Obsession by Jonathan Kellerman

Bigelow lived here, did anything out of the ordinary occur in the neighborhood?”
    “Out of the ordinary as in a swindle or a con job or laundering?”
    “Anything you can think of,” said Milo.
    “Out of the ordinary…well…we don’t have the kind of problems you’d see in a lower-income neighborhood. I do recall a purse-snatching, a poor old lady knocked to her feet by a Mexican—a busboy at a restaurant on Wilshire…but that was after Patty’s time…there
were
a few burglaries, but the police caught whoever was behind them.” She clucked her tongue. “Was it lung cancer? When she applied to rent she said she didn’t smoke. And I never saw evidence that she did.”
    “She was here less than a year,” I said. “Why’d she move?”
    “The rent was beyond her budget,” said Whitbread. “With a child in parochial school, it became a burden, though I don’t know why you’d want that.”
    “Not a fan of parochial school?”
    “Those priests? Every day a new headline. But that was Patty’s choice. When she told me she was having difficulties I sensed she wanted me to reduce the rent but, of course, that was out of the question.”
    “Of course.”
    “In the real estate business, Detective, if one wants quality tenants, one must be fair but firm. Patty’s unit was in terrific condition, tons of original features from the twenties. It didn’t stay vacant long. Two gay guys, as a matter of fact, and they lived there for five years and the only reason they left was they bought a house up in the hills.”
    She frowned. “Where did Patty move? I was never contacted by anyone for a reference.”
    “Culver City,” said Milo.
    “Ouch,” said Whitbread. “That’s a bit of a comedown.” Her eyes shifted to a spot over his shoulder.
    A black Hummer had pulled up to the curb. Whitbread waved. Put her hand on my arm. “My son’s here—is there anything else, Detective?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Well then, nice talking to you.” She nudged me, smiled at Milo. “If at some point you
are
allowed to give a civilian some juicy details, please remember me.”
    “Will do,” he said. “Thanks for your time.”
    Clicking past us on red heels, she hurried to the Hummer and knocked on the passenger window. The glass had been tinted black. So had the grille and the rims.
    As we pulled away, the driver’s door opened and a huge young black man in copper-colored sweats and matching athletic shoes got out. Midtwenties, shaved head, razor-trimmed mustache and goatee.
    “That’s her kid?” said Milo. “I love this city.”
    “Always surprises,” I said.
    “Take a nap and your zip code’s changed.”
    Mary Whitbread waved at us.
    The giant did the same, but his heart wasn’t in it.
     
CHAPTER 11
     
    “This is different,” said Milo.
    We were standing near the dead fountain that centered the bungalow court on Culver Boulevard. The bowl was cracked, crusted with dead bugs, splotched with vaguely organic stains. A broken toy truck lay on its side. As we’d stepped onto the property, the children who’d been playing in the dirt had scattered like finches.
    No bells on any of the units’ warped doors. Milo’s knocks had produced baffled stares, murmured denials in Spanish. What we could see of the units’ interiors was dim and threadbare. A stale, morose uniformity shouted transience.
    “I can try to find out who owned the property back then but it’s not going to lead anywhere.” His shoe nudged the fountain. “Patty didn’t ask Chatty Mary for references because she didn’t need any for this dump.”
    I said, “That could’ve been the point.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “She moved to keep a low profile.”
    “Money wasn’t the motive? Scared of something brought on by illicit commerce? I don’t know, Alex. If she was running why stay in town and keep the same job?”
    “I was thinking guilt, not fear,” I said. “Running from herself.”
    “The alleged ‘terrible thing’?”
    “A