Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Not much of one but better than a few hours ago,” he said.

  Over take-out Indian, I recapped with Robin as Blanche snored by our feet.

  She said, “Poor Mr. Braun. He sounds kind of desperate—wanting to make his mark or just hungry for attention. Someone like that might have a website or some interesting social media.”

  “We checked, nothing.”

  “If he considers himself some kind of secret agent, maybe he uses a pseudonym.”

  “You’re a very smaaht lady.”

  “Who’s that, Cagney?”

  “I was thinking Bogie but Cagney will do.”

  She smiled. “Go look, I’ll get dessert ready.”

  * * *

  —

  I ran a search on deprogrammers, found setups ranging from corporate slicksters charging big bucks for unkinking wayward rich kids to nonprofit religious groups fueled by their view of morality. A few lone wolves, mostly born-again sobers, none of them Braun.

  Nothing covert about the identities of most of these “operatives.” Quite the opposite: names, addresses, email and sometimes actual. Lots of headshots falling into two categories: grimly tough and beatifically smiling.

  No one resembled the moon-faced man in pleated jeans who went off on self-described quests.

  I returned to the kitchen.

  Robin read my face. “Oh, well, have some orange slices. I goosed them up with whipped cream, no sense being too virtuous.”

  * * *

  —

  Milo phoned at seven the following morning. The coffeepot was bubbling, Robin was bathing, Blanche curled in my lap gnawing a chew-stick.

  “Early riser,” I said.

  “More like no-sleeper. By the time I got out of the office last night, the blood was back in my alimentary canal so I stopped for dinner at the Pantry. I won’t go into details but I will tell you pork chops are an excellent side for T-bone.”

  I thought: Same for Lipitor. “Sounds like a repast.”

  “The mind doesn’t function until the body’s happy, amigo. Around ten, I get a call from Reed: Braun’s Jeep turned up in Playa Del Rey—more like pieces of it, parked in an alley, taken apart by the local locusts then torched. I drive over there, pressure the techies for a quick print wipe, they find partials on the sill of the driver’s door. No AFIS match, best guess is Braun’s but I’d need his damn hands to verify. By now it’s pushing one a.m. Here’s where it gets interesting.”

  “You drove to the Corvins and got surprised by something.”

  Silence. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m wrong?”

  “You buzzkilled my punch line. Where you hiding the damned tarot deck?”

  “Dog ate it.”

  “Not your dog, she’s a gour-mette. Yes, O Oracle of Delphi, I drove to the Corvins to bleed off some energy and on the off chance that I’d missed something the other buncha times. I parked around the block and walked, avoided the CC cameras. It’s a ghost town at that hour, most of the houses are dark. As I get near the cul-de-sac, I see someone stepping out of the shadows and heading to the Corvins’. Thank God for rubber soles, I manage to catch a glimpse before they duck around the side of the house where that dinky gate is.”

  “Same path the killer took.”

  “But this was no intruder, amigo. This was Chelsea doing her night-moves thing. Not with Chin-Fuzz or anyone else. By herself, just like her daddy described. Normally I’d say big deal, the girl’s odd, she has a sleep disorder, whatever. But just as she slipped out of view one of the house lights went off. Next door at Trevor Bitt’s. Can I prove she was actually in there with him? A few seconds before, I might’ve. But it’s provocative, no?”

  “Extremely,” I said. “Chelsea and a much older man would be way more problematic for her parents than a peer they don’t approve of. If they haven’t taken action, they don’t know.”

  “Agreed, but maybe Chet suspects something and he called you hoping you’d tell me and I’d do some snooping.” He laughed. “Which just happened. I know it doesn’t explain Braun. And it leaves the deprogramming theory in the dirt, unless I can establish a link between Braun and Bitt. But still.”

  “Braun doesn’t seem to be linked anywhere.” I told him about the futile Web search. “But if he knows Bitt based on a shared sexual interest, he could be using deep cover.”

  “Coupla dirty old men with a thing for teenage girls,” he said. “Oh, man.”

  “Vulnerable teenage girls.”

  “That’s Chelsea, all right. So who’s Chin-Fuzz? The prey is both boys and girls? Or like Prieto said, he’s just Braun’s kid stopping by to see Dad before he packs out on an adventure.”

  “Or he’s irrelevant,” I said. “Someone selling a car Braun was thinking of buying.”

  “Either way, I’m back to focusing on Bitt. His messing with Chelsea would explain why he won’t give me the time of day. I called a couple of judges about grounds for a warrant, got the answers I expected. Any suggestions?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “Then I’ll go with the original plan: drop Braun’s name with Chet and Felice, see how they react. Say tonight, six-ish. You up for it?”

  “Can I bring the tarot deck?”

  “Nah, leave it at home with the crystal ball and the turban,” he said. “We’ll stick with the usual: I provide the official presence and the personal security, you handle the tact and sensitivity.”

  * * *

  —

  At six thirty p.m. I pulled up behind Milo’s unmarked, parked at the mouth of Evada Lane. As we neared the Corvin house, he stopped and pointed. “That’s where I saw her.”

  Narrow patch of grass and concrete fronting Trevor Bitt’s keep-away gate.

  I said, “In the dark, a nice niche. If she wasn’t inside, she could have been sneaking a smoke or a drink.”

  He trotted over, returned. “No bottles or cans or butts, tobacco or otherwise. Also, I didn’t spot anything in her hands and if she wasn’t inside Bitt’s place, why did his light go off right after she left?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he swiveled toward the Corvins’ driveway. “Both cars. Chet’s back home.”

  I said, “Nothing like family time.”

  * * *

  —

  Felice Corvin came to the door wearing green velvet sweats, hair bunched up and clipped, face scrubbed of makeup, a can of Coke Zero in her left hand.

  Well-shaped eyebrows rose. “Yes?”

  Milo said, “Evening, Ms. Corvin. If you’ve got time, could we come in for some follow-up?”

  She eyed me. “Does that mean police work or psychotherapy?”

  “The former, ma’am.”

  A beat. “We just finished supper, okay if it’s brief.”

  * * *

  —

  Fancy name for take-out KFC at the kitchen table. No sign of Brett or Chet. Chelsea stood at the sink with the water running, washing a drinking glass that looked clean.

  The walk from the front door had taken us through neat, clean, perfectly composed space. No hint of the horror the family had been through ten days ago. Next to a toaster oven, a Sonos speaker streamed music. Indie folk-rock; electronically tweaked but still whiny vocals coping with two minor chords.

  Felice cleared away the paper cartons and stashed the ketchup packets in a drawer.

  Chelsea kept washing the same glass. She hadn’t turned to look at us.

  Milo sat at the table without being invited. When I did the same, Felice’s eyebrows climbed again. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Milo said, “No, thanks.”

  “I’m having tea. You’re sure?”

  “Okay, then, appreciate it.”

  She got busy with bags of Earl Grey and mugs silkscreened with national park scenes, turned to her daughter and spoke softly. “That won’t get any cleaner, honey, and I need the instant-hot.”

  Chelsea didn’
t move. A gentle nudge inched her away from the spigot. Her hands dripped but she didn’t dry them. Placing the glass on the counter, she backed away, bumping into a butcher-block table and turning abruptly.

  Doughy face, raisin eyes, stringy hair. Expression hard to read but nothing happy about it.

  Milo and I smiled at her. We might as well have been baring fangs.

  She hurried out.

  Felice watched her for a second, then brought tea to the table, smiling tightly.

  Milo said, “How’s everything going?”

  “Lieutenant, that does sound like therapy.”

  He smiled.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Hellish day at work, city bureaucracy, then crazy traffic. In answer to your I’ll-assume-courteous question, everything’s fine, thank you for asking.”

  “Chet upstairs?”

  “Chet’s out of town. Portland. I believe.” The last two words and a half sneer said it all: I don’t ask, he doesn’t tell, neither of us gives a damn.

  “His car—”

  “A driver took him to the airport. Sometimes he does that when he’s on a tight schedule and has to work in transit.”

  “Ah,” said Milo.

  “A busy man, Chet.” Making it sound like an insult. “So how’re things going in your world, Lieutenant? Yours, as well, Doctor.”

  Her vocal pitch had climbed, talking about her husband. Now she strained for buoyancy, sounded doubly tense.

  Milo said, “We may have identified the victim.”

  “May have?” she said.

  “I’m sure you remember the state of the body.”

  “Oh. Of course. Who is he?”

  “A man named Hargis Braun.”

  No response.

  Milo said, “He went by Hal.”

  Continued silence. Then the third eyebrow arch of the evening. “Oh, you’re asking if I know him. I don’t. Never heard of him. Who is he?”

  Milo showed her Braun’s DMV photo. She had the courtesy to actually study it. “Nope. Is he from around here?”

  “Ventura County.”

  “Then what was he doing here?”

  “Good question, ma’am. Does your family have any ties up there?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “I was in Goleta for a conference last year but I never met that man.”

  “What about Chet?”

  “Chet handles the West Coast,” she said. “So I can see him having business up there. You think this could be related to Chet’s business?”

  Milo said, “I wish we were at the point where I could think anything, Ms. Corvin.”

  “Would you like me to call Chet and ask him?”

  “That would be great.”

  She took a cellphone out of a sweatpant pocket, speed-dialed, clicked off. “Straight to voicemail.”

  “No prob, I’ve got his number.”

  She stirred her tea, looked at the photo. “Sorry, wish I could help you.” She smiled. “Actually, I probably don’t want to be helpful if it means I have to keep thinking about what happened. But he is an absolute stranger to me. Could he be some kind of tradesman—a plumber, a handyman, who worked around the neighborhood and somehow got…sorry, that’s silly. It explains nothing.”

  “He didn’t do much, ma’am. On disability.”

  “And somehow he ended up in my house.” She shook her head. “Crazy. It gets crazier as time passes. And your showing up with his name and his picture kind of brings me back to it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay, you’re doing your job.”

  “Could we show the photo to Chelsea and Brett?”

  “Absolutely not. They’re children and why in the world would they know this person?”

  “I’m sure you’re right but like you said, doing the job.”

  Felice Corvin turned to me, frowning. “You think it’s psychologically okay to suck the kids back in?”

  Rhetorical question but I answered. “Depends on how they’re doing. Mood, appetite, sleep patterns, in school.”

  She blinked. “I figured you’d just give me the official line.”

  Milo said, “Dr. Delaware’s an independent consultant. In every way.”

  “Apparently,” said Felice Corvin. “How’ve they been doing? To my maternal eye, they’re fine. Meaning, Brett’s being Brett, emotionally he’s made of titanium. Chelsea’s…Chelsea. I won’t hide anything, she’s always had issues. What you just saw with the glass is typical. OCD. According to several experts. Along with all kinds of other labels and diagnoses. But has she changed since the…since it happened? Not that I can honestly say. Then again, Doctor, someone of your training might know better.”

  “My experience,” I said, “is that no one knows kids better than their mothers.”

  She stared at me. “You actually sound as if you mean that.”

  “I do.”

  Felice Corvin took a sip of tea and looked at Hargis Braun’s photo. “He looks harmless enough…no gore, not like what they saw when it happened…fine, what the heck.”

  * * *

  —

  She called for both kids at the foot of the stairs. Brett came bounding down, loud as a herd of buffalo. An oversized L.A. Kings jersey tented freckled legs. Hustling past his mother, he high-fived Milo and me. “Whuh? You got the perp?”

  Milo suppressed laughter. “Your mouth to God’s ears, Brett.”

  “Whuh?”

  Felice said, “That means—never mind. They’ve got a picture to show you. The man who was—the person.”

  “The dead guy? Cool.”

  Milo handed him the photo.

  Brett said, “Fat dude.”

  “Brett!”

  “Whuh? He is.” Shaping a sphere with his hands.

  Felice said, “You don’t know him, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah, meaning no you don’t know him.”

  “Yeah.” The boy laughed and bounced and shadow-boxed. Felice reached for the photo but he feinted away from her and waved it. To Milo. “Who is he?”

  “Don’t know yet, Brett.”

  “Fat dude.” Brett’s lip began curling upward, prepping a supplementary wisecrack. But his eyes dulled and all he could come up with was, “Fat.”

  His mother said, “Go back and finish your homework, young man.”

  “Boooooring,” said Brett, high-fiving air before running off.

  Another ungulate stampede up the stairs. A bellowed “Fat!”

  Felice Corvin looked at me. “Please tell me that will pass with maturity.”

  I said, “His sense of humor?”

  “His lack of emotionality. I’ve tried to get him to talk about it but he just makes jokes.”

  I said, “Boys his age go through all kinds of stuff.” Putting on my best therapeutic Sphinx-face as I thought of Brett’s father.

  Apples falling close to trees.

  Felice said, “I hope it’s just a stage,” and called out Chelsea’s name. The girl stepped out of her room, stared down at us, fidgeting, finally descended.

  Felice explained as Milo handed Chelsea Braun’s photo. Her appraisal was brief and mute: a quick head shake then a turn to her mother, as if for confirmation.

  “Thank you, darling,” said Felice. The girl trudged back up the stairs, clutching the banister.

  Milo looked at me. I stayed neutral and that was enough for him.

  “One more question, ma’am, and I hope it doesn’t offend you, but I need to ask.”

  Felice Corvin folded her arms across her chest. “What now?”

  “I’m sure you can understand that our experience tells us certain situations need to be looked into—”

  “What, Lieutenant?”

  “This has nothing to do specifically with your kids, ma’am, but we’ve seen cases where young people’s relationships lead to violence.”

  “What in the world are you saying?”

  “Kids dating people their parents don’t approve of. Sometimes it gets�
��”

  Felice cut him off with a horizontal air slash. Her laughter was harsh, a witchy cackle. “Neither of my children dates. I’m not sure anyone does, nowadays, kids just hang out. But apart from that, Brett’s too young for a relationship.” She breathed in. “And Chelsea’s not into any level of emotional…entanglement. Never has been.”

  “No boyfriend.”

  “I wish.” Felice’s eyes filled with tears. “I wish so many things for her. Is that all? I have things to do.”

  * * *

  —

  She hurried us to the door. Milo said, “Sorry for bothering you.”

  “That poor man. Braun. You’ve told me nothing about him.”

  “That’s ’cause we don’t know much other than his name, ma’am. When we figure it out, I promise to let you know.”

  “When, not if,” she said.

  “We’re always hopeful.”

  “Sorry,” said Felice Corvin. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me—you’ve got a tough job, I don’t envy you. Good luck.”

  Headlights washed across her face. A car pulling into the driveway of the Spanish house next door. Paul Weyland stepped out of his silver Taurus. Carrying a briefcase, moonlight doming his bald head. He didn’t seem to notice us, braced himself on the roof of the car. Rocked on his feet.

  Off kilter? A narrowly avoided DUI? He pushed away, stood in place for a moment, and slumped, a small man getting smaller.

  Felice said, “Hi, Paul.”

  Weyland stopped, waved, saw us. “Oh, hi. Anything new?”

  “Follow-up,” said Milo.

  “Oh,” said Weyland. Weak voice. His shoulders heaved.

  Felice said, “Are you okay?”

  “No worries. No police worries, anyway.” His voice caught.

  She walked over to him. “Are you ill or something?”

  “No, fine,” said Weyland. He righted his glasses. “Oh, what the heck, can’t hide it forever. You’ve noticed Donna hasn’t been around.”