Nick was dressed in a lavender satin ball gown, low-cut, something stuffed in the bodice to plump his chest up to cleavage.

Hairy cleavage.

He had on dangling violet-colored earrings, tacky purplish lipstick, real whore-y fake eyelashes. Combined with his short hair and beard stubble it was… it was…

Pivoting and cocking a hip, he wiggled his butt.

At her. Then at Emilio.

“Maaamaaa!”

“Voilà,” said Nick. “Très chic, non?”

Emilio cried louder.

For some crazy reason, Felicia laughed.

She didn’t know why. No matter how many times she’d try to figure it out she would never come up with why.

Because she didn’t think it was funny, not any of it, what she did feel was grossed out and freaked out and —

What came out was laughter.

And that changed everything about Nick.

And he had a gun.

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER
36

I spent most of the day after at Western Pediatric Medical Center, listening to Felicia Torres, guiding her through the hospital system. Observing Emilio.

The little boy clung to his mother, mute and tense.

Physically okay, according to Dr. Ruben Eagle, an old friend and head of the Outpatient Division. We agreed that Rochelle Kissler, a brilliant young psychologist who’d been my student, would be perfect for the long term.

I introduced both of them to Felicia, stayed with her after they left, and asked if there was anything else she wanted to talk about.

“No… I’m so tired.”

“Is there someone who can stay with you?”

“My mom,” she said. “She lives in Phoenix, but she’ll come if I ask.”

I dialed the number, sat there as she talked.

She hung up, smiling wearily. “She’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Do you need someone till then?”

“No, I’ll be fine… this is so nice of you.”

“We’re all here to help you.”

She began shaking.

“What is it?”

“The way you said that, Dr. Delaware. Being helpful. That’s what he pretended. What kind of sick joke was that?”

I didn’t answer.

“I never trusted him, Doctor. Not from the minute I met him.”

Milo and I decompressed at a bar in Santa Monica. Eleven p.m.; he’d spent his day with Raul Biro and two other Hollywood detectives, going through the house on Altair Terrace.

One of the homes Dale Bright had bought as Nicholas Heubel. The other was a cabin near Palmdale, where he’d confined Felicia Torres in a bathroom. Forced her to imagine what he was doing to Emilio.

Mostly, he’d ignored the child. Letting him cry, then scream. No food or water. Then a quick drop into a shipping carton.

Airholes, to prolong the ordeal.

Milo said, “I know I’m supposed to have a reaction to shooting anyone. But, God help me, Alex, I wish I’d had more bullets.”