Night Moves Page 4

“Okay, if I know, I can plan,” she said. “In terms of that cleanup company, no need, we’ll have our housekeeper do it. Get her some heavy-duty gloves.”

  Chet said, “I don’t know, that’s pretty intense—”

  “I know. There wasn’t much blood that I could see. Right, Lieutenant? It’s something we can handle.”

  “Probably.”

  “No guarantees, huh?” She laughed. To her husband: “We’ll be fine. It’s only one room.”

  “My room.”

  “The dy-ing room,” said Brett, not bothering to look up from his tiny screen. One hand finger-waved. “Ooooh, scary!”

  Chelsea texted and ignored him.

  Felice said, “We’ll pick up what we need from the twenty-four-hour Ralph’s in Brentwood, seeing as it’s close to—oh, one thing, Lieutenant. May my children get their backpacks so they have their schoolbooks?”

  “Sure,” he said. “An officer will accompany one of you to get them.”

  “I’ll be that one,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Brett said, “Books for one day? I don’t need ’em.”

  His mother said, “Enough out of you.” But she smiled and her son returned the courtesy.

  Chelsea had returned to staring at nocturnal nothingness.

  * * *

  —

  Milo radioed Moe Reed, who came to escort Felice as the rest of us waited outside.

  Both family vehicles had been processed and released. No sign of blood, the only irregular find a silver flask of whiskey in the glove compartment of the black Range Rover.

  Chet Corvin said, “I take it to the clubhouse, share some Oban with the guys.”

  Milo said, “I’d keep it somewhere else, sir.” He returned the bottle, snipped the tape blocking the driveway.

  “Duly noted, Lieutenant,” said Corvin. Not a trace of sincerity.

  Milo said, “Soon as your wife returns, you’re good to go, sir.”

  Chet Corvin said, “I’m good now. You guys wait for Mom.” Climbing into the Rover, he backed out too fast, bucked the vehicle as he shifted to Drive, and sped away. Brett and Chelsea, entranced by their phones, didn’t seem to notice his departure.

  Neither did their mother, toting two backpacks. Shouting, “Turn those things off, our bars are getting low and our bill’s insane,” she headed for the gray Lexus.

  When the sedan was gone, Milo studied the Tudor Revival to the left. Clumsily built, with exaggerated slope to the mock-slate roof, too much half timber crisscrossing stucco and brick.

  The landscaping didn’t fit medieval England: cactus, aloe, and other sharp, spiky things bordering a C-shaped cobbled drive and fringing the bottom of the house. Drought-friendly but also human-unfriendly. A black Ram pickup, maybe twenty years old, was positioned so it blocked a view of the front door.

  He said, “Too late to deal with neighbors, let alone the resident loner. Let’s see what’s going on, tech-wise.”

  A voice behind us said, “May I lock up?”

  Paul Weyland had come out of his house. He’d put on a bathrobe. His front door remained open.

  Milo said, “Go ahead, sir. Thanks for your hospitality.”

  Weyland rubbed his bald head. “I can’t exactly say it was my pleasure. But they needed somewhere to go—what a terrible situation. Are they okay?”

  “Good as can be expected.”

  Weyland yawned, raised a hand to cover his mouth. “ ’Scuse me. Guess I’ll try to grab some shut-eye.”

  Milo said, “Long as we have you, could we ask a few questions?”

  Weyland righted his eyeglasses. “Sure.”

  Milo repeated the pop quiz he’d given the Corvins. Same answers.

  He pointed to the Tudor. “How well do you know your neighbor over there, Mr. Bitt?”

  Weyland frowned. “Not well…he’s not what you’d call friendly.”

  “A loner.”

  Nod. Weyland chewed his lip. “Are you saying you’ve got evidence of a problem with him?”

  “Not at all, sir,” said Milo. “The Corvins described him as a loner. We’ll be talking to him along with everyone else on the block.”

  “Well, good luck talking to him,” said Weyland. “He really is kind of antisocial. Shortly after we moved in, my wife happened to catch him going to his truck. Donna’s friendly, she said hi. Bitt just ignored her and drove away. She said he made her feel like she didn’t exist. She was kind of upset.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Weyland’s lips folded inward. “If you do suspect him, I’d sure like to know. Look how close he is to us. To them, also. I guess bringing a body from his side would be possible—not that you suspect that. Of course…” Weyland shook his head. “I don’t want to get involved in something I know nothing about…but isn’t that how it sometimes happens? The quiet ones?”

  I said, “Sounds like he’s more than quiet.”

  “Well, yes—I’m sure it means nothing. Please don’t quote me on anything.”

  “Of course not,” said Milo.

  Weyland removed his glasses. “I didn’t actually see what happened. To that man. But Chet described it. Not that I wanted him to but Chet’s kind of…”

  “He does things his way,” I said.

  “Exactly. Anyway…good luck, guys.”

  Milo said, “Thanks for your time, sir. Try to get some sleep.”

  Weyland smiled and drew his bathrobe sash tighter. “Emphasis on try.”

  * * *

  —

  Inez Jonas exited the house and two coroners drivers rolled a gurney inside, wrapped, bagged, and removed the body. They were technicians in their own right, transporting with impressive speed and grace.

  Jonas said, “Nice meeting you, Doctor, hope you find something psychological. ’Cause this sure is crazy.”

  I said, “Do my best. Have a good night.”

  “My night’s just starting, got called to Pico-Union, normally not my area but there’s no one else.”

  Milo said, “Gang thing?”

  “They don’t tell me but yeah, probably. Walk-by shooting, sounds like a simple one. Relatively speaking.”

  * * *

  —

  We met up with Moe Reed on the upstairs landing.

  He said, “Second floor is three bedrooms, two bathrooms. Nothing interesting apart from some porn in one of Mister’s dresser drawers and under Junior’s mattress. Similar stuff, looks like Junior borrowed. Missus has nothing heavier than a romance novel on her nightstand.”

  “Paper-and-ink porn?” said Milo.

  “You got it, L.T. Old-school. Well-used magazines that look old, nothing bloody or sadistic or freaky. Junior can access whatever he wants online but maybe he found Dad’s stash quaint. Dad sees something missing, he’s not exactly gonna complain.”

  Milo laughed. “Speaking of online, how many computers are we talking about?”

  “Laptops for Mom, Dad, and the boy.”

  “Nothing for the girl?”

  “Nope. Mom wanted to take them, I had no grounds to say no. I didn’t pick up anything hinky from her, just someone who wanted to get back to normal.”

  Milo turned to me. “A kid without a computer, what’s the diagnosis?”

  I said, “She’s not much of a student, her phone’s enough.”

  Reed said, “Did I screw up by letting her take everything? I really couldn’t see grounds.”

  “That’s ’cause there aren’t any, Moses. At this point, they’re peripheral victims, not suspects. I’m assuming no weapons up here.”

  “Nope. Missus said none and she was righteous.”

  “Check downstairs.”

  Reed descended and Milo entered the master suite. Corn-yellow walls, matching en-suite bathroom redolent of lavender potpourri. The Corvins shared a clumsy rendition of an Edwardian sleigh bed, pale-blue bedding a bit threadbare at the corners, not even a close match to the rest of the furniture: almost-deco from the nineties.

  I stood by as Milo
deftly searched drawers and closets, making sure everything was replaced exactly as he’d found it. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Reed. Staying active elevates his mood.

  We moved on to Brett’s and Chelsea’s rooms. Both were small and simply furnished, the boy’s space reduced further by navy-blue walls, jumbles of sports equipment, and heaps of balled-up clothing.

  Chelsea’s white chamber was neat. The exception was the top of her desk, covered with pencil drawings.

  Page after page filled with crude, repetitive geometric shapes.

  Overlapping circles evoked a bubble-pipe gone mad. Parallel lines were so densely rendered they made the paper look like linen. Five-pointed stars and jags that might’ve been lightning bolts evoked an imploding universe.

  Milo said, “What is she, autistic—the spectrum, whatever?”

  “At this point, no diagnoses.”

  He flipped through the artwork. “No gory stuff. Okay, she’s just an oddball.”

  Moe Reed came up the stairs. “No weapons or ammo, not in here or the garage. Nothing back there that could’ve been used on those hands, either, like a band saw. The only tools they keep are the basics: screwdriver, hammer, socket wrench, set of Allen wrenches. The rest of the garage was piled high with boxes. Like two-thirds of the space is boxes. I checked a few. The ones marked clothes have clothes, same for kitchenware and books. Looks like they moved and never bothered to deal with it.”

  “Books turn out to be books,” said Milo. “Don’t you just hate honesty?”

  “Worst thing in the world,” said Reed.

  * * *

  —

  We walked him to his unmarked. “What time tomorrow, L.T.?”

  “Can you do seven a.m.?”

  “I can do six.”

  “But I can’t, kiddo. Meet you back here at seven, we’ll canvass with Sean and whatever uniforms I can commandeer. Before we talk to anyone, let’s look for CC cameras. We’ve got a pretty good fix on the time frame and there won’t be much traffic on the street, so fingers crossed. What shift is Sean on?”

  “Not sure,” said Reed. “I do know he just closed an assault.”

  “Then let’s reward him with more honest labor, Moses. He’s got kids, should be up early, anyway. Captain Brazil’s on tonight, she can be okay. I’ll make a strong case for six uniforms. She gives me a hard time, we’ll make do. But I don’t think she will. Know why?”

  Reed looked at the death house. “Upscale neighborhood.”

  Milo patted his shoulder. “You are socioeconomically acute, Moses.”

  The young detective smiled and drove off.

  I said, “I’d like to see the utility door.”

  Milo said, “That can be arranged.”

  * * *

  —

  We gloved up and walked the empty driveway to the Corvins’ token gate. Milo arched his hand over the rim, undid the latch, switched on his flashlight.

  The backyard was a rectangular pool surrounded by a wooden deck and little else. The water was black as oil when grazed by the flashlight beam, invisible otherwise. Serious hazard if you were unfamiliar with the place.

  I said so.

  Milo grunted, kept walking. I followed, straining for details in the dark. Three walls of ficus hedge blocked out neighbors on all sides. A pool net and vacuum sat on the far left-hand corner of the deck. Nothing else but a couple of folding chairs and a plastic owl for scaring away pigeons, perched near the shallow end of the pool.

  The wood planking fed to the French doors I’d seen at the rear of the house. Easy access. Milo tried each door. Shut solid.

  “Decent latches, be a challenge without breaking the glass.” He continued to the side of the house, where concrete steps led to a plain white door.

  No shreds of black plastic on the paved ground, no drag marks or footprints. He flashlit the two flanking windows. “Nailed shut, looks like for a long time. Fire department would love that.”

  I got close to the door. No pry scars.

  Milo tapped the wood. Hollow. “Flimsy piece of crap, ol’ Chet figured this would be the way. He may be a buffoon but a man knows his own house.”

  Pulling out his wallet, he removed a credit card, bent and fiddled.

  No instantaneous success; this wasn’t the movies. He worked the card into the space between door and jamb, jiggled, angled. Finally, a click sounded and the door swung open. The process had taken around a minute.

  “A bit of work,” he said, “but no Houdini-deal. And with the family gone, there was plenty of time and privacy.”

  He nudged the door. It creaked and swung a couple of inches. “Thing’s a joke and they don’t set the alarm.”

  I said, “Didn’t you hear Chet? It’s all her fault.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, he’s a prince. I wish I could say carelessness is a big clue, Alex, but back when I worked burglaries, this was business as usual and we’re talking the high-crime era. What I said before about not bothering with second-floor windows. People paying good money for a system then not using it. Even when citizens think they are being careful, there’s inconsistency, points of vulnerability, like alarm screens gone bad.”

  I tapped the left-hand window. “Those boxes in the garage say they’re fine with the status quo. These were probably nailed shut before they moved in.”

  “Overconfidence,” he said. “My job depends on it.”

  He pushed the door wide open and we entered a beige-painted service porch. Washer, dryer, laundry basket, cheap prefab cabinets, most of which hung askew.

  The floor was vinyl. Clean and shiny, no hint anything nasty had been dragged through.

  I said, “Begging the question as to why the body was dumped anywhere in the house, why not just leave it here in the first place instead of dragging it clear across the house to Chet’s den?”

  “He’s the target?”

  “The crime feels personal, and like you said, charm isn’t his thing.”

  “That’s one helluva grudge, Alex. And if someone hates him that much, why not do him? Why take it out on some other poor devil?”

  “Could be a warning,” I said. “Or the poor devil had a relationship with Chet.”

  “Chet was pretty convincing about not knowing the guy. He’s that good of an actor?”

  “If concealing his involvement was at stake, he’d be motivated,” I said. “Maybe all that bloviating was a cover.”

  “Hmm. Okay, let’s assume Chet pissed someone off big-time. His business is transportation insurance. So, what, someone lost a trainload of whatever, didn’t get paid in a timely manner? I don’t see that leading to blowing off a face and hacking off hands.”

  “Maybe it was personal, not business.”

  He looked at me. “As in?”

  I said, “Could be lots of things.”

  “Shoot ’em at me.”

  “A scam with an enraged victim. An affair—or even a sexual assault. Chet’s on the road all the time, maybe a business trip went really bad. Or it’s something to do with Felice’s private life and the killer’s throwing it in Chet’s face. Or both of them are involved. I can keep going, Big Guy, but the point is, why was this house chosen? And again, why bother to schlep the body?”

  “Questions,” he said. “I’m getting a headache. But thanks.” Grinning. “I mean that, you stimulate the gray cells.”

  We walked across the house, reached the den. Cleared of its morbid contents, curiously clean and serene.

  Back outside, I said, “What bothered you about the family?”

  “Couldn’t put my finger on it,” he said, cramming his hands into his jacket pockets. “Still can’t. They’re not exactly a happy bunch but who is? They just seemed…” He shook his head. “From where I was sitting, she can’t stand him. And wanna bet he calls her something other than ‘the bride’ when talking to his pals? Or himself. Then there’s the kids, couple of jackals tearing at each other. What’s the theme, here?”

  “They’re disconnected,”
I said. “Less a functioning unit than four people operating independently.”

  His hands came out of his pockets. One held a panatela and a book of matches. The other rubbed the side of his face. “I knew there was a reason I called you. Exactly, they’re strangers to each other. If this is the family of the future, we’re fucked.”

  A finger rose to his temple. More massaging. “Not that it’s necessarily relevant.”

  “It could be,” I said. “Isolation is the perfect breeding ground for secrets.”

  “So I do more digging into their background?”

  “I would. Start with Chet because it is his room. If nothing shows up, move on to Felice.”

  “What about the kids?”

  “Brett’s too young to be involved. Chelsea’s old enough to have nasty friends but if she or her peers were involved, the scene would be a lot bloodier and messier. This was a meticulous staging.”

  “What about an older boyfriend, Alex? One of those disgruntled scenarios?”

  “Mom and Dad disapprove so Romeo goes ballistic? This is a girl whose father seems to ignore her so I can see her looking for a substitute and gravitating toward an older man. Every time we’ve seen disgruntled, it’s the parents who are targeted, not some surrogate. But sure, can’t hurt to check Chelsea out.”

  “Those drawings of hers,” he said, unwrapping the cigar. “And that thing she said—the dying room. Maybe that’s something she heard before. Maybe that’s why she ran out and heaved, she knows something. I never got to talk to her, courtesy of Mommy’s protectiveness. Maybe because Mommy knows something, too.”

  He looked at the black pool water. Lit up, blew smoke rings. “Anything else back here interest you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then let’s get the hell out.”

  * * *

  —

  He walked me to the Seville. Crime scene tape remained up. A couple of uniforms lolled.

  I got in the car and lowered the window.

  “Thanks for coming out late, amigo.”

  “I wasn’t doing much anyway.”

  Smooth lie. I’d just finished making love to a beautiful woman, had looked forward to a long bath and an early bedtime. As the water ran, Robin and I lay in bed, her head on my chest, her curls tickling my face. She’d answered the phone, said, “Oh, hi, Big Guy,” and passed it over.