Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Do you have a photo of Mr. Braun? Also, anything that belonged to him—for DNA.”

  “I have old photos, somewhere,” she said.

  “If we could borrow a couple.”

  “Hold on.”

  She got up and walked into a short passageway left of the kitchen. Milo was finishing another muffin when she returned with two color snapshots.

  “These were taken soon after we got married. Before the whole digital thing. You had to pay Fotomat, so you actually held on to them.”

  Milo gloved up and took the photos. Both captured the same scene. In one a younger, slimmer ash-blond Mary Ellen Braun stood holding hands with a sandy-haired, moon-faced man. Both wore sunglasses, matching green windbreakers, jeans, and sneakers. In the second, Hal Braun had his arm around his wife’s shoulder and her fingertips clasped his waist. The background was pines and mountains so dark they verged on black. The sky was murky gray swirled with white, tipped at the corners with sooty clouds.

  “Sequoia,” she said. “We went for a weekend, stayed at some lodge, it rained almost the whole time. I did crosswords while Hal did his thing. He came back soaked because of course he wouldn’t take an umbrella. He did get me outdoors for these right before we left. Do you need both of them?”

  “One’s fine, Mrs. Braun.” Taking the hand-holding shot and returning the other to her.

  “If you could get it back to me,” she said.

  “We’ll make a copy and do that. In terms of a physical object Mr. Braun might have—”

  “No, sorry, can’t help you there.”

  I said, “How about the olive oil bottles?”

  “Hmm,” she said. “Hal did send them to me so I guess he touched them. Unless someone else at the store packed them. Can you get DNA from glass?”

  “We can, ma’am,” said Milo.

  “Well, then sure, I’m never going to use them.”

  He retrieved the bottles. Brown paper label from The Olive Branch, Main Street, Ventura, Ca.

  As we walked to the door, Mary Ellen Braun said, “Garlic-infused and jalapeño. Once you know, can you tell me? Either way.”

  “Absolutely. And if you think of anything else—”

  “I won’t,” she said. “Before you came I tried to come up with anything I knew that could possibly help you. Maybe she can clear it up.”

  * * *

  —

  Outside, Milo said, “Battle of the Marys.” He popped the unmarked’s trunk, put the bottles in an evidence bag, and sealed it. Before doing the same with the photo, he studied it again.

  “Size and age are right. So’s the hair.”

  I said, “A risk-taker.”

  “With a mean wife.” He laughed. “If we’re lucky, Mary Two will be a real Medusa.”

  The car idled as Milo made calls.

  Hargis Raymond Braun had an active California driver’s license. A ten-year-old brown Jeep had been registered three years ago. Address on Barnett Street in Ventura.

  Fifty-one, then, five-ten, one seventy-five, green eyes, the sandy hair self-described as blond. No active wants or warrants but Braun had been arrested for drunk driving eight years ago, no jail time.

  Milo said, “Big deal.”

  I said, “Ain’t that the truth. Robin was on jury duty last year. Seven of the twelve people on the panel had DUIs.”

  Milo said, “It’s a miracle any of us are alive. Okay, let’s find out if Not-as-Cool Mary’s still living there.”

  The house was a seven-hundred-seventy-nine-square-foot bungalow on a tenth-acre lot on the west side of town. Deeded to Maria Josefina Braun seven years ago, appraised value of two hundred fifty-nine thousand dollars. GPS pinned the location far from the beach, the foothills, Old Town, the Mission of Santa Buenaventura, anywhere scenic. Google photos showed a gray box hemmed by a white picket fence.

  Neither of us knew anyone at Ventura PD but a couple of years ago we’d worked a multiple murder case with cops from the neighboring town of Oxnard. Milo phoned the lead detective, a bright, jovial man named Francisco Gonzales.

  Gonzales said, “That’s the tough part of town but not by L.A. standards. Some gentrification, some gang problems, mostly just working class trying to get by.”

  Milo thanked him and called the number given by Mary Ellen. Inactive. The reverse directory offered no landline. The woman who answered at the Olive Branch had no idea who Hal Braun was.

  Milo said, “Would there be anyone who’d remember?”

  “I’ve been here for five years, we’ve never had a guy, just gals.”

  “The Olive Branch. Too peaceful for testosterone, huh?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Thanks.” Click.

  He sat back, checked his Timex. “One oh eight. If I drive all the way to the lab, drop off the bottles and the photo, by the time we head north, we’re talking a three-hour nightmare coming back and nothing says Mary Two will be home. On the other hand…”

  I said, “If we leave now and hop on the 101, it’s an hour. And if she is there, she’ll have Braun’s clothing, a toothbrush, maybe medical records that’ll match the corpse.”

  “The other thing,” he said, “if she’s not there, we can have a late lunch, I’m thinking seafood.”

  “Consolation prize.”

  “Tsk,” he said. “More like meeting basic needs.”

  * * *

  —

  The trip took fifty-four minutes, spurred by Milo’s lead foot and livened by his frequent indictment of other drivers. (“Seven out of twelve, huh? There’s a drunken asshole for sure.”)

  Exiting the freeway took us through mixed retail, light industry that was mostly car-related, and plain-wrap apartment buildings. The occasional rash of graffiti but nothing ominous. Single-story houses appeared a couple of blocks later.

  Like its neighbors, the home shared by Hargis and Maria Josefina Braun was small, prewar, simply built. No cameras or alarm signs on the block but plenty of security bars. Sidewalk trees were irregularly placed and sized. Many struggled in the drought.

  The structure was still gray stucco, the fence still white paint, both showing wear. An empty driveway was cracked; the tar-paper porch roof struggled with gravity. A collapsible metal ramp stretched from the top of three stairs to brown dirt.

  Milo toed the ramp. “Maybe our boy’s injuries were worse than we thought.”

  We climbed, setting off a bongo duet on metal. One of two screws holding the bell-push in place was missing and Milo had to fiddle to produce a sound.

  Harsh buzzer, intermittent. A female voice said, “Finally,” and the door spread open slowly, pulled back by the crook of a blue aluminum cane. The fine-boned hand on the other end of the stick belonged to a luxuriantly coiffed, dark-haired woman in her forties sitting in a manual wheelchair.

  Pretty but pallid face. Huge black eyes topped by widely arched tattooed eyebrows. The ink created a look of perpetual surprise. The body below the face was spare and swaddled by a pink sateen housedress.

  As Milo showed her his badge, she wheeled away from us. “I thought you were the meal service.”

  “Are you Mrs. Braun?”

  “Ms.,” she said. “Missus is for old ladies.” She looked out at the street. “They’re late. A lot of time they are.”

  “Meals on wheels?”

  “Like that but from the church, even though I don’t go. Not delicious but twice a week I don’t have to cook. The stove went out last month, it’s been hot outside, no big deal. But sometimes you don’t want cold food.” She glanced past us, again. “They said any minute. So what do the police want? Another break-in?”

  Milo said, “If you’re Maria Josefina Braun, we’re here about your husband.”

  “I’m EmJay,” she said. “What about Hal?”

  “When’s the last time you saw him?”

  “Like…ten, eleven days ago? He packed out for one of his adventures. Why, what happened?”

  “May we come in?”

 
“Hal got in trouble?” Resigned more than anxious.

  Milo said, “It’s best that we talk inside.”

  She remained in place, blocking our entry. A third distant look. “Sure, why not?” Patting the cane, she placed it in her lap and wheeled free of the doorway.

  The front of the house was a twelve-by-twelve living room painted sea green and a kitchen half that size. The counters on the right side of the kitchen were conventional height; those on the left were low. So was the refrigerator. Afghans lay across two old tweed chairs and a black leather sofa. The floor was worn pine.

  No tables. The center of the room was an open swath to an archway that led to a hallway. A second broad path led to the kitchen.

  EmJay Braun stopped her chair. “Go sit,” she said. Just as we began to comply, the door-buzzer sounded. From inside, an angry-bee rasp.

  She said, “Finally.” Then: “No, I’ll get it,” as I started for the front door.

  She rolled, hooked the cane around a pull-handle. A young woman wearing a black baseball cap stood outside, smiling and holding a plastic shopping bag. A few words passed between her and EmJay Braun before the bag was handed over. EmJay Braun pushed the door closed and raced to the kitchen where she unloaded on the low counter, placed a few things in the fridge.

  “They like you to say something religious when they give you food, like thanks for the grub, God.” She returned and faced us. “I know he didn’t pay his fine but does it look like we’re millionaires?”

  Milo said, “What fine?”

  “Ninety bucks for when he planted that tree near the harbor without permission, that’s why you’re here, right? They also wanted him to dig it up but when they saw his leg, they let that go.”

  “Ms. Braun, we’re from L.A. There’s no easy way to tell you but a body was found several days ago. We’re not certain but indications are it might be your husband.”

  “Might be? What does that mean?” No shock, just indignation.

  “There was some disfigurement so we can’t make a definite I.D. A pattern of old injuries matches that of Mr. Braun.”

  “Who told you about his injuries?”

  “His former wife.”

  “The lazy one,” she said.

  “You know her?”

  “Hal told me about her, she never lifted her butt to do anything. Why’d she stick her nose into it?”

  “We released information to the media and she phoned in. She felt the description might match Mr. Braun.”

  “Description of what?”

  Milo told her.

  Her mouth twitched. “So what? Lots of people get hurt.”

  “The injuries match your—”

  “So what,” she repeated.

  Then she fell apart.

  * * *

  —

  Gasping and bending nearly double, she dropped her head, grabbed at her abundant hair with both hands, chuffed a few times and continued to breathe rapidly. A hand trembled. The cane tumbled to the floor. I picked it up and held on to it.

  She said, “No, no, no, no, no, stupid, stupid, stupid!” Her right hand flew from her hair and began pummeling a wheel of her chair. She’d pulled out some black strands and they frizzed her fingers. She kept hitting rubber and the heel of her hand turned gray.

  It took a while for her to go silent. She kept her head down.

  Milo said, “Ms. Braun, if it is Mr. Braun, we’re so sorry for your loss. But we need to know for sure.”

  “Of course it’s him. Why wouldn’t it be him? He was supposed to call a week ago, didn’t but so what, that’s Hal, he does crazy crap like that.”

  She sobbed. I got her a tissue from the kitchen. She snatched it, ground soft paper into both eyes. “He’s so stupid!”

  Milo said, “Ma’am, I hate to ask this, but a DNA match will tell us definitely if it’s—”

  She looked up. “When he left he wouldn’t tell me what, just that it was his grand adventure. I told him he was being stupid, going off on one of his—the dumb jackass fool.”

  She let the tissue drop to her lap. “You’re thinking I should’ve reported him missing when he didn’t call. But that wasn’t how it worked. The deal was, I shut up and waited and he’d come back with a story. Everything all CIA.”

  “He told you he was in the CIA?”

  “No! That’s not what I mean!” Deep breath. Balloon cheeks as she held on to air, finally let it out. “I said he got all CIA—like it was a secret mission. I knew it wasn’t, just one of his stupid, stupid, stupid adventures. I figured he needed to get it out of his system. Like a steam pipe, you know? Blow it off. Sometimes he needed to do that.”

  I said, “He went on other adventures.”

  “He’d be okay for a while then he’d get restless and do stupid things,” she said. “Like the tree. He decided the harbor needed a blue eucalyptus because the color brought out the ocean. So he bought one and snuck out there at night and planted it and harbor security drove by and caught him. Turns out eucalyptus have small roots, it could’ve fallen down in a big wind. What did Hal care? He was speaking for the trees. A few years before that, he did the same thing with flowers near a gas station. No one complained about that, what did they care, they got free flowers. But the owners laughed at him and the flowers were dead in a month because no one watered them. Hal goes in for gas, starts complaining they don’t care about nature, they kick him out, say don’t come back. So now we got to drive farther for gas.”

  “For his Jeep.”

  “Piece of junk—he’s not a bad guy, just does stupid things—like walking at night in bad neighborhoods, where the gangs hang out. Like…a dare, you know? Except no one’s daring him. He’d get in people’s business, that almost got him beat up.”

  “By who?” said Milo.

  “This was a few years ago, he drove by a McDonald’s, a guy was yelling at a woman. Hal stops, goes up, says that’s no way to treat a lady. Guy’s twice his size, grabs him and lifts him off the ground and throws him away like he’s a piece of dust.”

  “You saw this?”

  “No, he told me. Like it was funny. Like he was proud of himself. I begged him to stop doing it, he’d give me this pat on the head, say EmJay, it’s keeping the code. I’m like what code? He’s like back when honor mattered—knights and dragons and all that. He used to read books about knights. Then he switched to CIA books, Tom Clancy, whatever. He’d talk about how great it would be, going co-vert, no one knowing who you really are.”

  Tears dribbled down her cheeks. “I should’ve known. When he packed that duffel, I should’ve asked questions. But he wouldn’t have told me. He never told me anything until afterward.”

  Her mouth worked. “When he didn’t call after a week, I won’t lie, I was mad. Then I said maybe his burner phone ran out.”

  Milo said, “He used a pay-as-you-go?”

  “We both do, cheaper,” said EmJay Braun. “We ain’t exactly Bill Gates.” She wheeled the chair to the side, showed us her profile “Why can’t he be recognized?”

  Milo said, “No need to go into details.”

  “That bad?” she said. “No, tell me.”

  “A shotgun was used.”

  She grimaced. “Oh, God…I was hoping maybe another fall. That’s how he got messed up the first time. Hiking. An adventure.”

  She looked at her hand, untangled strands of hair, stared at them. “I should be careful, it’s the only thing I’ve got going anymore, the hair.” Dreamy smile. “I used to model. Hair and hands, once in a while even whole-body. When I was like twenty. Nothing fancy, discount catalogs, but I was doing okay. I got something called A.S. Not M.S. You tell people A.S., they think M.S., it’s nothing alike.”

  I said, “Ankylosing spondylitis.”

  She stared. “How do you know?”

  Years ago, I’d consulted to Western Pediatric’s Rheumatology Division, learned about arthritis of the spine.

  I said, “I know someone.”

  “They doin
g okay?”

  “They are.”

  “Well, good for them, I’m hanging in. Mine started when I was twenty-one, a stupid backache. Then it was okay, then it came back.” Soft tap on a tire. “I’m not a cripple, I can walk a little when I absolutely have to, but it hurts bad. That’s how I met Hal. Physical rehab, he was working on his leg strength, I was getting my spine looked at again.”

  I said, “His accident.”

  “That had happened years before, he had the limp. He’d been okay but then his muscles started to get weak and they said he’d better do something about it, so he went to rehab. I wasn’t that severe, myself, we started dating. When I got worse, he stuck with me, I thought, what a guy.”

  Her face crumpled. “When you put aside the craziness, he’s a sweetie.”

  She cried some more. When she stopped, I gave her another tissue.

  “Those injuries. I guess it really is him, huh?”

  Milo said, “DNA would—”

  “Sure, fine, what do you need for that?”

  “A toothbrush, a hairbrush, anything he’d have regular contact with.”

  “He took his comb and his toothbrush with him,” said EmJay Braun. “Stuffed his duffel, threw it in the back of the Jeep, and drove away waving at me and blowing a kiss. I didn’t blow back.” Head shake.

  I said, “He left in good spirits.”

  “That’s why I didn’t worry. I figured he just needed to go off on his own. This ain’t exactly a mansion and mostly we’re with each other twenty-four seven.”

  She smiled. “I won’t lie, I didn’t mind a little alone time. I was planning to do some travel of my own. Maybe over to the outlets in Camarillo, some shopping if it was cheap enough.”

  “You have a vehicle?” said Milo.

  “Got a van, equipped and all, but broke down, still being worked on, they keep telling me in a few days. Meanwhile, I’m stuck. Like I said, I can walk if I need to, the church brings me the meals, I don’t want more than two a week, I want to stay busy—could you use one of his shirts for the DNA? Even it it’s been washed.”

  “That may not work.”

  “Hmm,” she said. “I wash everything right away, nothing sits around dirty—how about a bottle? He’s the only one drinks cognac, I hate it. He’s not a big drinker, just a cognac once in a while. There’s the bottle and this little brandy glass, he says it’s shaped that way so you can smell the aroma. I don’t think he washes it, says he likes it with…what do you call it, patina?”