Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The big man bounded up, flashed a nanosecond grin, and said, “Hey, Lieutenant,” in a radio-announcer voice. “Anything yet on the situation? You’ll be cleaning up soon and letting us back in, right?”

  Milo and I kept approaching.

  “Soon?” said the man. “We need to get back.”

  The women frowned and said, “Chet.”

  “What?” The man turned to her, smile vanished. “They don’t mind questions. Right, Lieutenant? Informed citizens are an asset to law enforcement.” A glance at me. “New guy beefing up the team? Great idea, more the merrier, let’s clear up this insanity A-sap.”

  He held out a hand. “Chet Corvin.”

  “Alex Delaware.”

  “Great to meet you, Alex.” His grip was fierce as he pumped my arm.

  He said, “Might as well do the intros for Detective Alex here, right, Lieutenant? I’m Chet Corvin, the guy who pays the mortgage next door. The vision in black is my bride, Felice, next to her is Brett, our star first baseman.”

  Wink at the boy; no response.

  Chet Corvin glanced at the girl, as if in afterthought. “At the Siberia edge of the couch is daughter Chelsea.”

  Felice Corvin shot her daughter a quick look. As Brett had done with her father, Chelsea ignored her. Both kids looked as if they were orbiting in a distant galaxy. Their father’s failure to notice was stunning.

  A fifth person entered the room from the left—the dining room and kitchen area if this layout matched the Corvins’ house.

  Short, sparely built man in his late forties, wearing rimless eyeglasses and weekend stubble. Bald but for feathers of brown at the sides of a narrow face. Dressed for stay-at-home comfort in a white T-shirt, cargo shorts, rubber beach thongs.

  “Paul Weyland,” he said, wearily.

  Milo said, “Thanks for doing this, sir.”

  “Of course.” Weyland sat in a corner chair.

  Milo turned to Chet Corvin. “I wish I could give you better news but I’m afraid your house is going to remain a crime scene for at least one more day, possibly longer.”

  “Longer? Why?”

  “We need to be thorough, sir.”

  “Huh,” said Corvin. “Can’t see why it needs to—fine, you’ve got your job. But afterward you will do a thorough cleanup.”

  Milo said, “There are private companies specializing in—”

  Corvin’s hands slapped his hips. He canted forward. “You don’t handle that?”

  “We don’t, sir, but I can give you some referrals and funds can be obtained through victim assistance. So can compensation for temporary housing, but I’m afraid the amount won’t cover anything luxurious.”

  “Forget that, we’re not public assistance people,” said Chet Corvin. “We’ve got a place in Arrowhead so save the money for—people in Compton, wherever.”

  Milo motioned toward the recliner. “You might want to sit, sir.”

  Corvin remained on his feet. “I still don’t see why—let’s keep our heads clear, Lieutenant. Something crazy happened that has nothing to do with the Corvin family.”

  Milo said, “As I said, sir—”

  “If you need to be thorough, why don’t you accumulate sufficient personnel to do that in a timely manner?”

  Felice Corvin stared straight ahead. Paul Weyland took out his phone and scrolled. The kids remained lost in space.

  Milo nodded at the recliner. Chet Corvin sat. “Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

  Brett Corvin, still playing with his fingernails, said, “It was like murder, Dad. They can’t just mess around.”

  Chet stared at his son. His eyes hardened. “Of course, slugger.”

  Felice Corvin said, “We can’t go to Arrowhead, they’ve got school.” To Milo: “How much does this victims’ group pay, Lieutenant?”

  Milo said, “I’m not sure, ma’am, but I’ll see to it that you get the right contact information.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  Chet Corvin said, “What? Some cheesy motel in a crap part of town? I think not. In terms of school, the kids can get their homework and take it with them.”

  Felice Corvin said, “We’ll discuss it.”

  Brett Corvin said, “Arrowhead would be cool, we never go, I can do my homework there.”

  His mother said, “Nice try.”

  Chet humphed and cracked his knuckles.

  Through the exchange, no comment from Chelsea. The hands in her lap were twitching faster. Paul Weyland looked at her with what seemed to be pity, but neither parent paid her any mind.

  Chet Corvin said, “Back to basics. Who’s the poor devil in my den?”

  “No idea, sir.”

  “What kind of lunatic would do that to a house?” To me: “We come back home, great dinner, prime rib, I could still taste the pie. Everything looks normal, we might never have found it until tomorrow morning but I left my reading glasses in the library and went down there and did find it.”

  To his wife: “And then you come down and scream.”

  Felice Corvin said, “You were down there so long, I got concerned.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a dead mouse,” said her husband. “I needed time to take it in, who wouldn’t? Something like that, right off our damn living room?”

  “Dying room,” said Chelsea Corvin.

  Everyone looked at the girl. She mumbled.

  Brett gave a knowing smirk: Weird sister behaving predictably.

  Chet and Felice shook their heads. Unified in bafflement, their odd child.

  The girl bent over and began crying.

  Paul Weyland looked ill at ease. A host whose guests had overstayed their welcome.

  Felice Corvin went over to Chelsea and touched the girl’s shoulder. Chelsea recoiled. “It’ll be okay, honey.”

  “Easy to say, hard to accomplish,” said Chet Corvin, looking at his daughter and wife with curious detachment. “But we’ll get through this, the Corvins are made of tough stuff, right, gang?”

  “Totally gross,” said Brett Corvin, with little passion. He sniffled, gulped. Smiling as he mocked his sister.

  His mother said, “Bretty—”

  The boy made a hacking motion. “I saw it, no hands. Bleh. Messed up.” To Milo: “Maybe they got thrown in the garbage.”

  Felice said, “Brett Corvin!”

  Chelsea whimpered. Brett said, “Crybaby.”

  “Son,” said Chet, “that really is a bit out of line.”

  The boy untied a sneaker, twirled a lace. “His face was like that stuff you ate last week, the Italian food. Tar-tare. Bleh.”

  Chelsea Corvin made a gagging noise, clamped a hand over her mouth, and tottered upright. Panicked black eyes settled on Paul Weyland. “Ba-ru?”

  Her father said, “What?”

  Weyland stepped closer to her and pointed. “There’s a bathroom right over there.” Right-hand door on the way to his den. Maybe there was a matching room in the Corvin house. I’d been looking at other things.

  The hand Chelsea used to cover her mouth was white and tight. She faltered, gagged again.

  Chet Corvin said, “Go! Same place as our powder—go, g’won, don’t mess up Paul and Donna’s carpet.”

  The girl ran off, swung a door open, slammed it shut. Retching and vomiting followed immediately. A toilet flush. More gastric noise. Another flush.

  Brett Corvin said, “Gross. This is like a whole gross night.”

  Milo said, “Mr. and Mrs. Corvin, in terms of where you want to stay tonight—”

  Paul Weyland said, “If it helps, they can stay here.” Tentative offer but far from a commitment. “My wife’s visiting her mother, I’ve got three bedrooms. A couple have beds, for the other I’ve got futons in the garage.”

  Felice Corvin said, “That’s so incredibly kind of you, Paul, but we couldn’t impose.”

  Chet Corvin said, “Big of you, neighbor, deeply appreciated. But seeing as Arrowhead’s off the table, I’ve got a better idea. My
corporate card from the company will get us lodging in a decent hotel.” To Milo: “At least for the day it takes to get our homestead back.”

  “We’ll do our best but no promises, sir.”

  “You’re making it sound as if you own the place.”

  “With a crime scene, Mr. Corvin, we do become custodians.”

  Chet turned to Weyland. “Thanks but no thanks, Paul. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Sure,” said Weyland, sounding relieved.

  Brett said, “A hotel, cool. Let’s do the one near Magic Mountain?”

  Felice said, “What are we going to do about clothes, toothpaste, pajamas. Your snore-guard, Chet?”

  Mention of the appliance tightened her husband’s face. “There’s such a thing as luggage, dearest. Lieutenant, I’m sure you can find a way to accompany us next door so we can take a few necessities without screwing up your procedures.”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. We need to preserve the crime scene strictly. If you need to purchase anything, the victims’ fund will also—”

  “We’re not victims.” To his wife: “Fine. We’ll buy whatever we need and I promise not to saw wood.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Brett, letting his mouth drop open and snuffling wetly.

  His mother took hold of his arm. “Stop it.”

  “What?” he said.

  The powder room door opened and Chelsea staggered out, face damp, strands of hair plastered to her cheeks.

  “That do the trick for you?” said her father. “We don’t want an accident.”

  The girl hung her head.

  Silence from her mother.

  Chelsea sat back down, rotated her body away from everyone else.

  Chet Corvin said, “Can we at least take our cars?”

  “They’ve been gone over, so sure, Mr. Corvin.”

  “Ooooh, CSI,” said Brett. “Hey, Dad, are you like a serial killer?” Drawing a finger across his throat and bugging his eyes.

  “Son, you might want to cool it.”

  “Why?”

  “I appreciate the humor, champ, but—”

  “It’s gross,” said the boy, jutting his mandible. “You can’t make it not-gross.”

  “Son—”

  “Stop it!” said Felice. “Everyone just stop it. Here we are gabbing as if nothing happened and all we care about is toothpaste. This is a tragedy. That poor man.” To Milo: “I do hope you find out who he is. For his family’s sake.”

  Paul Weyland nodded.

  Felice smiled at him.

  Chet Corvin watched the exchange. “Fine, we’ve got a consensus on sympathy. So may we go, now?”

  Milo said, “We’d like to talk to each of you individually.”

  “Really,” said Chet.

  “Not for long, sir, just enough to get some basic statements.”

  “How much is ‘not for long,’ Lieutenant?”

  “A few minutes each.”

  “Well,” said Chet, “I don’t mind personally, not that I have anything to add. But the kids, they need to be accompanied by an adult, right?”

  “I’m not a pussy,” said Brett.

  “Bretty,” said Felice.

  Out came the lower jaw. “What? I can do it by myself. I wanna do it.”

  She looked at her husband. He shrugged.

  She said, “I suppose, if it’s brief and you promise to be sensitive, Lieutenant.”

  “Scout’s honor,” said Milo.

  “You were a scout?” said Chet. “I made Eagle, youngest ever in my troop, record number of badges. All right, go for it, kids. Strong stuff, the Corvins, all the way back to King Richard.”

  No one had asked Chelsea how she felt. Milo walked over to her. “Are you okay with talking to us alone?”

  His voice was soft, gentle. The girl looked up.

  “I don’t need them,” she said. “I can even go first.”

  Chelsea’s offer was challenged by Brett and bickering ensued, the boy mouthing off as he dared to use obscenities, his sister sneering silently.

  Felice Corvin said, “Obviously, they’re in no state. I change my mind, Lieutenant.”

  Milo said, “Sure.” He assigned the female cop out front to wait with both kids and Felice as we talked to Chet.

  The venue was a few steps away, Paul Weyland’s kitchen, a nineties concoction of generic white cabinets and black granite. The counters were cluttered with take-out pizza boxes, KFC buckets, empty soda cans.

  Chet Corvin said, “Batching it, Paul?”

  Weyland smiled weakly. “Gonna clean up before Donna gets back.”

  “Donna get on your case, does she?”

  Weyland frowned, pointed to a round kitchen table set up with four chairs. “This work for you, Lieutenant?”

  Milo said, “Perfect, we really appreciate it.”

  “No prob.” Weyland stifled a yawn. “ ’Scuse me. Anything else I can do? Something to drink?”

  Chet Corvin said, “You have Macallan Twenty-Four?”

  Weyland smiled weakly. “Above my pay grade, Chet.”

  “School board getting miserly—”

  Milo said, “No, thanks, Mr. Weyland. Feel free to go anywhere in your house or outside.”

  Chet said, “He’s a free agent and we’re…what a system.”

  Weyland said, “I’ll go in my office and clear some paper.”

  Chet said, “Donna—”

  Milo cut him off with a hand slash. “Thanks again, sir.”

  Chet Corvin said, “Lucky you, Paul. Your house isn’t a crime scene.”

  Weyland left, lips pursed, exhaling.

  Milo took out his pad and pen.

  Chet arched an eyebrow. “You guys haven’t advanced to a handheld?”

  Milo smiled. “Let’s go over tonight, Mr. Corvin.”

  “Nothing to go over. We were out of the house at six fifteen, family dinner, like I told you.”

  “You do that regularly.”

  “You bet, family that dines together…” Corvin searched for a punch line, failed, frowned. “We try for two Sundays a month, sometimes we miss when I’m traveling but we make the effort.”

  “What business are you in?”

  “Senior vice president and western regional supervisor at Connecticut Surety, Auto, Home and Transport.”

  “Insurance.”

  “Reinsurance. Not life, not medical, nothing iffy. I do casualty only, excluding homeowner auto. The big stuff, shipping, rail transport, interstate trucking. I’m in charge of California, Oregon, and Washington, Alaska when our Canadian rep can’t make it. Crazy place, Alaska, transport planes going down in blizzards.”

  “Sounds like a lot of travel.”

  Chet sat back and crossed his legs, warming to the topic. “Yeah, I’m troubleshooting all over. A little less now, some stuff can be done with face-timing.” Conspiratorial grin. “More time for golf, this year I worked my handicap two points lower. Still, yeah, I’m on the road plenty. In addition to direct business there’s ancillary business—conventions, meetings at the home office in Hartford. I handle a huge catchment area. Trucks alone is three-quarters of a million cumulative miles per year.”

  I said, “Lots of responsibilities.”

  “You got that, Alan. Big shoulders.”

  Milo said, “So you went to family dinner tonight.”

  “Like I told you the first time, usually we go somewhere close, the bride likes to eat light, you know women. The kids go for pizza, Italian fits that bill ’cause she can get a salad, lots of Italian places close by. This time I said time for a change, it was going to be meat, prime, no holds barred, the redder the better. I needed fuel, right? Had to be Lawry’s, right? If the bride didn’t like it, she could order a salad. In the end she had the lobster tails and everyone else did the meat thing, iron in the blood.”

  He chuckled. “Cholesterol-erama.”

  Milo said, “Bit of a drive to La Cienega.”

  “You bet,” said Corvin. “Sunday, no telling wh
at you can run into. So we left early. Turned out we had smooth sailing until West Hollywood, then some sort of construction, blocked-off lanes. But we made it right on the dot, my timing was perfect.”

  “And you returned…”

  “What I told you the first time,” said Corvin.

  Milo smiled.

  “Fine. What did I say—around nine, right? Still saying that, can’t be more specific than that ’cause I didn’t check, why would I? ETD I can tell you because I established the timetable so obviously I needed to check the old Roller.”

  Flashing a steel Rolex, he extended his head forward. His neck was meaty, taurine. “That work for you, Lieutenant? Definite ETD, approximate ETA back to base? Not that I see why any of this is relevant.”

  Milo scrawled. “So you got home around nine and went to your den—”

  “Pure chance,” said Corvin. “The original plan was catch up on DVR’d TV, one thing the bride and I can agree on is Downtown Abbey, I like the history, she’s into the clothes and whatnot. We had two episodes taped.”

  “You went to look for your reading glasses.”

  “I didn’t have them in the restaurant but because I knew what I wanted beforehand, the menu was irrelevant. Except for paying the check, for that I borrowed the bride’s glasses.” He laughed. “Pink girlie glasses, Brett thought it was a crack-up, thankfully the place was dark—”

  “So you went downstairs—”

  “Went downstairs, saw it, and boom,” said Chet Corvin, punching a palm. “There was no smell, nothing to warn me, it was just there. I was a little thrown off, who the hell wouldn’t be? You’re in your own house and you find that? I mean it’s insane. It’s absolutely insane.”

  It. That. Not him.

  Depersonalizing the body for a reason? Or just Chet being Chet?

  Milo said, “You were there long enough for your wife to come down.”

  “That,” said Corvin, “was my bad, Lieutenant. I should’ve kept her out but to be honest, I was still a little thrown. So she saw and started screaming her head off and that brought the kids down and now they’re seeing it. She pushes them away, runs toward the front door, I’m saying where you going and she doesn’t answer. So I follow and she looks around and heads here to Paul and Donna’s. We ring the bell, he comes to the door, Felice is totally freaked, she’s jabbering, I take charge and explain clearly, am ready to call you guys. Then I realize I hadn’t taken my phone. So Paul calls you guys.”