Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I drove away thinking about what had just happened. Rotten communication fit my view of the Corvins as a quartet of strangers living under the same roof. It also varied from what I usually saw when parents disagreed: mothers seeking help, fathers convinced there’s no problem.

  There are sensitive dads but Chet Corvin seemed anything but.

  I’m putting her out of my head.

  Did his call have nothing to do with helping Chelsea? Had he used her—and me—to humiliate his wife?

  Chuckling as he drove to the airport?

  Children with issues often become marital weapons. When I teach grad students, I call them “blame-guns.” Had Chelsea long been her father’s heavy artillery?

  Chet Corvin would know which of his wife’s buttons to push. How better to tag her as a deficient mother than by calling in a psychologist behind her back?

  Felice’s reaction suggested she’d gotten the message.

  Speak to me first.

  I supposed I could be selling Corvin short and in his own crude way he was concerned about his daughter. But then why not simply inform Felice? And why insist on me and not another psychologist?

  Because another psychologist wasn’t a police surrogate and this was all about Corvin thumbing his nose at law enforcement?

  A control freak who booked his own travel and jerked creditors around just for the fun of it.

  Or did this latest manipulation go beyond that? Was he somehow involved in the murder of the handless man?

  Why would Corvin soil his own nest?

  On the other hand, if he cared little for family life, why not?

  As I left the Palisades and crossed into Brentwood, I thought of his other traits: a grandiose, attention-seeking braggart, callous enough to unload gory details on his secretary when they clearly sickened her.

  Shallow and cruel enough to describe his daughter as a problem to be disposed of.

  Put it all together and you had a tidy description of a high-functioning psychopath. And psychopaths, particularly sadists, often enjoy the aftermath of a crime more than the act.

  It’s why arsonists show up at four-alarm blazes. Why kidnappers join search parties and child-murderers place teddy bears at memorials.

  Was Chet Corvin having a grand time reminiscing about a man with a ravaged head and no hands?

  I’d viewed him as the likely target because his personal space had been violated. What if that’s exactly what he’d wanted—talk about a bluff, heh heh heh. Alan. Er, Alex. Sure, there’d be gore on the hardwood but that could be remedied. A fact Corvin had emphasized early on: I’m assuming you’ll do a thorough cleanup.

  Add to that Felice’s reaction at seeing the body—freaking the bitch out—and the temporary mess would be outweighed by the big thrill.

  And if the brats got a little traumatized, all the better.

  Corvin being involved in the murder solved the problem of access: All he needed to do was slip a house key to a sidekick. Ditto the security code, just in case stupid Felice did remember to set the alarm. Alternatively, he could’ve simply switched the system off after the rest of the family exited the house.

  He’d made a point of letting us know that Sunday dinner had been his show. Moving the venue from the usual nearby pizza joint to a restaurant clear across town.

  Another brag? Practical, too, because it allowed the confederate plenty of time to drag and position the corpse, tidy up, and leave.

  Then, for good measure, divert attention to the asocial weirdo living next door.

  Something about these people.

  After three-hundred-plus homicides, Milo’s instincts were well honed.

  I called his office phone.

  He said, “Nothing so far on any New York Bitts.”

  “You going to be there for a while?”

  “Just had a snack, doing some paperwork.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  “Chelsea told you something juicy?”

  “Never got to talk to her,” I said.

  “So what’s up?”

  “Don’t want to drive distracted, see you in twenty.”

  Milo’s closet-sized office sits midway along a coldly lit corridor on the second floor of West L.A. Division. The remainder of the hallway is given over to storage and a couple of interview rooms reeking of anxiety. My friend’s meager allotment looks like nothing but punishment, but it’s not that simple.

  He operates in isolation from every other detective in the building, an arrangement foisted upon him years ago as part of a deal with a corrupt, retiring police chief. The chief had viewed the windowless cell as a final dig at the gay cop who’d forced his hand. Little did he know that Milo welcomed the setup.

  Years later, he still dens like a grizzly in a cave, gladly avoiding the din and scrutiny of the big detective room.

  His actual job—a lieutenant who gets away from his desk and works—is another oddity. Two subsequent police chiefs bristled at the break in procedure and decided to correct it. Both changed their minds when they learned about his solve rate.

  I arrived just after five, got a nod from the civilian clerk in the reception area, bounded up the stairs, and headed for the lone open door. Milo was waiting for me, filling a swivel chair that faced the metal straight-back he’d set up for me. Three feet between our noses. A large greasy pizza box leaned against a wall. The air was warm, close, saturated with garlic. The box was empty. Snack time.

  He breathed into his palm, took a stick of chewing gum out of his desk and began chomping. “It bothers you, we can go outside.”

  I said, “No prob. Got a bunch of theory for you. Can’t promise you’ll like that smell.”

  * * *

  —

  He listened, rubbed his eyes, studied the low, perforated ceiling.

  “All that,” he said, “from a screwed-up appointment.”

  “More than screwed up,” I said. “The more I think about it, the more convinced I am Chet was out to humiliate Felice.”

  I went on to list the psychopathic symptoms. “Maybe I am overreaching, but I thought you should know.”

  He rotated his neck. “You really think he’d be that arrogant? His own damn house.”

  “If his home life is something he despises, why not? Right from the beginning you felt something was off about the family.”

  “That was in terms of them being targets, not participants. Which you went along with.”

  I said nothing.

  He said, “Okay, I’ll be open to new possibilities. Does that mean you consider Bitt lower-priority?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “I just think Corvin should be looked into.”

  “Multitasking, yippee,” he said. “Looked into how?”

  “Cellphone records, his travel schedule.”

  “That means subpoenas. You know the problem.”

  “No grounds.”

  “Not even close.” He picked up a pencil, twiddled, laid it back down.

  I said, “There’s another potential avenue. His wife hates him.”

  “Hostile spouses and exes, the policeman’s boon. You see Felice as approachable?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What, then?”

  “Keep Chet in mind and concentrate on I.D.’ing John Doe.”

  He stood, managed a vertical stretch, hands nearly touching the ceiling. “Not much of a plan.”

  He walked out of the office.

  I said, “Where to?”

  “When in doubt, nourish thyself, time for dinner—eh, eh, don’t wanna know if you’re hungry. Just tag along and pretend.”

  A week after the handless man’s murder, Milo got the department to issue a press release. Middle-aged male found in a “Westside location,” missing his spleen and a kidney, “other” evidence of an old injury.

  Coverage was rejected by the network TV affiliates, granted twenty seconds on the eleven p.m. news broadcasts of two local stations. The Times offered a squib in the online homicide file. O
nce the story was picked up by a few other sites, the phone began ringing, tips coming from the usual mix of well-intended citizens, pranksters, and a squawking menagerie of conspiracy theorists and other dimwits.

  Information in the cyber-age might as well be written with invisible ink. Within twenty-four hours, the tip line had gone dead. Then, on a Tuesday, a single after-spurt caused Milo to phone me.

  “Maybe I made Santa’s good-boy list, a woman who actually sounds sane described the physical stats and the broken bones down to a T. Her ex-husband, Hal Braun, fifty-four. The accident was a fall during a hike eleven years ago. I’m heading out to see her. You free?”

  “You need to ask?”

  “I should take you for granted?”

  * * *

  —

  Mary Ellen Braun, fifty-one, lived in Encino and sold handbags at Saks in Beverly Hills. By the time Milo picked me up, he’d done the usual background. Her sole infraction was three years ago, a failure-to-stop traffic citation at the intersection of Gregory and Roxbury.

  I said, “A few blocks from Saks, maybe rushing to the job.”

  “Good work ethic,” he said. “I’ll take that as a positive.” As we walked to his unmarked: “God, I hope she’s not a loon.”

  B.H. was south but he turned toward the Valley.

  I said, “She’s not working?”

  “Home, taking a sick day. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to be seen with the cops. There was stress in her voice. I’ll take that as a positive.”

  * * *

  —

  We pulled up to a white, three-story condo building labeled La Plaza that spread across four lots on a quiet street west of Balboa and north of Ventura Boulevard. Security cameras, warning signs, and a gated sub-lot offered emotional support. The directory said that Braun, M. E. lived in unit twenty-four. A button-push was followed by a whispery “Hold on,” a click, and a buzz.

  We rode the elevator up two flights, stepped into a red-carpeted hallway, made our way to the sixteenth of at least twice as many black doors.

  The woman who answered Milo’s gentle-version knock was of medium height with a medium build and medium-brown eyes. Medium-brown hair was cut in an unfussy bob. Stress in her voice but a face rounded by middle age looked composed.

  “Lieutenant? Mary Ellen.”

  “Thanks for seeing us, ma’am. This is Alex Delaware.”

  Mary Ellen Braun’s smile at me lasted as long as the eyeblink that accompanied it. She offered cold fingertips. “Please come in, guys.”

  Her unit was compact, well kept, with coral-colored couches and a bronze-and-glass coffee table holding muffins and coffee. An open plan allowed a full kitchen view of white cabinets and stainless-steel appliances. Apothecary jars filled with lemons sat on black granite, along with smaller vials of what looked like herb-infused oil.

  The three of us sat and Mary Ellen Braun pointed to the muffins. “Please help yourselves.”

  “Thanks,” said Milo.

  “Let me pour for you. You, too?”

  I’d had my fill of caffeine but said, “Please.”

  As I sipped minimally, Milo got to work on a chocolate muffin. “Thanks for calling us, Ms. Braun.”

  “Like I told you, I wasn’t sure but I figured I should. Did you bring a picture?”

  Milo said, “We didn’t, ma’am. A picture wouldn’t help.”

  “Why—oh. You’re saying he’s…disfigured?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “Oh, God,” said Mary Ellen Braun. “I shouldn’t be shocked. But I am.”

  “You shouldn’t be shocked because…”

  She sighed. “Hal could be a crazy risk-taker. That’s how he got hurt. Hiking by himself in Angeles Crest. He wandered off the trail, like he always did, lost his footing, fell thirty feet and was stuck there, unable to move. He was lucky some hippie-types were looking for wild greens or whatever. They heard him moaning and called for help. He had to be taken out on a stretcher and then airlifted.”

  I said, “Hiking by himself.”

  “Always,” she said. “I don’t like it, period. I know it’s uncool to admit it but how many trees can you walk past without going eh?”

  I smiled. “Hal disagreed.”

  “We were different in so many ways. He did his thing and I did mine.”

  “Were you married at the time of the accident?”

  “Just divorced but we were still in contact. Friendly, we stayed that way. We separated twelve years ago, right after our tenth anniversary.”

  Mary Ellen Braun crossed her legs. “It’s a cliché, but we drifted apart. I wasn’t adventurous enough for Hal. I knew it and he knew it right from the start. The first time we dated I told him I was a homebody. He said he was fine with that, seemed to be for a while. He made no demands on me and I didn’t expect him to change. But eventually…you know.”

  “The differences grew.”

  Her shoulders rose and fell. “No fights, no drama—no kids, thank God. We weren’t able to have any and in the end it simplified matters. So did our money situation. Neither of us had any so we were able to shake hands and walk away.”

  I said, “Did Hal have a risky job?”

  She laughed. “If you call selling shoes risky. We met at Nordstrom, Westside Pavilion. I was junior fashions, he was ladies’ footwear. I guess I can understand why he’d want to spice up his life a little.”

  “What other risks did he take?”

  “Biking at night with no headlights. He’d swim in the ocean when there were offshore alerts. Especially when there were alerts.”

  “Courting danger,” I said.

  “He prided himself on having a method with the riptides. Swimming parallel with the shore and working his way through it. He loved to come back and tell me about it. What else…all kinds of crazy stuff. Bungee jumping, parasailing, when we could afford it. He even did a skydive but that was way too expensive…oh, yeah, that thing on the wire—zip-lining. He even tried rock climbing at one of those gyms with the fake mountains, but couldn’t hack it. Too out of shape. Hal didn’t exercise regularly or eat well. He was actually a couch potato except when he got it in his head to do one of his adventures. That’s what he called them, ‘my adventures.’ ”

  She began reaching for a muffin, thought better of it. “I don’t usually have these around, try to avoid flour and dairy. Hal could eat four, five at a sitting. He wasn’t fat but he was soft. Climbing that wall with the little plastic thingies in it was way beyond him. Personality-wise, he was soft, too. Basically, a sweet guy.”

  She touched the edge of the coffee table. “Is there a good chance it’s him?”

  Milo said, “We don’t know. So you two stayed friendly.”

  “Oh, yes. We’d see each other at work, being friendly made life easier,” said Mary Ellen Braun. “Sometimes we’d have lunch. I enjoyed that, being friends, no pressure. Then I moved over to Saks and he stayed at Nordstrom.”

  “Is he still employed there?”

  “Oh, no. He left six—make that seven years ago. Moved clear out of the city to Ventura. After he got married the third time.”

  Milo said, “You’re wife number—”

  “Two. The first was long before we met, Hal was just out of high school, some girl he knew in Stockton—that’s where he’s originally from but all his family’s gone. Only thing I can tell you is her name was Barbara and she died. Some sort of cancer. Hal didn’t like talking about it so I didn’t bug him. He’d been single for a long time when we met.”

  “Who’s the third wife?” said Milo.

  “Also a Mary, isn’t that a hoot?” Her lips turned down. “Mary Jo. She’s who you should be talking to if it does turn out to be Hal.”

  “Because—”

  “Between Hal and her, there was conflict. She was tough on him. He told me.”

  “Tough, how?”

  “He didn’t go into details, just told me I was the coolest wife he’d had, Mary Jo wasn’t nice to him.
This was three years ago, Christmas. I remember because that year I had a little holiday party here, a few work-friends, we did potluck. An hour into it, Hal phoned, which was a total surprise, I hadn’t heard from him in a while. He said he was spending Christmas by himself in a bar. I asked him why he wasn’t home and he said something along the lines of ‘You know. Stuff happens.’ Then he told me that I was the coolest wife he’d ever had. I could tell he wanted to get together but I’d moved on, was seeing someone—not anymore, but at the time…anyway, I told him if he could find some way to get over without driving under the influence, he was welcome to join the party. He said he might try. But he never showed up. That’s the last I heard from him.”

  “Had he complained about Mary Jo before?”

  “A few times,” she said. “No details, just that she could be super-critical. When I asked him about what, he changed the subject. I’m not trying to get anyone in trouble but if it is Hal, shouldn’t you talk to her?”

  Milo said, “We’ll definitely look into it, ma’am. Did Mr. Braun do similar work when he moved to Ventura?”

  “As far as I know, he stayed in sales, but not in shoes. A store in Old Town, selling olive oil. He sent me a couple of samples.”

  I pointed to the vials on the counter. “Those?”

  “Garlic-infused and jalapeño. I never opened them because I’m not into heavy seasonings. Hal should’ve known that but that’s Hal. Once he’s into something, he can’t imagine anyone else not seeing the light.”

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt him?”

  “No one. But I’m not the one to ask, we haven’t been in touch for years. Still, when I heard the description on TV, the injuries….” She shook her head. “I really hope it’s not Hal. Maybe you’ll find him right on his couch, snoring. Or off doing one of his adventures.”

  “Do you have a current number for him?”

  “I have his cell from three years ago.” She recited from memory. Not in touch but remembering.

  “Thanks. Is there anything else you can think of, Ms. Braun?”

  “I’m actually Mrs. Braun,” she said. “Never got into the ms. thing. No, that’s it.”