Her eyes rounded.
I said, “Two boxes, birthday and Christmas. Heart-shaped.”
She gasped. Pressed her hands to the side of her face, compressing her features. Her eyes clamped shut. When she spoke, I could barely hear her.
“You know about that. Omigod.”
“We’re talking two murders, Felice. The cops don’t just sit around.”
“Okay,” she said. “Yes, that happened, yes it... complicated things.”
“What happened?”
“Trevor was stupid, giving her the candy was absolute idiocy on his part. I never knew about the first box, Chelsea ate everything and hid it. But the second one, soon after Braun, she left right out on her desk. Along with a drawing that he signed. A little deer, like Bambi.”
“Was the signature his name or ‘Dad’?”
“His name, the dad part never came out, I promise you Chet had no clue. He just thought Trevor was being... over-attentive. Even after I explained that I’d showed Chelsea’s drawings to him and he thought she was talented. Was just trying to encourage her with the candy.”
I said, “Not the whole story.”
She gave a long dreary head shake.
“Chet was a glutton and a big treat-stealer. Any of us would be eating something yummy and he’d just come over and take some without asking. He thought it was hilarious, the kids hated it and I wasn’t too fond of it, either. I told him over and over to respect their boundaries but he just laughed and said he paid the bills, everything was his. That’s what happened with the chocolates. He walked past Chelsea’s room, noticed the box, came over to steal, and saw the drawing.”
Her right fist punched her left palm.
“Everything hit the fan. Chet told me I was a gullible idiot, Trevor was probably a pervert, you don’t give expensive gifts to a kid without ulterior motives. He began interrogating Chelsea. She shut him out totally, wouldn’t say a word. That made him mad and he began calling her names. Space cadet, moron, retarded. It was horrid, I’d never seen him that way. Brett came out in the hall, I shooed him away. Chet kept going on, Chelsea just sat there and continued to tune him out. I managed to drag Chet out of there, he had the box in his hands. I gave him my... limited explanation. He looked me in the eye, removed each of the chocolates, and crushed it between his fingers before tossing it back in the box. Except for the last one. He grinned and said, ‘Chocolate mint, my favorite,’ and popped it in his mouth. Then he tossed the box in the trash. That night, Chelsea cried like I’d never heard her. I felt like crap because I hadn’t been able to protect her. Because nothing sick had happened but I couldn’t tell Chet the truth. Meanwhile, he’s threatening to call the cops on Trevor. Or better yet, to go next door and pound the crap out of Trevor. I begged him not to. Promised him Chelsea would cut off the relationship, I’d be more vigilant.”
Another guilty eye drop. “That night, I even had sex with Chet. Anything to calm him down. I thought I’d succeeded but yesterday Trevor told me Chet had come over several times and pounded on his door. He was frightened and didn’t answer. So you can see why when the cops — anyway, Chet dropped it. That was Chet, short attention span, and it’s not like he actually cared about Chelsea, he just wanted to be outraged.”
A beat. “What do the neighbors claim they saw?”
“Chet in Trevor’s face, talking, Trevor listening.”
“That’s it? Thank God that ended it.”
“Not from Trevor’s end,” I said. “Chelsea continued to visit him.”
“What I told you, Doctor, only on days when Chet was out of town and not often — you know, I think your showing up was what sparked Chet’s hostility. A psychologist he could use as a weapon against me. That’s why he called you.”
“I agree.”
“You do? So you’ll drop the whole thing? Tell the cops to forget about Trevor?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t.”
Her right hand curled into a fist. “You’re not being reasonable. Hasn’t this family been through enough?”
“If Trevor has nothing to hide, he can clear things up easily.”
“Please,” she said. “He’s the only positive thing in Chelsea’s life and Chelsea deserves to be happy.”
I said, “I appreciate that and the solution is simple: When the cops ring the bell, he needs to come to the door, welcome them in, and be cooperative.”
“Simple,” she said. “I thought someone with your training could see life never is simple.”
I got up. She stood in place.
I’d taken four steps when she said, “See yourself out.”
Chapter 34
I phoned Milo’s cell from the Seville. He picked up after one chirp. “How’d it go with Felice? Get me anything for a warrant?”
I talked, he was silent but for occasional no shits and unbelievables and wordless growls.
When I finished, he said, “Fucking unbelievable. Bottom line is I’m that Greek guy, Tantalus, with the hanging fruit. No possible grounds for a child-molester warrant and Bitt’s an even stronger murder suspect.”
“I told Felice it was in his best interest to cooperate. She resisted but maybe she’ll cool off and convince him.”
“Hope springs infernal. The guy’s Chelsea’s baby-daddy, moves next door and lives there for two years with Felice keeping it secret from Chet? You believe her?”
“I do, but I’m not sure Chet didn’t figure it out.”
“The thing on the street wasn’t just chocolate, huh? You pick up any strong chemistry between Felice and Bitt?”
“Not during the minute I saw them together,” I said. “You’re thinking just another domestic murder?”
“Why not, Alex? Maybe she’s lying and they rekindled. Maybe they’ve been screwing since he moved in. She gives him a key, getting in would be no problem.”
That didn’t explain Braun. Or the Camaro. While I considered pointing that out, he said, “Or Chelsea gave him the key. She wanted her real dad — or her best friend, whatever Bitt was to her at that point — to protect her against Fake-Dad who never gave a damn about her. And stole her candy. We know Bitt wasn’t home the night Chet got shot. He coulda followed Chet to the motel, done the deed, taken the Rover and the girlfriend, done her in some other spot, and put himself up in a hotel. Next morning he comes back and continues to ignore me. You know something, Alex, with the paternity thing and the confrontation, I’m feeling I can put together a warrant, gonna go judge-hunting.”
“What about Braun and Mr. Camaro?”
“I’m not Moses on the Mount, one thing at a ti—”
A burp-like noise cut off the last word.
He said, “Call waiting. Hold on, that could be John Nguyen. I put in a call to talk about Bitt being a pedophile, let’s see what he has to say about this.”
He was off the line for several moments, came back talking fast.
“Not John, Petra. My stars and planets must be aligning weird, check this out.”
My turn to listen.
I said, “The citizenry going that extra mile.”
“Obviously, you wanna be there.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
The woman’s given name was Sarabeth Sarser. Her street names were: Sadie, Sammantha, Samanthalee, Bettisam, and, inexplicably, Beanie Baby.
She’d worked the street for fifteen of her thirty-one years, shuffling identities in order to confuse law enforcement as she traveled up and down the state and into Nevada and back. The past seven years, she’d concentrated her efforts in Hollywood, energy for the road fading due to poly-drug usage.
No more fooling anyone; she solicited with little guile, got arrested, paid her tickets, kept working.