. Maybe something to do with you.”
Tears filled her eyes. “She must’ve been so worried. And then she got sick and couldn’t do anything about it. And then she saw this. Poor Mommy.”
She wept. Kyle held her.
When the tears stopped, he said, “My question, honey, is why didn’t she just come out and warn you to watch out for De Paine?”
“Maybe she planned to, then she…”
More crying. “She did what she could to protect me, Kyle.”
“I know, I know.”
I said, “I think she wasn’t satisfied with warning you, Tanya. If De Paine threatened you, she wanted him caught and directed you to people who could pull that off.”
“If that’s what she intended,” said Kyle, “it was borderline brilliant.”
Tanya didn’t answer.
He said, “Totally brilliant,” took her hand, laced his fingers through hers.
She didn’t move.
Kyle said, “Protecting you gave her meaning, honey. And she succeeded. You’ve got a whole army behind you.”
And you’d like to be the general.
CHAPTER 35
Robin fed arroz con pollo to Blanche. “And here I was all prepared to nurture a member of my own species. I just finished setting up the guest room.”
I said, “Sorry. The two of them came up with their own plan.”
“This boy can be trusted?”
“He seems madly in love with her.”
“Seems?”
“He loves her.”
“Listen to me,” she said. “I’ve never met the girl and I’m meddling.”
The reflexive response never made it out of my mouth: maternal instinct.
Robin and I used to talk about having children. Years ago, after our first breakup, she got pregnant by a man she barely liked and terminated at six weeks. Since then, the topic hadn’t come up.
During that time I’d healed hundreds of other people’s children, considered the possibility that I might never be a father. Sometimes I was able to appreciate the irony. When that didn’t work I busied myself with the pathologies of strangers.
Blanche panted for more rice and Robin obliged. When the next gulp was followed by begging, she said, “We don’t want to stress your tummy, cutie,” and began clearing the dishes. Standing at the sink, she said, “Her staying with him is probably for the best. We’d do our best to be cool hosts but being under our roof would’ve stifled her.”
I got up and placed my hands on her shoulders.
She said, “Let’s take a drive.”
When we have nowhere to go, we usually end up somewhere on Pacific Coast Highway. This time, Robin said, “How about bright lights, big quasi-city?”
I drove Sunset east through Hollywood and the Los Feliz district, crossed into Silver Lake where she’d heard about a new jazz club.
The Gas Station turned out to be a former Union 76 outlet that still sported blue paint and smelled of motor oil. Inside were antique gravity pumps, mismatched plastic chairs and tables, photo blowups of musical geniuses.
Five other customers in a room that held forty. We sat close to the stage, under the piercing glare of Miles Davis.
A quartet of guys in their sixties was pushing lightweight bebop. Robin had worked on the guitarist’s Gibson archtop and he acknowledged her with a smile and a spirited solo on Monk’s “Well You Needn’t.” When the set was over, he and the drummer sat down with us and made thin, alcoholic conversation. Somewhere along the line, Robin worked in the topic of Blaise De Paine. Neither of the musicians had heard of him. When Robin told them about his mixes, they cursed viciously, apologized, and went out for air.
We stuck around through the next set, made it home by eleven forty-five, put on pajamas, fell asleep holding hands.
Just after three a.m., I was sitting up in bed, wrenched awake by a pounding heart and throbbing temples. Gnawing pain below my rib cage felt like mice clawing my diaphragm. I deep-breathed some of that away.
Then the tape loop began:
Was Tanya really safe with Kyle?