Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Couldn’t tell you, Doc…someone must’ve let me know…oh, yeah, guy I knew, produced Tommyrot, they wanted to use Bitt because Karl sold so good. He found out Bitt quit, called me complaining, like it was my fault. Wanted me to try to talk Bitt into it, like I’d have anything to do with that psychotic ass-wipe. Why’re the cops after him? Why do they have a shrink on it, because he’s nuts?”

  “Sorry, can’t get into details.”

  “Forget I asked, who cares,” said Joseph. “Curiosity kills non-hip cats. So Iggy told you I found Bitt for him, huh? He’s blaming me?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “I asked him how he knew Bitt and—”

  “What’s your connection to Iggy?”

  “My girlfriend built him a guitar.”

  “Girlfriend,” he said. “The little gorgeous one with the studio up in the hills?”

  “That’s her.”

  “That’s your girlfriend.” He whistled. “Iggy liked her.”

  “How’d you come to know Bitt?”

  “Same old story,” said Joseph. “A chick.”

  “Which chick?”

  “Bitt’s girlfriend, intellectual type, I met her at a benefit for something, couldn’t tell you.”

  “Here in L.A.?”

  “San Francisco, I was up there a lot, producing a bunch of bands, renting a houseboat in Sausalito, going to parties. Like this benefit. For something…the usual boring shit, I spot this hot chick, move in, drop a bunch of names, I’m thinking it’s going good. Then all of a sudden this guy materializes, never saw him coming, all of a sudden he’s just there. Like the fog. Standing between me and the chick, smoking a blunt but wearing a suit and tie. He gives the chick a death-ray look, she splits. Then he gives me the look. I say who are you? He says, ‘The Rembrandt of this century,’ and walks away. I ask someone who is that asshole, they tell me. I knew his name, had seen his stuff at this exhibit of comix guys in some fancy gallery, I didn’t figure he’d look like a CEO. Few months later, the Karl cover comes up, Ig was in a dark place, I’m thinking Bitt could be perfect. I get Bitt’s number from someone, couldn’t tell you, don’t ask. The rest is what Ig told you. It was a crazy time, once some guys used to be in Zappa’s band show up at Gold Star Studios and…”

  I listened to several minutes of free-form reminiscence until Lanny Joseph caught his breath and said, “End of story.”

  “Anything else you can tell me about Bitt?”

  “Guy could draw like crazy but that was his only good point. Hey, there’s the dolphins. Ciao.”

  * * *

  —

  Internet research on Trevor Bitt revealed a tendency to evoke strong opinions pro and con. It also confirmed Lanny Joseph’s rich-boy tag.

  The cartoonist’s wealth had descended from a great-great-grandfather, a New York financier and Rockefeller associate named Silas Bitt. No mention of professional accomplishments by any other descendants. Maybe the rest of the family had coasted.

  I keyworded silas bitt. Just the Rockefeller connection so I returned to his great-great-grandson.

  Like everything else about the cartoonist, Bitt’s wealth sparked polarized judgments: He was either a wastrel tool of the Capitalist Monster or a genius who’d used his good fortune to make groundbreaking art.

  I moved on, surfing. Bitt hadn’t been active for nearly two decades and all his books were long out of print. Secondhand prices suggested gone and forgotten.

  Theories explaining his dropping out included drug addiction—heroin/crack/meth/take your pick—or a prolonged psychiatric hospitalization for schizophrenia/manic depression/Vincent van Gogh syndrome, whatever that was, or a debilitating physical disease (Huntington’s chorea/mad cow), or simply “burnout.”

  All of that wisdom offered by the kind of people who spout off anonymously online.

  Nothing in Bitt’s history came close to suggesting criminality.

  Calling Milo with bad news seemed inconsiderate.

  Better a twenty-four-karat silence.

  Three days later, Milo phoned.

  “No I.D. yet on my John Doe, just heard from the pathologist. Poor guy’s brain was full of bird shot and wadding and like we figured the amputations were postmortem, probably a motorized saw, best guess a band or a jig. His arteries weren’t great but no impending heart attack. But he did have some bad luck years before being killed: spleen and left kidney gone, coupla old breaks in his left femur, same for his left collarbone and four ribs.”

  I said, “Car crash?”

  “Coroner said it could be any sort of collision.”

  “Would the leg breaks have caused a limp?”

  “Likely,” he said.

  “Any estimate when the injuries took place?”

  “Probably within the last ten years. Age estimate on the guy is between fifty and sixty, so we’re not talking college football.”

  I said, “Could be something work-related. A truck driver, heavy machinery.”

  “Or just an unlucky fellow who tumbled down some stairs.”

  “Fifty to sixty puts him in Trevor Bitt’s age range.”

  “An old pal? Sure, why not, now let’s prove it. Bottom line: No magic from the crypt but maybe the injury will be helpful if I go to the media.”

  “If, not when?”

  “Yeah, it’s probably gonna end up that way,” he said. “But I’m spending today going over the missing persons files again, maybe something’ll jump out and I can avoid a ton of bullshit tips.”

  I said, “John Doe didn’t lead a charmed life but Bitt did. Inherited wealth that goes way back.”

  I filled him in on the input from Iggy Smirch and Lanny Joseph.

  He said, “Trust-fund baby. That could explain the snotty attitude. Got it again this morning. He cracked his door and stared at me like I was pond scum. After I finished my spiel, he turned his back on me and closed the damn thing. Days like this, I wish I was living in a police state.”

  I said, “You and Kim Jong busting down doors.”

  He laughed. “Rich kid retires, moves to the Palisades, it fits. But I still can’t find anything nasty in his background. No dirt on Chet Corvin, either, other than some eye-rolling when I brought him up.”

  “With who?”

  “His secretary. I went over to his office, yesterday. Door sign says it’s the company’s West Coast ancillary site. That translates to two rooms in a so-so building on the south side of Beverly Hills. Just Corvin and the secretary, uptight lady in her seventies. Looked to me like a mail drop, maybe something that qualifies the company to operate in California. She verified what Chet told us, he’s on the road a lot. Books his own trips. She wasn’t surprised to see me, Chet had told her about the body. In graphic detail. That’s when she rolled her eyes. She said it made her sick. I asked who his pals were, work or otherwise. More rolling. ‘Wouldn’t know, Lieutenant, but I’m sure Chet’s popular with everyone.’ ”

  “The boss’s charm has worn thin.”

  “I figured great, she can’t stand him, won’t be protective of him. But when I asked her about anyone with a beef against him, she didn’t know of any. Didn’t know much period. My sense is she gets paid to warm a seat and take messages. And no, there hadn’t been any strange messages or mail for Mr. Corvin during the year and a half she’d worked for him.”

  I said, “He books his own travel. Maybe to keep the details private.”

  “Women in every port, pissed-off husbands? I thought about that but why not target Corvin directly? Why a handless John Doe in the guy’s den?”

  “Anything on John Doe’s clothes? They looked pretty generic to me.”

  “That’s ’cause they are,” he said. “The shoes are Nike, everything else is Chinese-made, carried by discount chains and outlets all over the country.”

  “So probably not a country-club golf buddy of Chet’s,” I said. “Or the descendant of a Rockefeller crony.”

  “Unless he’s one of those eccentric moneybags who lives on the
cheap—hey, maybe he is one of ol’ Trevor’s cousins and the Bitts have been inbreeding too long. Where do they hale from?”

  “The original money got made in New York.”

  “Make it there, you can make it anywhere. Okay, I’ll see what I can find about this clan. If I learn there’s some big-time inheritance dispute at play and Cousin Itt with a limp hasn’t been heard from, you’re my new best friend.”

  “New?” I said.

  “Fine, re-newed. We will reach a new level, like one of those relationship encounter weekends. Except instead of ‘Kumbaya’ and meditation, I’ll buy dinner. You, Robin, the pooch. I’ll even spring for fish food.”

  * * *

  —

  I did my own search. Like a lot of old-wealth recipients, the Bitts appeared to live invisibly.

  A handful of people with the surname showed up on the Internet but none were the cartoonist’s kin. I was logging off when my service called, a longtime operator named Lenore.

  “Dr. Delaware, I have a Mr. Corvin on the line. He wouldn’t say about what. I asked him to leave his number, he got kind of pushy, said you’d know what it’s about. I asked if it was an emergency, he said it was. But I don’t think it was—not that I’m a psychologist.”

  “None of the usual anxiety,” I said.

  “Just the opposite, Doctor. Smooth. To tell the truth, he sounds like he wants to sell you something. I’ve got him on hold, if you want me to tell him you’re unavailable…”

  “No, I’ll talk to him. Thanks for being cautious, Lenore.”

  “Always,” she said.

  Click.

  “This is Dr. Delaware.”

  “Hey, Doc, Chet. How’s everything going?”

  “With the investigation?”

  “That. In general. Figure of speech. Looked you up, your name’s Alexander, I thought it was Alan. Anyway, I can use you. My daughter can.”

  “Chelsea’s having problems.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on: We’ve been home since Wednesday, that went fine. But last night I heard her get up, looked at the clock, it was three a.m. Then I hear her go down the stairs, fine, she wants a drink of water. Then the front door shuts and I’m thinking what-the? I go outside and see her walking around. Not in her p.j.’s, dressed like she’s going somewhere, except no shoes. When I told her to go back inside, she gave me one of those looks.”

  “What kind of look?”

  “You know,” he said.

  I waited.

  Chet Corvin said, “What you saw, Alex. Defiant. I said, ‘This is ridiculous, come back inside.’ She gave me the look and went back inside.”

  “Did she seem to be sleepwalking?”

  “You’re the expert, Doc. But I’d have to say no, her eyes were open and it wasn’t like she was on a different planet. More like daring me. Defiant.”

  “Daring you to do what?”

  “Maybe punish her? I don’t know, was hoping you could tell me. How many times have you seen this kind of thing?”

  “Kids leaving the house?”

  “With clothes but no shoes,” he said. “Three in the morning. You think it’s some kind of PTSD?”

  “Did she have her purse with her?” I said. “Her phone?”

  “Nope, just her walking.”

  “Walking where?”

  “In the cul-de-sac, back and forth.”

  “How far?”

  “Not far, like…twenty feet in one way, then she turns around, then she does the whole thing all over again.”

  “You watched her.”

  “Well, yeah, sure, Alex, I wanted to know what was going on. When can you see her? This is something I will bill to that victims’ fund.”

  I said, “I can refer you but I can’t treat Chelsea.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m already consulting on the investigation and need to communicate with the police. So I can’t offer confidentiality.”

  “We don’t care about keeping secrets, Alex. You figure her out, tell her what’s what so she can snap out of this nonsense. Tell us, also, so we know how to handle her in the future. We all set, then?”

  “It won’t work, Mr. Corvin. I’m happy to give you a referral.”

  “Hmm,” he said. “You’re a pretty willful guy. Thought the therapy game was all about compromise.”

  It’s about lots of things. Including boundaries.

  “Would you like a referral?”

  “Nah,” he said. “I don’t want to get involved with someone else. And I really can’t see why you won’t help us. If it’s money, forget the victims’ fund, I’ll pay you directly.”

  I said, “It’s not money.”

  “I hear that all the time, Alex, and it usually turns out to be exactly about money.”

  I said nothing.

  Chet Corvin said, “Listen, Alex, let’s put our heads together and work out a solution. Talk to her once, see if there’s anything to worry about. There is, we take it from there. There isn’t, no harm, no foul.”

  I thought about that.

  Chet Corvin said, “You still with me, Alex?”

  I said, “If Lieutenant Sturgis okays it, I’ll see her once.”

  “You need his permission?”

  “I need to avoid conflict of interest.”

  “Huh. Fine. Where’s your office? Your girl wouldn’t tell me.”

  “I’ll come to your house. Be easier for Chelsea if it’s on her turf.”

  “Turf,” he said. “Like golf. Or gangs.” Chuckling. “She’s…different, you saw it. When can you come over?”

  “What’s a good time for Chelsea?”

  “Alex,” he said, “it’s not like she needs a personal secretary. Do it any day—today, if you want. After school—she’s back around three, make it four to play safe. I won’t be there, hitting the road, actually on my way to the airport. That won’t matter, she never talks to me anyway.”

  A hint of sadness. The faintest glimmer that he might have some depth?

  Then he said, “I’m glad we’re doing this. Now I can put her out of my head.”

  Milo said, “Go for it, you might learn something I can use. But he may not pay you, ol’ Chet has a tendency to fudge his financial obligations.”

  “You found some dirt.”

  “I convinced a guy at the bank that handles his mortgages to talk to me off the record. Same with the finance company that holds the title to his cars. He doesn’t default, he just takes his sweet time, stretching it out until just before default. Notices get sent, calls get made, at the last minute he pays up but ignores the late fees and the penalties and the whole thing starts again. Finance people can’t do anything because technically he’s satisfied his obligation.”

  I said, “He plays everyone.”

  “Like a bad harmonica.”

  “Any indication of financial problems?”

  “That’s the thing, not apparently. He’s well compensated and Felice’s school district job is a nice second income. Between them they pull in close to four fifty K. Mortgage and car payments are a little over five grand a month, which isn’t bathwater, but with that income it’s not a hardship. Maybe he’s got a bad, expensive habit but so far I can’t find it.”

  “So it’s a game. He manipulated me, too.”

  “Only as much as you let him, amigo.”

  “True,” I said. “I figured another look at Chelsea wouldn’t hurt. Revisiting the house, now that the initial shock’s worn off.”

  “What do you think’s going on with the kid?”

  “Could be a sleep disorder, we’ll see.”

  He laughed. “The old reserving-judgment routine. Corvin’s right about one thing, she is different.”

  * * *

  —

  Evada Lane at four fifteen p.m. was just another dead end. Like most so-called Westside neighborhoods, no pedestrians, not even a stray dog. That left easy pickings for a flock of ravens. The birds had found something in the middle of the street
and I had to swerve around them.

  Felice Corvin’s Lexus sat in the driveway. She answered the door wearing a blue blouse, gray slacks, gray shoes. Staring at me as she wiped her glasses with a square of microfiber.

  “Dr. Delaware?”

  “Hi. I’m here to see Chelsea.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Your husband asked me to evaluate her—”

  “He what?”

  I said, “Obviously, you didn’t know.”

  “What exactly did he want you to evaluate?”

  “He said last night Chelsea got up and left the house—”

  “Unbelievable,” said Felice Corvin. “Chelsea’s a fitful sleeper, she always has been.”

  “Does she usually leave the house?”

  “Let me tell you, Doctor, if Chet was here more, he’d know about her sleep patterns and wouldn’t be wasting your time.”

  “Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

  “Sorry you made a trip for nothing.” She began to close the door, stopped midway. “Next time speak to me first. Not that there’ll be a next time. We’re coping just fine.”

  “Good to hear.”

  “Maybe not to you,” she snapped.

  “Pardon?”

  “Sorry, that was uncalled for. All I meant was mental health people expect problems. I apologize, Doctor.”

  “No problem.”

  I turned to leave.

  “Dr. Delaware, if there’s a bill for your time, I can write you a check right now.”

  “No charge.”

  “Well, that’s kind of you and, again, sorry. Any news on the poor man?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Too bad—Doctor, may I ask why you came here for an evaluation rather than make an office appointment?”

  “I thought Chelsea might be more comfortable at her home base.”

  “Yes…I suppose I can see that.” Icy smile. “Well, it’s not necessary to see her here or anywhere else. We’re doing fine.”

  * * *

  —

  The ravens had migrated to a nearby lawn and jeered as I passed. One of them held something rosy and organic in its beak. The largest member of the gang exerting privilege.