Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Milo said, “We’ll also be looking for Mr. Bitt, skulking around.” To me: “I filled her in.”

  Petra said, “I’ll also subpoena his credit cards and his phone.”

  “I can do that,” said Milo. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind not dealing with the phone company? Be my guest, but how come you want to?”

  “This is your turf, kid. I need your brains on the street.”

  “Sure,” said Petra. “If we are dealing with the same offender as Braun, he’s super-organized, no? I suppose Bitt could be like that. His art’s extremely meticulous.”

  Familiar with the cartoonist? Then I remembered: Before entering the police academy on a lark, she’d worked as a graphic artist. “You know Bitt?”

  “I know of him, Alex. One of the guys I went to school with loved his work and used to bring it in for the rest of us to admire. I could see the talent but I thought it was mega-sick.”

  She tapped her foot, took a step closer to the body, retreated. “Even so, that’s not what I find interesting, art and personality aren’t an obvious link. It’s his stonewalling and the gun story. On the other hand, if Chet Corvin was targeted first by dumping Braun in his house, why would Bitt call attention to himself? And why would he go after Corvin, here? This scene and what Milo tells me about Corvin’s life on the road, there could be a long list of angry husbands and boyfriends.”

  Milo said, “All true but I’m not ready to put Bitt aside. We surveilled him four nights and it came to zilch but Sean took it on himself to do a drive-by tonight at eight thirty, God bless the lad, and Bitt’s truck was gone. So maybe he was stalking Corvin. We need to check every camera we can find, see if the truck shows up. That’s what I mean about keeping it local.”

  Petra said, “Raul will love that. You know how he is, makes compulsive look sloppy. If there’s something there, he’ll find it. If we do get Bitt in proximity to the scene, I can’t see you not getting your warrant.”

  “Fingers crossed.”

  Knock on the open door. A pair of crypt deliverymen with a collapsible gurney and a body bag stood outside.

  One of them said, “We ready?”

  * * *

  —

  We left as the clacking and sacking commenced. Cool night, thin traffic on Franklin. Some of the surrounding buildings were prewar and pretty, conceived when Hollywood was Hollywood. The Sahara motel and others looked like scars on an actress.

  A dark-haired man in a cream-colored suit approached. Detective Raul Biro, compact, prone to striding confidently, had one of those faces that didn’t age in real time. His hair was black with blue overtones, thick and glossed with something that subdued every loose strand, his skin as smooth as that of a toddler.

  I’d seen him at the most brutal of murder scenes. He never looked anything but put-together and tonight was no exception: in addition to the impeccably tailored suit, a baby-blue shirt woven by agreeable silkworms and navy-blue suede loafers with gold buckles.

  Something new, tonight: instead of the usual silk cravat, a braided leather string tie fastened by a polished oval of black onyx.

  He saw me looking at it. “From Sedona, I think it’s over the top but the wife’s one-twelfth Navajo and she likes it. Usually, I take it off when I get to the office and put on a normal one. Tonight I forgot.”

  I said, “It’s a good look, Raul.”

  “You think?”

  “You bet. Texas Ranger comes to L.A.”

  He laughed. “There’s a TV show for you. How’s it going, Doc?”

  “Great. You?”

  “Better than great, new baby,” he said. “Gregory Edwin. Blond, like the wife, can you imagine?”

  “Congrats.”

  His smile was wide and bright. “First-class baby, meaning he sleeps, we finally got it right.” He looked at unit fourteen. “This is a bizarre one, no?” To Petra: “I got us six uniforms for the canvass. What parameters do you think?”

  She said, “Let’s start with Franklin, go a mile east and west. Nothing shows up there, we can either expand it north–south, or just south and concentrate on the boulevard.”

  “Boulevard’s going to have tons of cameras,” said Biro. “We could be going through it until who knows when. And unlikely Corvin’s going to be walking, at best we’ll see his car passing, at super-best, leaving here.”

  “There’s another target vehicle, Raul.”

  She told him about Trevor Bitt’s black Ram pickup. Described Bitt and the fact that he’d stonewalled for over two weeks.

  He said, “Guy sounds nuts.” To me: “You’ve probably got a better word for it.”

  I said, “Not tonight.”

  He laughed again.

  Petra said, “You want this to be our case, Milo? Or are we assisting on yours? I want to know in terms of organizing my own mind. As in who notifies the wife and kids.”

  Milo said, “I’ll do it. Tomorrow morning, family’s been through enough, no sense waking them up in the middle of the night.”

  Biro said, “You viewing the wife as a potential suspect? Seeing as he was messing with another woman?”

  “Nothing points to that, Raul, but nothing says no.”

  “We get lucky, another domestic murder for hire. Not that it would account for your body in the den.”

  Milo said, “Alex has always said that pointed to Chet as the likely target.”

  Petra said, “Obviously, Alex was right. And if Braun was connected to Chet in some way that made her beaucoup mad, she could’ve hired a professional to do both of them.”

  Biro said, “Dump a corpse in hub’s private space, there’s a big middle finger for you.”

  Milo said, “You see that, Alex?”

  I said, “I can’t see Felice traumatizing the kids.”

  “Fair enough,” said Petra. “But if she’s got money separate from his, let’s try to find out if she’s spending it unusually, as in unspecified cash payments going out.”

  Milo said, “There is a decent chance of separate accounts. These people have been separate for a long time.”

  As we walked away from the motel, I noticed a young man standing near the office door picking a cuticle at warp speed. A boy, really, eighteen, nineteen. When our eyes met, he looked away.

  “The clerk?” I said.

  “That’s him. Keith Singh.”

  “You mind?”

  “Go for it.”

  As we approached Singh, he startled and turned to go back inside.

  I said, “A second, Keith?”

  He stopped, rotated. Kicked one ankle with the other. “Yes, sir.” Lanky, Indian, with shoulder-length black hair, wearing a yellow Lion King T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. If he was able to grow a beard it didn’t show. But his eyes looked old, bottomed by dark crescents, managing to be weary and wary at the same time.

  I said, “Tough night.”

  “Total disaster, sir. My parents didn’t want me working here, now they’ll insist. One of my dad’s friends owns the place, but Dad says Waris—Dr. Waris Singh, he’s a dentist but he’s mostly into real estate—isn’t careful.”

  “About security?”

  “In general,” he said. “My parents are more religious than him. They think he could be a bad influence.” His eyes dropped. “I’ll have to quit. Which is crap, I still have tuition.”

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “The U. I’m out of state so the tuition’s crazy.”

  “Sure is.”

  “I was a late admission, all the work-study jobs were taken. I have to find another one but the only other sure thing is a restaurant Waris owns. But that place is all the way in Pasadena and it’s crazy busy. Here I can get a lot of studying done.”

  The gurney was wheeled out of the motel. Keith Singh’s eyes saucered.

  I said, “What’s your major?”

  “Econ.” His eyes drifted to the yellow tape, moving in the night breeze like a harp string lightly plucked. “
It’s crazy, sir, I didn’t hear anything.”

  I said, “You probably wouldn’t, too far away.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Have you remembered anything else about Mr. Corvin?”

  “The guy?” he said. “Like what?”

  “Did he say anything when he checked in?”

  “He said a lot,” said Keith Singh, clapping his index finger and his thumb together. “Talking talking talking.”

  “About what?”

  “Random crap. How’s it going, young man, nice night. I kind of blocked it out. He saw my econ book, told me he took micro and macro in college. Told me it was too theoretical, he majored in accounting and business management, not econ, I should do the same thing if I wanted to make serious money.”

  “He’s there ten seconds and is giving you advice.”

  “I’m used to it,” he said. “Dad.”

  “What else did Corvin have to say?”

  “Nothing, sir—oh, yeah, he showed me the wine.”

  “He brought the wine into the office.”

  “Yeah,” said Keith Singh. “In a bag, said he just got it, it was expensive. Said it was worth it.” Keith Singh licked parched lips. “He winked when he said that. That it was worth it.”

  “What do you think he was telling you, Keith?”

  The kid colored, chestnut skin turning to mahogany. “What do you mean?”

  “Sounds like he was trying to impress you.”

  “Why would he do that, sir? More like bragging. Like he was used to that.”

  “Did you see the woman he was with?”

  “I didn’t see anyone, sir. I was here in the office, like I’m supposed to be, he gave his card and drove over. I didn’t look at him much. Waris told me that at the beginning. Don’t look at the customers, they want privacy.”

  “Lots of hot dates show up here, huh?”

  He frowned. “I mean, people…you know…I mean Waris doesn’t rent by the hour like some other places but his rates are cheap.” He shrugged.

  I said, “A lot of customers choose not to spend the night.”

  Keith Singh’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. “My parents thought it was a real bad idea. Waris convinced them but not really, you know?”

  “They gave in.”

  Another ride of the gullet elevator.

  “My dad owes Waris money. Waris kind of pressured him.” A flap of black hair fell forward. He tucked it behind his ear. “I probably would’ve quit anyway.”

  “Not happy with the job.”

  “It’s gross, you know?”

  Milo said, “No-tell motel.”

  The boy blinked. He’d never heard the phrase. “All I want to do is study, it’s hard enough. My parents wanted me to stay in Tucson, go to Arizona, live at home. I thought I’d have to but last minute I got into the U. from the waiting list and it’s way higher-rated so I wanted to. I have a cousin, a CPA in Boston, he told them where you go makes a difference so they finally allowed me.”

  I said, “Good luck with your studies. Is there anything else you can tell us about Mr. Corvin?”

  “Just what I said to you.” Looking at Milo. “He used a platinum—not like some people, they’re, you know…looking all over the place, embarrassed, using cash. He was just the opposite. Kind of full of himself, you know? Like he wasn’t expecting anything bad to happen.”

  I said, “People usually don’t.”

  “Oh, man,” said Keith Singh. “I’m probably going to quit tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have to go back to Tucson.”

  * * *

  —

  Milo and I continued to the Seville.

  I said, “Chet bringing the wine in, still bagged, could mean he’d just bought it.”

  “I’ll tell Petra and Raul to check out nearby liquor stores, maybe someone’s memory will be jogged.”

  He loosened his tie. “I’m figuring to catch Felice and the kids before they leave for school, say seven a.m. You up for rise and shine? You’re not, I understand.”

  I said, “I’ll be there. If you want, I can tell the kids. To make sure it’s done right and you’ll have more time to gauge Felice’s reaction.”

  “That would be great.”

  At the Seville, he said, “All these years I still hate death knocks. And kids? Thanks. See you bright and early. In my case, just early.”

  * * *

  —

  I parked in front of the Corvin Colonial at six fifty-six a.m. Milo’s unmarked sat in front of Trevor Bitt’s Tudor. The black Ram was there.

  A bit of activity on the street: a couple of gardener’s trucks pulling up but waiting before unleashing mowers and air guns, neighbors leaving for work or taking in newspapers, a few of them looking at us, most pretending not to.

  Felice Corvin came to the door dressed in a hip-length tweed jacket, a black blouse, and gray slacks. Hair combed, makeup impeccable, mug of coffee in her hand. No sign of the kids. She said, “This is a surprise.”

  Milo said, “Can we come in?”

  No Good morning, ma’am, no friendly-cop smile.

  “What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

  “Inside would be better.”

  She looked down the street. “I’ve got to get going soon.”

  Milo said, “Please,” making it sound like a command.

  She stepped back and we entered. Footsteps from upstairs pinpointed the kids’ location. Breakfast smells—eggs, toast, coffee—drifted from the kitchen.

  Milo said, “I’m sorry to tell you, Ms. Corvin. Your husband’s body was found last night.”

  Long stare. Three blinks. “Body?”

  “He’s been murdered, Ms. Corvin.”

  “Body,” she repeated. She stood there, not moving a muscle. Then she teetered and when Milo caught her elbow, she didn’t resist.

  Her hand pressed against her mouth and her breathing raced as he steered her into the living room. The kids’ footsteps stopped and Felice Corvin looked at the staircase with panic. Then the noise resumed and she allowed Milo to sit her down on a sofa. He and I took facing chairs. He edged his closer to her.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said. Dry eyes, rigid posture. Every hair remained in place. “Body?”

  Flat voice. Her complexion had lost color; makeup could only go so far.

  “Last night, Mr. Corvin was found in a hotel shot to death.”

  “He’s always in hotels.”

  “This one was in Hollywood.”

  “The Roosevelt?” she said. “That’s the only hotel I know in Hollywood. It’s supposed to be haunted. I went to a concert there a few years ago. The Da Camera Society. Baroque music. I loved it, Chet slept through the whole thing. Why would he go to the Roosevelt?”

  Milo exhaled. “This was more like a motel.”

  Felice Corvin’s face whipped toward him. “Why didn’t you say that at the beginning? Why can’t you be precise?”

  We sat there.

  She said, “You really need to be precise. Precision matters. If the educational system was more precise…” She shook her head. “Who killed him in a motel?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “A motel.” Lips curling around the word. “Are you trying to tell me something icky about Chet?”

  “We don’t know much, yet, ma’am.”

  “That seems to be your pattern,” she said. “Not knowing much.”

  “It’s a tough job.”

  “So is mine. So is everyone’s. Life’s frigging tough. I wish my kids could learn that, they’re growing up expecting everything to come their way. At least Brett is. He’s spoiled, Chelsea…for her, everything’s a challenge. I’m not sure she really understands what she’s up against…a motel? What are you really telling me, Lieutenant?”

  “Just that, ma’am.”

  “I know about motels. What they connote. Are you denying that?”

  Milo said nothing.

  Felice Corvin hugged
herself and glanced at the stairs, again.

  “Ma’am, would you like us to tell the children?”

  “Us?” she said. “The two of you are a team? Or does that just mean you want Dr. Delaware to tell them? Psychological sensitivity and all that.” To me: “You want to make them psychiatric patients? No, thanks, they’re mine and I’ll handle it.”

  A thump from above.

  Felice Corvin said, “When I’m ready.”

  We sat there.

  Her grip on her own shoulders tightened. “I am so angry. One friggin’ damn thing after another—it just keeps—okay, let’s stop beating around the bush. Was he with a whore?”

  Milo said, “Did Chet make a habit of—”

  “I have no idea about Chet’s habits. Other than the ones he displayed here.” She huffed. “He was gone all the time. Business. I’m not stupid. I know what men are like. I know what Chet was like. He didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.”

  “Is there a specific woman he was—”

  She laughed, clawed air, yanked on her hair. “Why don’t you just log onto whores.com or something and run your finger down the list.”

  “So you were aware—”

  “I was aware that Chet had the sexual scruples of a wolverine in heat. And that when he returned from his ‘business’ ”—she shaped quotation marks—“he paid even less attention to me than usual, which was pretty minimal to begin with. Are you understanding? His needs were being tended to. A while back I decided to confront him. So he wouldn’t give me a disease. Of course he denied it but I told him if you ever infect me with something, I’ll kil—”

  She cut herself off. Literally, with a hand over her mouth. When her fingers dropped, her lips formed a crooked, icy smile. “That was a figure of speech. I certainly didn’t leave my children last night, drive over to some disgusting motel I had no idea existed in the first place, and shoot my husband. I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

  Milo nodded.

  “You agree?” said Felice Corvin. “Don’t tell me you’re not considering it. Isn’t the spouse the first person you look at? Am I one of your friggin suspects? Fine, do your thing, I have nothing to hide.”