She pinged a bitten nail against her mug. “After that, I decided always to be skinny. The piano freaked me out, I didn’t go back to the club, wanted a different environment so I started teaching little girls ballet for crap money. I lost my apartment, had to room with some... not-so-great people. It was around then that I met Trevor. No control issues with regard to you-know-what. In fact, he wasn’t much into it, period.”
“Asexual?”
“More like super-low-sexual. Which was fine with me. My body the way it was, the pain, feeling deformed, last thing I wanted was someone jumping my bones.”
She smiled. “Top of that, he had an amazing house. Victorian that he restored, close enough to the wharf to walk. At the time I thought he was my savior.”
“That changed.”
She looked out the window, watched cars pass for a while. “It’s the same old story, I’m sure you hear it all the time. Especially working for the police.”
“Not sure what you mean.”
“Relationships,” she said. “They go bad. With Trevor it wasn’t dramatic, it just crept in. He got more and more possessive. Not physically, just — okay, here’s the thing: We never went anywhere, which was fine with me in the beginning. I was happy to have a refuge. And his house was big, beautiful, and quiet. Trevor drew all day, then he slept, then he drew some more, then he slept. At first, I didn’t mind.”
“What changed?”
“I got bored,” she said. “Felt like getting out. Just once in a while, maybe start teaching kids again — ’cause I’d quit that job. All I was doing was watching TV and videos of dance exercises. I ended up sleeping a lot, myself, and it made me tired. So I asked Trevor if I could go out for a while and he said don’t do it, I was vulnerable. I wasn’t ready to stress myself out, so I agreed. Then I started doing it — sneaking out when I knew Trevor would be locked up in his studio. Nothing weird, I took walks. It felt like I landed on another planet. I liked the feeling. But then I’d rush back, afraid he’d find out.”
I said, “Sounds a little like prison.”
“I guess it does,” said Maillot Bernard. “I guess it was. One night, late at night, Trevor was doing one of his marathon drawing things. Even when he came out of the studio, he’d been super-quiet, ignoring me when I talked to him. So I went out and took a longer walk than ever and when I got back he was in the doorway, just standing there, no expression on his face. I thought, He’s not going to allow me back. But then he stepped aside. And once I was inside, his face got different.”
“Angry?”
“No, that’s the thing, angry I could understand. I was raised with it.” Lowering her eyes. “But that’s another story... no, Trevor didn’t show angry, he just got cold. Like I was there, in his house physically, but I didn’t matter spiritually — humanly.”
“Dismissing you.”
“Exactly, Doctor. I knew I was being punished but figured it would end. Then, when I said I was ready to go to bed, he pointed to a chair and had me sit there while he left. Then he came back with a gun and stood over me.”
“He pointed it at you?”
“No, he just held it at his side,” she said. “But it was a gun.”
“What kind?”
“How would I know?” she said. “I hate guns.”
“Was it long like a rifle or small like a pistol?”
“Long,” she said. “Made out of wood.”
I pulled out my phone, called up an image of a 12-gauge Remington.
Maillot Bernard shuddered. “I hate them... maybe.”
A photo of a deer rifle evoked a head shake. “They look the same to me.”
I said, “Trevor just stood there holding it.”
“For a long time,” she said. “Not saying anything. Then he left, came back without the gun and said, ‘Time for bed,’ and we went to bed. And that night he — we — he didn’t touch my chest. He used to make sure to do that, being super-gentle. It was like he looked at me different.”
“Scary.”
“I couldn’t sleep, terrified he’d bring the gun back and shoot me. I got up twice in the middle of the night. One time, I went to the bathroom and threw up. Trevor slept through totally, he was always a deep sleeper. The next morning, he’s not talking, he goes into the studio and I’m sitting there watching soaps. The day after that, he finally left to buy art supplies. I packed my stuff and got out of there. I didn’t even want to stay in San Francisco so I went to the Greyhound station and bought a one-way to L.A. Because I used to dance here, too. The Seventh Veil, places like that, but I also made it to the Hollywood Bowl stage for their big Fourth of July celebration. I was a stand-in but that was something, we had these star-spangled costumes.”
“Did you know people here?”
“I thought I did but the numbers I had for them weren’t good anymore. The only money I had was in my purse, like fifteen bucks. I went to a shelter downtown. It was crazy, full of addicts and psychos. But you know, I felt safer there. A few days later, I remembered my checking account, Bank of America, I’d forgotten about it because Trevor had been paying for everything. I managed to get funds wired and found a room in a motel on Hollywood. That was pretty sketchy, drug dealers out front, all night you could hear sirens. Finally, I located a girl who didn’t dance anymore and worked for a lawyer who did disability. He couldn’t believe I hadn’t applied, got me a doctor appointment and that got me signed up, and that’s where I’ve been since.”
She smiled. “Stuff happens, right?”
“Did Trevor try to make contact?”
“I was scared he would, but no, never,” she said. “Guess he’s not a stalker, just had a moment.”
“A gun,” I said. “That’s some moment.”
“I never even knew he owned one, Doctor. That’s what freaked me out, is he telling himself it’s time to kick it up to a new level?”
She leaned forward. “You can’t tell me? Did he do something really bad with a gun?”
“All I can say is his name came up.”
“Wow. I don’t wish him bad,” she said. “But talking to you made me feel a lot better. The police actually suspect him of something. I wasn’t crazy to worry, I was smart.”
She pretended to object when I paid the check, said, “If you insist,” and squeezed my hand when I got up.
“Thanks for your time, Mai-la.”
“Maybe I should be the one thanking you,” she said. “Maybe this was therapy.”
Chapter 17
I phoned Milo at his desk. He said, “You and your hunches, just talked to Braun’s first wife, Barbara from Stockton. Not the sharpest in the drawer and she’s not a legal wife, she and Braun lived together for three years.”
“How’d you find her?”
“Masterful detection. I looked up Barbara Braun in Stockton.”
“They weren’t married but she uses Braun’s name.”
“It’s her name, too, they’re second cousins, he was an orphan, lived with her family for a while.”
“So that part of his story was true.”
“But the part about Barbara’s illness was a mix of truth and bullshit. She had cancer but survived it. Chemo, radiation, she couldn’t even tell me the diagnosis. Apparently, Hal stuck with her every step of the way, a real prince. In terms of why they split up, all she could say was they ended up different and that she was the one to initiate. She didn’t say initiate, just ‘I did it.’ She came across as basic, Alex. Maybe even a little impaired.”
“Hal was there for her but he claimed she was dead.”
“I didn’t tell her that, why burst her bubble? She had nothing bad to say about him. Broke down big-time when I informed her. Blamed herself, in fact.”