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 thehell?”
“And that’s him.” Milo pointed to the sidewalk. “He cut her throat without warning after taking some sort of poison pill.”
“Right here? Fuckinginsane,” 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.”
“Fake news,” said Milo.
Fosburgh took another look at the bodies. “Sitting right there…shit, they could be anyone.”
“They’re anything but.”
“He just hauled off and cut her?”
“Straight in then around to her right carotid. Two seconds.”
“Fuck,” said Fosburgh. “Someone also called in about a guy getting punched out and croaking of a heart attack. I guess nothing like that. What kind of poison?”
Milo took a deep breath. “He pulled that little blue box on the table out of his pocket, swallowed a little white dealie, and said it was a breath mint.”
“Like those Nazi suicide deals in the movies?”
“That would fit.”
“He’s a Nazi, also?”
“It’s complicated, Eric.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. Sorry it went to shit, I know what it’s like when things go to shit…you know, your color isn’t looking so good. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
Fosburgh studied him, shook his head. “Your call.” He looked back at his officers. “This is crazy but I’m not going to lie, I’m relieved it’s not an active shooter. When’s the crypt van coming?”
“They’ve been notified. Traffic, who knows?”
Fosburgh took a step closer to the remains of Candace Kierstead, flinched, and retreated. “God, that’s awful, doing her right here, in front of all those people…all right, I’m going to leave as many of my troops here as I can afford. Some may get called away.”
