“What happened?”
“What- oh the crash? Pointless, absolutely pointless, but do kids listen? They denied it, but I’m sure drinking had something to do with it.”
“They?”
“The boy who was driving- his insurance company. They wanted to reduce their liability. Obviously. A kid from Whittier, Gavin knew him from school. He was killed, so we couldn’t very well harass his parents, but the time it took the insurance company to compensate us for Gavin’s medical was- you don’t need to hear this.”
She grabbed a tissue and wiped her eyes.
“What exactly happened, Mrs. Quick?”
“What happened? Six of them piled into a stupid little Toyota and were speeding way too fast on Pacific Coast Highway. They’d been to a concert in Ventura and were heading back to L.A. The driver- the boy who died, Lance Hernandez- missed a turn and plowed right into the mountainside. He and the front-seat passenger were killed instantly. The two boys in the back next to Gavin were only injured slightly. Gav was sandwiched between them; he was the skinniest, so he got the middle spot, and there was no seat belt. The Highway Patrol told us it was lucky for him he was squished so tight between them because that prevented him from flying. As is, he was thrown forward and the front of his head hit the back of the driver’s seat. His shoulder was wrenched, and some small bones in his feet broke when they were bent back. The funny thing is, there was no blood, no bruising, just the smallest bump on his forehead. He wasn’t in a coma or anything, but they did tell us he’d suffered a severe concussion. He had a memory loss that was pretty bad for a few days, it really took weeks for his head to clear fully. Other than that, when the bump went down, there was nothing you could see from the outside. But I’m his mother, I knew he was different.”
“Different how, Mrs. Quick?”
“Quieter- does it matter? What does it have to do with this?”
“Collecting background, ma’am.”
“Well, I don’t see the point of it. First you come in here and tear my life to shreds, then you- I’m sorry, I’m just taking it out on you rather than kill myself.” Big smile. “First my baby gets thrown against a seat, now you’re telling me he was shot by some maniac- where did it happen?”
“Off of Mulholland Drive, north of Beverly Glen.”
“All the way up there? Well, I wouldn’t know what he’d be doing there.” She looked at us with newfound skepticism, as if hoping we were wrong about everything.
“He was parked in his car with a young woman.”
“A young-” Sheila Quick’s hand wadded the tissue. “Blond, good figure, pretty?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Kayla,” she said. “Oh my God, Gavin and Kayla, why didn’t you tell me it was both of them- now I have to tell Paula and Stan- oh God how am I going to-”
“Kayla was Gavin’s girlfriend?”
“Is- was. I don’t know, they were something.” Sheila Quick placed the tissue on the sofa cushion and sat immobile. The crushed paper began expanding, as if by its own volition, and she stared at it.
“Mrs. Quick?” said Milo.
“Gavin and Kayla were off and on,” she said. “They knew each other from Beverly High. After the accident, when Gavin…” She shook her head. “I can’t tell her parents, I’m sorry- will you tell them?”
“Of course. What’s Kayla’s last name and where do her folks live?”
“You can use my kitchen phone. I’m sure they’re up, at least Stan is. He’s a night person. He’s a musician, composes commercials, movie scores. He’s very successful. They live up in the flats.”
“The last name, ma’am?”
“Bartell. Used to be Bartelli or something Italian like that. Kayla’s a blondie, but she’s Italian. Must be northern Italian. At least on Stan’s side, I don’t know what Paula is. Do you think I should call my husband in Atlanta? It’s really late there, and I’m sure he’s had a busy day.”
Milo asked a few more questions, learned nothing, got her to sip from one of the mugs of instant coffee, found out the name of her family physician, Barry Silver, and woke him up. The doctor lived in Beverly Hills and said he’d be over soon.
Milo asked to see Gavin’s room and Sheila Quick took us up a maroon plush-carpeted staircase, flung the door open, flicked a light switch. The room was generous and painted pale blue and stank of body odor and rot. A queen-sized bed was unmade, rumpled clothes were piled on the floor, books and papers were strewn haphazardly, dirty dishes and fast-food cartons filled in the empty spaces. I’ve seen the police leave drug houses more composed after an evidence toss.
Sheila Quick said, “Gavin used to be neat. Before the accident. I tried, I gave up.” She shrugged. Shame colored her face. She closed the door. “Some battles aren’t worth fighting. Do you have kids?”
We shook our heads.
“Maybe you’re the lucky ones.”
She insisted we leave before the doctor arrived, and when Milo tried to argue, she pressed a hand to her temple and grimaced, as if he was causing her great pain.
“Let me be with my thoughts. Please.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He got the address for Stan and Paula Bartell. Same street, Camden Drive, but the eight hundred block, one mile north, on the other side of the business district.
“The Flats,” Sheila Quick reiterated. “They’ve got some place.”
When you see stock footage of Beverly Hills in the movies, it’s almost always the Flats. Directors favor the sun-splotched, palm-lined drives like Foothill and Beverly, but any of the broad streets wedged between Santa Monica and Sunset will do when the connotation is primal California affluence. In the Flats, teardowns began at 2 million bucks and pumped-up piles of stucco can fetch more than triple that amount.
Tourists from the East usually have the same impression of the area: so clean, so green, such miserly lots. Houses that would grace multiple acreage in Greenwich or Scarsdale or Shaker Heights are shoehorned onto half-acre rectangles. That doesn’t stop the residents from erecting thirteen-thousand-square-foot imitations of Newport mansions that elbow their neighbors.
The Bartell house was one of those, a hulking, flat-faced wedding cake set behind a pitiful front yard that was mostly circular driveway. White fencing topped with gold finials shielded the property. A security sign promising ARMED RESPONSE hung near the electric gate. Through the fence, double doors with frosted-glass panes were backlit teal green. Above them, a giant porthole showcased a white-hot chandelier. No vehicles in front; a four-car garage provided ample shelter for automotive pets.
Milo inhaled, and said, “Once more with feeling,” and we got out. Cars zipped by on Sunset, but North Camden Drive was still. Beverly Hills has a thing for trees, and the ones lining Camden were magnolias that would’ve loved South Carolina. Here they were stunted by drought and smog, but a few were flowering, and I could smell their fragrance.
Milo punched a button on the squawk box. A man barked, “Yes?”
“Mr. Bartell?”
“Who is this?”
“Police.”
“About what?”
“Could we come in please, sir?”
“What’s this about?”
Milo frowned. “Your daughter, sir.”
“My- hold on.”
Seconds later, lights flooded the front of the house. Now I saw that the glass doors were flanked by orange trees in pots. One was failing. The doors swung open, and a tall man walked across the driveway. He stopped fifteen feet from us, shaded his eyes with his hands, took three steps more, into the floodlights, like a performer.
“What’s this all about?” said a deep, hoarse voice.