Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Shifting his weight. “And here we are, team.”

  Milo said, “Mr. Corvin, some of the questions we ask you may sound foolish but we still need to go through them. Starting with can you think of anyone who could be behind this?”

  “Negative.”

  “Is there someone who’d want to target your home specifically?”

  “Same answer,” said Corvin. “What kind of target would we be? Dumping a body? It’s not like it directly hurt us.”

  Milo said, “It could be a psychological assault—”

  “Yeah, well, this has nothing to do with us, we’ll get past it and move on. None of that PTSD crap I’m always getting from teamsters.”

  “Okay…any idea how whoever did it got in?”

  “If I had to guess, Lieutenant, I’d say the utility door. Always remind the bride to lock, she gets careless. Same with the alarm, she’s a smart gal but absentminded, like the professor she used to be.”

  “Professor of what?”

  “Elementary education. Before that she was a teacher. Then a vice principal. Now she works for L.A. Unified, setting up curriculum. Important job, all kinds of responsibilities. You can see how she’d lose track.”

  “Is she in the district’s main office, downtown?”

  “Nope, satellite, the Valley, Van Nuys. Paul’s at the downtown office, that’s how he and Donna found out about the house—they rent, don’t own. Felice told them.”

  “What does Mr. Weyland do at the district?”

  “Search me,” said Corvin. “They’re not teachers, some sort of paper-pushers—he and Donna, both. Couple years ago, they met the bride at a symposium or something, she told them next door was coming vacant.”

  “Who’s the owner?” I said.

  “No idea. It’s been rented out since we moved in.”

  “How long ago is that?”

  “Six years.” Corvin touched his chest. “Bought mine when I got transferred from the Bay Area, had to downsize property-wise from this great place in Mill Valley but lucky for us, the recession hit, we stole the place.”

  “So,” said Milo, “your rear door could’ve been unlocked and the alarm off.”

  “I’m sure the alarm was off or the company would’ve texted me. In terms of the door, I’m sure she left it open.” Wink and a smile. “Don’t tell her I said that or you’ll be aiding and abetting husband abuse.”

  Milo smiled back, checked his notes. “Your wife told me she locked it.”

  Corvin shrugged. “You know how it is, guys. Choose your battles.”

  Milo flipped a page. “Any strange events recently, sir?”

  “Like what?”

  “Hang-up phone calls, unusual vehicles parked on the street or driving around.”

  “Nope.”

  “Anyone who didn’t look like they belonged?”

  “Nothing,” said Corvin. “Absolutely nothing.”

  I said, “Have there been any neighborhood conflicts?”

  “Like what?”

  “Disputes over anything.”

  “Nah, it’s quiet here—okay, here you go, I just thought of something.” He held up a finger. “There’s an oddball, neighbor on the other side of us. Not that I’m saying he did anything but man, he’s different.”

  Milo picked up his pen. “Who’s that?”

  Corvin glanced to the side. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want it getting back to him.”

  “It won’t, sir,” said Milo. “We’re going to be canvassing all your neighbors, so talking to anyone will be routine.”

  “Yeah, but I need to—like I said, he’s weird.”

  “You’ve had problems with him?”

  “Not per se.”

  “But…”

  “Nothing,” said Corvin. “He’s just weird, so keep me out of it.” Half smile. “Scout’s honor?”

  Milo crossed his heart.

  “Fine. His name is Trevor Bitt, writes comic books or something.”

  “How’s he strange?”

  “Lives by himself, keeps to himself, no visitors I’ve ever seen. He never comes out except to bring his cans to the curb or when he drives away in a noisy pickup—a Dodge. If you happen to be there and say hello, he makes like he doesn’t hear.”

  I said, “Not a social guy.”

  “In his own world, Alan,” said Corvin. “You’ll meet him, you’ll see. But we’ve never given him a reason to hassle us. One time we got his mail and I brought it over. He took it, even said thank you. But I could tell he didn’t mean it. Next time, on can day, he ignored me. Weird.”

  “Comic books,” said Milo.

  Corvin said, “That’s what they say, I read nonfiction.”

  “Who says?”

  “I don’t know, I just heard it—go Google him. Maybe I heard wrong and he’s the head of Finland or something.”

  “How long has Mr. Bitt been living here?”

  “You’re interested in him? Listen, I didn’t want to open some worm can.”

  “You haven’t,” said Milo, “but at this point we need to look into everything. How long’s Mr. Bitt been your neighbor?”

  Corvin frowned. “He moved in, I want to say, two years after we did. So four years, give or take? I brought him a bottle of wine. No answer at the door so I left it on his doorstep. Next day it was gone but not a single thank-you. The second time we got his mail, the bride brought it over. I warned her he’d snub her. She’s sensitive, bruises like a peach. I used to call her that. My Georgia peach, she spent some time in Atlanta as a kid, father taught at Emory.”

  I said, “Did Bitt snub her.”

  “She didn’t say, it’s not like he’s a topic. That’s all I can tell you about him.”

  “Anyone else in the neighborhood we should be looking at? Even if it seems unlikely.”

  “Not a one, Al. This whole thing is unlikely. That it would happen to us.”

  * * *

  —

  Milo did the usual repetition of questions that often pulls up info. With Corvin it didn’t and we walked him out of the kitchen. Brett was seated closer to his mother, fooling with his phone. Chelsea stood at the rear of the room, staring at black glass.

  Milo said, “I know it’s late, so how about we talk to the kids now, Mrs. Corvin. Let’s start with Chelsea.”

  Felice shook her head. “You heard what I said before, Lieutenant. And actually, the kids and I have been discussing it and they have absolutely nothing to offer. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

  Milo said, “How old are you, Brett?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Chelsea?”

  No reply.

  Felice said, “She’s seventeen. They’re both minors, so I’m taking responsibility here. They know nothing and I don’t want their ordeal to be exacerbated.”

  Milo said, “Fair enough, ma’am. But kids, if you do think of something, tell your parents—”

  Chelsea mumbled, “Bullshit.” Turning, she faced us, focused on her mother, glaring. “I can talk, I don’t care what anyone says.”

  Chet Corvin said, “Watch your tone, young lady.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Felice Corvin said, “Cheltz—”

  “Bullshit, I can talk.” A lower-lip tremor robbed the statement of potency.

  “Cheltz, you said you had nothing to tell them.”

  “But if I did I could.”

  “ ‘But if I did I could,’ ” said Brett in a baby voice. “Ooooh.”

  His sister wheeled on him. “Fuck off you little ass-wipe—”

  Brett bobbled his head and waved jazz hands. “Ooooooh—”

  Chelsea spat on the floor. “Ant-dick. I’ve seen it and you are.”

  Her turn to smirk. Brett turned crimson and began to rise. His mother restrained him with a hand on his arm. He squirmed. Jabbed the air with a one-finger salute.

  “Midget-balls,” said Chelsea.

  The boy struggled to peel Felice’s hand off.


  She restrained him with both of hers. “Don’t you dare, Brett Corvin.”

  Brett flopped back against the back of the sofa, growling. Flashes of red and blue as he bared his teeth. Designer orthodontics.

  Chelsea said, “No-go gonad.”

  Chet Corvin, stunned, had done nothing during the exchange, eyes moving between his offspring.

  Felice pushed Brett back and wagged her finger at Chelsea. Shooting to her feet, she extruded words through clenched lips. “Both. Of. You. Shut. Up!”

  Instant compliance.

  “Barbarians!” She turned to us, flashed a frosty smile. “Obviously, I’ve proved my point. Here’s what’s going to happen: I’ll talk to you now, and then we’ll be finished.” To her husband: “Watch them properly and find a decent hotel. Make sure it’s got good Wi-Fi.”

  Facing us, her back to him.

  “Honey,” he said, glancing at Chelsea, then Brett.

  The girl trembled. The boy seethed.

  Felice Corvin said, “You handle them. For a change.”

  Felice Corvin walked ahead of us to the Weylands’ kitchen. We sat but she remained on her feet. “I’m at a desk all day. My chiropractor tells me to get off my butt whenever I have a chance. What do you want to know?”

  Milo said, “Let’s go over tonight. Your husband said you left for dinner at six fifteen.”

  “If he said it, it must be true.”

  We waited.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I’m on edge. For obvious reasons. Yes, that sounds right.”

  “You arrived at Lawry’s at…”

  “Whenever Chet says. I’m not a clock-watcher.”

  “Out for a normal Sunday dinner.”

  “Normal. Interesting word.” She tossed her hair. “Sorry, again. Yes, it was just another meal, no special occasion. We try to go out with the two of them.” She laughed. “Civilization and all that. Honestly, I’m appalled by what you just had to witness.”

  I said, “They’re under a lot of stress.”

  “Of course they are but I won’t kid you, this goes way back, the two of them have never gotten along. Nothing in common, not that that explains it.” She shrugged. “Brett’s a great athlete, he handles school basically okay. Chelsea…” She sighed. “She’s seventeen but still in tenth grade. There are motor issues as well as cognitive and perceptual problems, so sports are out and learning’s a challenge. That makes her an obvious target and Brett can be unkind—I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” She threw up her hands. “Probably just what you said, stress.”

  Milo said, “We appreciate your taking the time—”

  “Sure. Can we get on with it?”

  “Of course, ma’am…so you had dinner and got back around nine. Take us through what happened then.”

  “We all went upstairs then Chet went downstairs for his glasses and I heard this crazy noise. It took a second for me to realize he was screaming. Like he was in pain, last time I heard that was when he had prostatitis.”

  A fact Chet had chosen to omit, emphasizing his wife’s emotionality.

  “My first thought was, He’s had a heart attack. What with his weight and all the garbage he puts in his system. So I ran down, saw him standing there staring at something. Then I saw what it was.”

  She shook her head. “That poor, poor man. It’s still sinking in. Our house? How insane is that?”

  We gave her time. She filled it with nothing.

  Milo looked at me.

  I said, “After you saw—”

  “Oh, God,” she said, shutting her eyes, then opening them. “I really don’t want to think about it. Don’t know if I’ll ever get the image out of my head.”

  Her lids fluttered. Pretty hazel irises settled on me. “How do you people do it, day after day?”

  “Time tends to—”

  “So they say, I hope it’s true.” She tapped her forehead. “Because right now it’s just sitting in here like a…a…I don’t even want to fall asleep tonight, afraid of what I’m going to dream.”

  She sat down, exhaled, pushed hair behind her left ear. Spotting a Kleenex box, she grabbed a tissue, wadded it, passed it from hand to hand. “Everything’s jangling.”

  I said, “It’s a terrible thing to go through.”

  “I think I’d like some water.”

  Milo found a glass, rinsed and filled.

  “Thank you.” Tentative sips, then a deep swallow. She blinked. “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for,” I said. “Can we go on?”

  “Sure.”

  “So you and Mr. Corvin were standing there—”

  “Both of us freaking out. Chet’s color looks nasty to me, purplish, he’s got blood pressure issues. I’m thinking, Oh shit, there’ll be two dead bodies, what the hell am I going to do?”

  She drank more water, dabbed sweat from the sides of her nose. “If both of us had the foresight to be quiet…but we didn’t and that brought the kids down and once I saw them, I snapped into mommy mode, not wanting them to see it. But I wasn’t fast enough. At that point, it became utter chaos, Brett’s whooping and yelling how gross it is, Chelsea’s just standing there. Meanwhile, Chet’s his usual inert self—what you just saw. Rooted in place and I’m trying to push the kids out of the room and now Brett’s had an eyeful and he’s white as a ghost. They both are, Chelsea was stunned from the get-go. As you saw, Brett recovered, he’s not one for…lingering. Chelsea, on the other hand…this is the last thing she needs.”

  I said, “We can give you referrals for therapy.”

  “Could you?” she said. “That’s kind, maybe at some point. But not now, Chelsea hates therapists, we tried a couple, they failed miserably. What can I say? I choose my battles.”

  Same thing her husband had said about debating her.

  A family that saw life as a war zone?

  I said, “So you have no idea who the victim might be?”

  “Of course not! Why would I?”

  “We need to ask.”

  “Proper procedure?” said Felice Corvin. “I get it, I work for L.A. Unified, it’s all about procedure, a lot of it downright stupid. No, I don’t have a clue. Nor can I tell you why they dumped him in our house.”

  She bit her lip. “What they did to his hands—was that to hide his fingerprints?”

  “Could be.”

  “I hope that’s what it is. ’Cause if it’s some crazy satanic thing, that would scare me completely to death.”

  I said, “Hiding evidence is the most likely reason.”

  “But nothing’s guaranteed.” Strange smile. “Given tonight, that’s pretty obvious.”

  I looked at Milo and he took over, covering the same ground he had with Chet. Hang-up calls, strange vehicles, anything out of the ordinary.

  Identical denials from Felice. The first sign of accord between them. They’d never know.

  Milo closed his pad. “So it’s pretty much a quiet neighborhood, Mrs. Corvin.”

  “I’m not sure I’d call it a neighborhood. That would imply neighborliness.”

  “Not a friendly place.”

  “Not friendly or unfriendly, Lieutenant. Just a bunch of houses that abut each other. I grew up in Indiana and Georgia, we had block parties, no fences between the yards. Even later, up north—we used to live in Mill Valley before we came here—we knew the people around us, rode our horses together—we had equestrian zoning, it was lovely.”

  “Not here,” said Milo.

  “Hardly,” said Felice Corvin. “Here, you rarely see people, period. Weekends are dead.” She colored around her freckles. “Sorry, that was…what I’ve heard is that a lot of the owners have second homes. And some are renters.”

  I said, “Like the Weylands.”

  Felice Corvin squinted at me.

  I said, “It came up in conversation with your husband. Your helping them find the place.”

  “Did he call me a busybody like when it happened?”

  “He said you were
helpful.” Ever the therapist.

  “Well,” said Felice Corvin, “I did tell them about the vacancy. I knew Donna because she’s in accounting downtown, came to our office to deliver papers, we chatted, she told me she was looking for a place. Paul I only met after they moved in. Nice people but we don’t see them much, they have no kids, do a lot of traveling.”

  Milo said, “Another neighbor came up in conversation with your husband. Mr. Bitt, on the other side.”

  Felice Corvin’s head drew back. “What about him?”

  “Your husband said he was a bit odd.”

  She drummed a granite counter. “Can’t argue with that. Was there a reason Chet brought it up? As in something he knows but has chosen not to tell me about?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Milo. “We probed for anything out of the ordinary just as we did with you and Mr. Corvin said Mr. Bitt was a bit different.”

  “Okay. I’d hate to think Chet was keeping something important from me. Yes, Trevor’s a bit of an odd duck. Keeps to himself, we rarely see him, though for all I know he emerges when we’re at work. I did bring him his mail once and he thanked me but that’s been the extent of it. As I said, no one around here is exactly gregarious. Except Chet, of course, he’s never met a stranger.”

  Her smile was lopsided, unrelated to happiness.

  “Never met a stranger, Chet,” she repeated. “I guess now he has.”

  * * *

  —

  We escorted her back to the Weylands’ living room. Three people working their phones. The kids didn’t look up but Chet did.

  “Got us set up at the Circle Plaza, nice and close to the 405, make your commute a cinch.”

  “It’ll do,” said Felice. “We won’t be staying long, anyway.” To Milo: “Can you give me at least an educated guess as to when we can return home?”

  “As I said, ma’am, it’s likely to be a crime scene through tomorrow, possibly the day after.”