Candace paid plenty of notice. She squinted, tensed. Said, “Lieutenant?” and put down the fork she’d been using to halfheartedly spool fettuccine.
Her husband looked up. Confused. Then amused. “Lyu-tenant? This is your police friend, Candy?” Smooth Middle European voice.
“It is. And you are?”
Alicia said, “Alicia.”
“Your girlfriend, Mr. Lyu-tenant?” said Sig. “You’re eating here? Excellent choice.”
Milo said, “Actually we came to see you.”
Candace gripped her fork. Fixed on us and not noticing Reed appearing behind her. He sidled between the neighboring table and the nape of her neck. That she noticed. She whipped her head back toward him.
Reed kept walking and she relaxed.
“Us? Why in the world?” said Sig, putting his knife and fork down and daintily dabbing at clean lips. Unperturbed. Cold gray eyes. Why not? The world was his plaything. At that moment I knew he’d been more than a sidekick.
He smiled. The tan was spray-on, yellow borders visible where it met pink flesh.
Candace said, “Something new has come up?”
Milo said, “Best to talk somewhere else.”
Sig said, “Out of the question. We’re recreating.”
“Still, sir. Please come with us.”
Gray eyes turned to pond pebbles. “I don’t think so, Mr. Lyu-tenant. Call and make an appointment.”
Candace said, “What is this about? Just tell us.”
Milo produced handcuffs.
Sig smiled. “Really? Fine, suit yourself.” Producing a small navy-blue tin from his pant pocket. Navy enamel, printed with white Chinese characters. “I’m a polite man, conversation calls for fresh breath.” Picking out a white, pillow-shaped lozenge, he rested it on his tongue, closed his mouth, swallowed. “Delicious.”
Candace gaped. “Coward!”
“That’s not nice, Candy.” Swooping up his steak knife, he plunged it into the center of her throat, thrust then slashed viciously to the left.
One volcanic spasm before her head dropped to her chest.
No longer all in white.
Sig smiled at his handiwork. Winked.
Someone shouted, “He stabbed her!”
People began screaming, shooting to their feet, tripping over themselves and their companions, upending chairs in the haste to escape.
Someone yelled, “Decapitation—ISIS!”
Milo lunged at Sig Kierstead and Reed did the same from the back.
Kierstead sat there, offered no resistance as they cuffed him.
Not a glance at his wife, spurting and leaking and dribbling blood over clothing, her food, the tablecloth, the sidewalk.
She deflated, sliding low. Hair dipping into blood, a head hanging from sinews collided on the table with a wet hollow sound. Her plate was knocked to the sidewalk.
Blood landed in her wineglass.
Swirling, as if before a tasting.
White to rosé to red.
Milo and Reed yanked Sig to his feet. He went limp.
Doing the Gandhi?
Then his eyes dilated. Rolled back, exposing the whites.
As the detectives struggled to hold on to him, froth started streaming from between now slack lips. His mouth dropped open. Filled with a bubble bath of foam. He convulsed. Spewed internal suds.
Projectile vomit followed by violent convulsions.
People continued to stumble and scream. Someone cried. The sounds of shock and torment continued until every table was empty.
Then a strange, unsettling quiet. The sidewalk clear because Alicia had been smart enough to keep it that way.
Sig Kierstead shuddered once, then again. His body sagged with a different type of flaccidity.
Gray began seeping from beneath the spray tan.
Whatever cheap imitation of a soul he’d possessed was gone.
CHAPTER
52
Milo and Reed let the body drop to the ground. Milo stood guard, Reed did the same for what remained of Candace, and Alicia kept control of the sidewalk.
No challenge for her. The street had emptied as far as was visible. Instant ghost town. The last time I’d seen it like this was after the Northridge quake.
Then the quiet gave way to din as sirens began wailing. Loud louder deafening; an avant-garde composer gone berserk.
A figure ran toward us from the south.
Sean Binchy, pumping his arms, ginger hair blowing. Dressed like the ska-punk bassist he’d once been in an untucked floral shirt, blue cargo pants, and Doc Martins.
Alicia stepped aside to let him pass. He looked around panting, eyes hyperactive. “It’s over?”
I said, “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“C’mon.”
* * *
—
As I guided him away from the carnage, talking softly, steadily, hypnotically, five Beverly Hills police SUVs zoomed up, screeched to a stop, and formed a motor queue in the middle of Canon Drive. Seconds later two hook-and-ladders turned off onto the brief block between Santa Monica Boulevard and its smaller southern neighbor, South Santa Monica Boulevard.
The firefighters remained in place. Ten uniformed Beverly Hills officers got out and stood in front of their vehicles. Six males, four females, all young, all working at stoic but mostly failing.
Seconds later an unmarked green sedan roared in and discharged a gray-haired, potato-faced man. He took a moment to look around, walked straight up to Milo.
“Eric Fosburgh.”
Brief handshake. Milo’s hand was steady. Mine weren’t.
Fosburgh said, “What the fuck, our 911’s going psycho.” He looked at the bodies. “Oh, my God, what the hell happened?”
Milo said, “It turned psycho.”
Fosburgh’s eyes settled on Candace. “That’s her? What the hell?”
“And that’s him.” Milo pointed to the sidewalk. “He cut her throat without warning after taking some sort of poison pill.”
“Right here? Fucking insane,” said Fosburgh. Sweat beaded his face, collecting in a deep-cleft chin tinted by five o’clock shadow. “Unfuckingbelievable—all right, at least it’s not terrorists or an active shooter, which is what a whole bunch of callers claimed.”