“Lovely,” he said, cupping one ear with his free hand. “Is that a Greek chorus I hear in the background?”
CHAPTER 39
For the next three days, Raul Biro followed Mary Whitbread as she shopped. Her pattern was to buy armloads of designer clothing, return everything the next day, run up another charge on her platinum Amex.
Petra got hold of charge account records and Southwest Airlines Visa bills. Mary paid her bills on time, she hadn’t cashed in on the mileage, and nothing in a year’s worth of purchases tipped off the whereabouts of her son or Robert Fisk.
The cellular number assumed to be Pete Whitbread’s remained inactive until four p.m. on the third day, when Mary called it. Retracing the path of the towers revealed southward movement originating east of the downtown Civic Center. When the conversation ended, the recipient was somewhere north of Chinatown.
Minutes from the 110 ramp where Moses Grant’s body had been dumped.
That sent Dave Saunders and Kevin Bouleau back to the abandoned auto shop where Grant had been shot. Recanvassing produced three more transients claiming to have seen a black Hummer cruising the industrial streets east of Los Angeles Street late at night. No details about the driver, passengers, or destination. Saunders drove to the dump site and canvassed Chinatown.
Milo stayed at home, playing with databases. Even Face of America produced nothing on Pete Whitbread/Blaise De Paine or Robert Fisk. Neither had filed any Social Security claims or paid income tax. Aerial photos of Mary Whitbread’s property revealed no recent disturbances. A records clerk at the assessor’s office opined that a sonar scan might be helpful. When Milo asked where to go for that, the clerk said, “Saw it on Forensics File, or something.”
I phoned Tanya twice, was reassured both times that she was doing great, had a couple of big exams she needed to concentrate on. She sounded tired and faded, but maybe my opinion had been colored by Kyle’s account of insomnia and compulsive routines.
Kyle didn’t try to contact me again.
With nothing to do, I picked up two more consults from family court and prepared for another nosedive into the cesspool known as child custody conflict.
At nine p.m., Robin was reading in bed. I’d just finished an evening meeting with a man who hated his ex-wife so much that mention of her name caused his eyes to bulge and his neck veins to throb. She’d sat in the same chair earlier that day; her pet name for him was “Fucking Asshole.” They had two kids who wet the bed and were failing in school. Both parents claimed they were determined to do “what’s best for Amy and Whitley.”
As the door closed on the husband, I headed to the dining room liquor cabinet, figuring this was an occasion to break open an old gift bottle of Chivas Century.
The phone rang. Milo’s voice was tight. “Robert Fisk just showed up at Mary’s. Petra called for the flak-jacket squad. I’m on my way, would invite you to attend but with all that artillery-”
“Figure out a way,” I said.
“To what?”
“Let them know I’m persona grata.”
The SWAT team had tucked its vehicles around the corner.
Keeping as low a profile as possible, given a squadron of sharp-jawed men in full assault regalia. The night nourished concealment, but the air was charged.
The team leader was a tall, rangy lieutenant named A. M. Holzman with a gray brush cut and mustache, and mirror-shard eyes one shade lighter. Milo called him Allen and Holzman acknowledged him with a brief smile. Recognition didn’t mean small talk. Everyone was focused on Mary Whitbread’s duplex, where Robert Fisk had entered thirty-three minutes ago.
Fisk had approached on foot, walking east from La Cienega, dressed in a black shirt, matching sweatpants, and sandals. As he knocked on the door, he’d stepped under the porch light. Raul Biro had seen his face clearly and called for backup.
Now Biro went over it for Holzman. “Guy was empty-handed, looked relaxed. I got a close enough look at his clothes to tell you there was definitely no firearm. As far as a knife, I can’t say for sure, but she opened the door and let him in, no resistance.”
Allen Holzman said, “He knocks, entrez-vous?”
“You got it, Lieutenant.”
Petra said, “We’re sure she’s aware of at least some of her son’s crimes. At the very least, accessory after the fact.”
Holzman said, “So maybe this guy Fisk was sent by the son to get money, provisions, whatever.”
“That would make sense.”
“Or,” said Holzman, “he got in using guile and did something bad to Mommy. We’re talking a known associate of someone who already killed his own daddy.”
He smiled. “Probably going to ask for clemency ’cause he’s an orphan.”
Petra: “If that’s the case, we’re too late, aren’t we?”
“Unless he’s in the process of torturing her.”
Milo said, “You’re a font of good cheer, Al.”
“This is happy times compared to the anti-terrorism squad.” To Petra: “You know Eric Stahl, right?”
Petra smiled. “A bit.”
“I didn’t make the trip to Tel Aviv where he stopped that suicide asshole, which is a shame, I’ve got cousins in Jerusalem. But we were together in Jakarta, went to Bali, saw the damage. Anyway, enough b.s., what’s your wish-list?”
“In a perfect world,” said Petra, “you go in and get them both out alive.”
“In a perfect world, I’m squeezing blood out of Osama’s liver while he sits in a tub of acid and watches…okay, let’s see if we can get the rear neighbors to allow us visual access to the back of the place. Depending on what we see or hear, we’ll figure out a plan. I don’t see any time exigency here. If she’s alive, they’re pals. If she’s not, it’s time for the mop-and-tweezers squad.”
Petra said, “The neighbor on top is a doctor named Stark, owns the building and he’s already cooperated.”
“Excellent,” said Holzman. “Community involvement and all, huh, Milo? Remember those P. C. seminars we had to do?”
Milo nodded.
“Total horseshit, this is better,” said Holzman. “Okay, find Dr. Stark and involve him some more.”
Byron Stark looked on as a laser scope aimed from his bedroom revealed that the rear door to Mary Whitbread’s ground-floor unit had been left ajar.
An inch.
Allen Holzman said, “If she’s in the shower, doesn’t hear the front door, he can let himself in? That make sense, Milo?”
“As good a theory as any, Al.”
“Or she’s just careless.”
Stark said, “She leaves it open all the time.”
Blushing.
Holzman said, “Guess we’ve got a relaxed lady. Okay, let’s go in fast.”
No crash-bang like on TV. The SWAT team entered silently and took control of the apartment within seconds.
Mary Whitbread and Robert Fisk were sleeping in bed. A fake fireplace glowed orange, a tape loop simulated crackling flames. New-age music piped in through wall speakers added another layer of mellow. A tray on the floor beside Mary’s side of the bed held honey-macadamia muffins, Godiva chocolates, sliced kiwi, champagne flutes filled with what turned out to be organic mango-lychee nectar.
Whitbread and Fisk were naked and entwined. By the time they reached full awareness, both had been flipped on their bellies and cuffed.
Mary Whitbread screamed, then whimpered, then started to hyperventilate. Fisk thrashed like a fresh-caught cod on a slimy deck. The prod of a rifle barrel stopped all that.
“Silicone Tits and Mr. Macho Tattoo Kickboxer,” one of the SWAT guys reminisced as the squad peeled off armor and drank Gatorade.
“Silicone Tits and Thimble-Weenie,” said another.
A third chimed in: “Miniature Vienna sausage dehydrated, compressed, and extruded through a pinhole. No excuses, dude, the room was warm.”