Milo said, “Six thirteen is a couple of hours before he checks into the motel. How did he spend the time?”
“Good point,” said Biro. “The liquor store’s location says he was heading west from West Hollywood to real Hollywood. I’ll check along Sunset—pharmacies for condoms, whatever else looks interesting, see if I can fill in some blanks.”
“Thanks, Raul.”
“Hey, I just thought of something. The Hustler store’s not far from the liquor store. Guy’s all hyped up and ready to party with a chick, maybe he did a stop-and-shop for a toy or something. Not that I’d know about stuff like that.”
“Heaven forfend, Raul. You driving there or taking a jet?”
“Ha. Speaking of sex, none of the girls working the area around the motel know Corvin, so far. So it doesn’t look like he picked the place ’cause he was a regular. I know they lie but it fits with what the motel owner told me yesterday. Dr. Waris call-me-Wally Singh runs a discount dental practice in Koreatown along with a whole lot of other businesses, keeps all his paperwork on the dental computer. Corvin’s name doesn’t show up prior to last night.”
“Alex suggested a party with his honey, bit of naughty to spice it up. Notice the menu on the TV?”
“Cock Hungry Housewives as choice number three?” said Biro. “Nope, never saw it. Okay, I’m off. No luck at Hustler, there’s always Naughty Lingerie and Frederick’s. Speaking of Corvin’s honey, I’ve got no feeling on whether she’s taken alive or dead. Do you?”
“Who the hell knows, Raul.”
“That’s my daily affirmation, Milo.”
Click.
I said, “There’s a third possibility. She was allowed to leave because she was part of it. As in bait.”
His phone rang. He pointed to the screen. Dr. W. Macy, at the county coroner.
The conversation was brief. No need to open Corvin up beyond cracking his skull and pulling out two severely deformed 9mm slugs. That happens a lot with nines because they bounce around, which is why the lab likes casings. With none, a match to any prior was unlikely.
What the pathologist did find interesting was an angle of entry suggesting the shooter was well above the victim.
“Tall victim,” said Macy. “Carpet fiber on his knees, splatter four feet up the wall. I’m guessing kneeling and shot from behind.”
Milo thanked him, asked him to email the prelim, hung up.
I said, “Kneeling, shot from behind. Toss in no forced entry and it’s Execution 101, maybe carried out by someone he knew and trusted.”
He said, “Ms. Armani, herself?”
“Bait and hook.”
“Get down, snookums, I’ve got a surprise for you? That’s cold.”
“Someone with Corvin’s self-esteem, it would’ve made things easy.”
His phone again. Petra.
She said, “No roots on the hairs from the bathroom because they’re synthetic.”
“A wig.”
“Afraid so. DNA’s possible if they got handled enough but the lab says don’t count on it. They did pull up prints. Four sets plus Chet Corvin’s, all in the bathroom, we’re talking a serious wipe-down in the bedroom. Locations were a glass shelf, the mirror, the rear of the sink near the wall, and the top of the toilet tank, guess they don’t clean that thoroughly, ugh. Three belong to veteran Hollywood prostitutes. One died a few months ago of an overdose, one’s in jail in Vegas, the third is a charmer named Ms. Piggy with an alibi.”
“Ironclad?”
“Titanium-clad, I’m afraid. During the time of the shooting, one of our plainclothes guys on the boulevard spotted her escorting a john toward a dive that makes the Sahara look like the Beverly Wilshire. Officer Jefferson was there because we’ve got a new prevention thing going per the city council. Nip it in the bud rather than waste time with arrests. The customer was one of those hapless Scandinavian tourists, gave Jeff attitude—offended by American prudishness, an African American should know better than to oppress.”
Milo said, “Life’s better in the land of herring and darkness?”
“Ha. You’re making me want to go out and buy a Volvo. Anyway the idiot got the STD lecture and Piggy got the speech we give the girls. Which is basically, next time you go to jail, which everyone knows is not true. Anyway, she was nowhere near the Sahara when Corvin got shot. The fourth set has yet to be identified, no match in AFIS. From the size, probably female. So either a rookie who hasn’t earned an arrest record or a civilian girlfriend.”
Milo said, “Fast turnaround. Thanks.”
Petra said, “Thank yourself. I used your name on the request, rank has its privileges.”
He said, “Speaking of girlfriends,” and gave her the bait/hook theory.
She said, “I’ve been thinking about her—dead or taken alive. Didn’t think of that. If the fourth print is hers, we’re talking a female executioner with no criminal past.”
“Maybe she’s kept her nose clean because she’s really good at what she does.”
“Just what we need, a mastermind. That’s a dismal thought, Milo. I guess anything’s possible but the personal angle’s sticking in my head: jealous spouse or boyfriend. The other thing is my captain wants Corvin to be an extension of Braun.”
“Punting,” said Milo. “No prob.”
“I promise we’ll work it like it’s ours. Which, yes, it should be. But we’ve got a situation here. Computer conversion of our records, it’s a total nightmare. Constant freezes, glitches, data loss, nerds skulking around the station wreaking havoc.”
“Like I said with the phone-company calls, happy to do the paperwork.”
“Appreciate it, Milo. One more thing: I found the person who took the 415 call. New civilian hire, pretty clueless. She thinks the caller was a female but she’s not sure, it could’ve been a male with a high voice. I’m not sure she actually remembers anything, just eager to please. Anything else turns up, I’ll let you know.”
“What do you think about Raul’s theory?”
“What theory?” she said. “Haven’t talked to him all day, he’s out in the field.”
“He found the store where the wine was sold and time of purchase leaves a couple of hours to account for. Showing admirable initiative, your partner suggested the Hustler store as a possible stopover for the late Mr. Corvin.”
“Inspired. Raul’s over there, now?”
“Should be.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s not answering his phone.”
“Concentrating on one thing at a time, kid.”
“I’ll bet,” said Petra. “Can’t wait to see how you write it up.”
Nothing more that day until Milo phoned me at home, just after nine p.m.
“Raul’s hypothesis confirmed, the crafty devil. Corvin purchased a pair of crotchless leopard panties at Hustler just after seven. That gives him an hour and some minutes for a low-stress rush-hour Sunset cruise. He used the company credit card for the panties, too, talk about chutzpah.”
I said, “With all the receipts he submitted, easy to bury a few items. And I’ll bet the store didn’t get specific on the invoice.”
“Bingo on that, they use number codes, Raul had to bug ’em to get the specifics. But still, it’s nervy, no? I’ve got Sean back on Evada tonight, doing four hours of surveillance. Miss Chelsea takes one of her nocturnal strolls and actually goes into Bitt’s house, I will be able to enter to do a welfare check, per the usually obliging Judge Edgar McCarrey and John Nguyen’s backup opinion. But if she just knocks on Bitt’s door, stands outside, and has a conversation, it’s a no-go. Got two more weeks, hopefully we’ll close this mess before that.”
I said, “What happens then?”
“Chelsea turns eighteen, she’s a consenting adult, harder to make a case for anything. Meanwhile, I’m trying Bitt again. If his truck’s there, I’m pounding his damn door until he gets a migraine.”
* * *
—
I sat in my office and thought about Che
t Corvin’s final hours.
Dominant, narcissistic. Breezily confident, until he’d found himself kneeling on the floor of a cheap motel.
The perils of too much self-esteem.
* * *
—
The following day, just after noon, Milo dropped by looking sour but purposeful. He marched to the kitchen, flung the fridge open, took out eggs and whatever else he could find, and set about constructing a terrifying omelet.
I said, “No luck with Bitt.”
“Truck wasn’t there. I knocked anyway, got the expected silence.” He waved a wooden spoon, used it to push a yellow mountain around the pan. A few flecks of egg landed on the floor. Blanche bounced over and gobbled them up.
He said, “There you go, symbiosis.”
“More like exploitation,” I said.
“Huh?”
“What does she give you in return?”
“Oh, pooch, you’ve got a mean dad.” Blanche smiled up at him. “What does she give me? The restorative joys of visual beauty.” He turned off the gas, petted her, plated the mountain, brought it to the table, and began consuming.
Blanche trotted to his feet.
“Can I give her some more?”
“Please don’t. Eggs make her gassy.”
“Daddy’s mean and ecologically insensitive to the virtues of wind power.” Bending low. “He wasn’t such a fuddy-duddy, we could get a government subsidy.”
Straightening, he shoveled food. Blanche settled, closed her eyes, began snoring lightly.
Milo said, “In terms of Bitt’s movements, Sean logged him coming out once, around midnight, followed him to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy over in Pali village. He came out with a small paper bag. Sean said his nose appeared swollen and he didn’t look happy. I’d like to think he’s got a raging coke habit, but probably a cold and NyQuil. That coffee still hot?”
I poured him a mugful.
He said, “Gracias. Sean left at four a.m. Sometime between then and nine when I showed up, Bitt left again and stayed away. He seems to be moving around more but for all I know he went to the doctor to get his sinuses reamed. Moe’ll try tonight, again. I have energy, I’ll come by when he leaves. Meanwhile, no night moves from Ms. Chelsea.”
His phone kicked in. New ringtone: a few bars of Puccini’s “Babbino Caro.” Gorgeous piece of music. Shame to abuse it that way.
He said, “Hey, Sean. When’d you get in…good for you…it did? One’s better than nothing, I’m at Dr. D’s place, email it to him, we’ll print it from his computer.”
Forkful of omelet. “I told him to check my computer every hour. The rest of Corvin’s corporate credit card records just came through.”
“You can’t get downloads to your phone?”
“I can technically but it’s iffy, regulation-wise,” he said. “Department’s still working out specifics on interfacing with personal devices.”
“My computer’s okay?”
He grinned. “Your screen’s larger.”
* * *
—
As he washed the fry pan, I printed. Five pages of fine print covering three billing periods that I brought to the kitchen.
Chet Corvin had traveled extensively up and down the coast, charging business and first-class airline tickets, rental cars, meals, and hotels from San Diego to Seattle. No stops at or near Oxnard, Ventura, or Santa Barbara, which caused Milo to curse under his breath.
At the bottom of the fifth sheet: the Sahara Motor Inn, the wine, “merchandise” at Hustler, and something Raul had missed: a “delux.assort” purchased at “Haute Eu. Choco.” Ninety-three dollars and some change.
I said, “High-priced dessert?”
Milo said, “Candy’s dandy, liquor’s quicker, when in doubt go for both.”
* * *
—
Haute European Chocolatiers had one location: the north side of Sunset, 1.3 miles east of the Hustler store. Open three days a week, closed yesterday when Raul had searched.
The “elite confectionary” offered a pricey assortment of French macarons, Swiss sweets, and other “Continental temptations.”
Milo said, “Ninety-three bucks. Definitely a party. But why there?”
I said, “Maybe his girlfriend lives nearby—Hollywood Hills, Los Feliz, Silverlake.”
“Chet and Madame X,” he said. “He thinks he’s in for fun and she turns out to be Ms. Murderous. Or she got taken and ended up like he did. Let’s learn about dessert. You drive.”
* * *
—
The shop was a fifteen-foot storefront sandwiched between two clothing boutiques, both featuring gray, cachectic manikins and abbreviated dresses with S&M overtones, tight enough to highlight pores.
By contrast, the chocolate store looked old-school, with a yellow, umbrella-shaped awning doming the window and a glass door printed in gilt script. The display window featured boxes of assorted candies resting in beds of tinsel.
I said, “Refined sugar doesn’t seem like a good fit for the size zero crowd.”
“Or this place caters to the worst dregs of humanity.”
I looked at him.
He said, “Zombies—the evil undead. They eat what they want and stay skinny.”
He pushed the door open. A bell tinkled. Inside, the air was creamy and sweet and cloying. A display case held more high-end sucrose nestled in little brown paper cups. Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” streamed. Performed by a string quartet.
The woman behind the case smiled. “Hi, guys. How can I tempt you today?”
Pretty, late forties to early fifties, with long hair, blond on top, black at the ends. A heart tattoo graced the left side of her neck topped by inked Asian lettering that might mean something. Ebony gauges the size of quarters stretched her earlobes.
The kids of tomorrow will have interesting grandparents.
Milo flashed his badge along with a smile.
The woman said, “We haven’t had any problems recently. Should I be worried?”
“Recently?”
“The usual, you know. Drunks and homeless making a mess in the morning and a few months ago there was that burglary at Adrienne Ballou up the block. Should I be worried?”
“Not in the least, ma’am. We’re wondering if you remember a specific customer.”
“How far back?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“I’m not senile, c’mon! Who?”
He began describing Chet Corvin.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mr. CEO,” she said. “He got the deluxe assortment. Why’re you asking about him?”
“He’s a person of interest.”
“Well, he didn’t interest me. Talk about inept.”
“In terms of—”
“Flirting,” she said. “Like it was expected of him, like it was his usual—what do you guys call it…a priori?”
“Modus operandi.”
Perfect smile. “That’s it! He was a tool! Winking and leering, and showing off his Range Rover fob, like that’s supposed to impress me. My ex drove a Bentley and he was no catch. What’d he do?”
“Any idea who he bought the chocolate for?”
“He sure wanted me to know,” she said. “Not the actual person, the fact that they were going to do you-know-what. Wink wink. I expected him to start drooling.”
She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s special. Women come in here because they appreciate fine confection. With guys, it’s either they’re like him, out for some play, or they’re trying to get on a chick’s good side after doing something gross or stupid—no offense to you guys. I’m sure you treat your women great.”
Milo smiled. “You’ve got that right. He’s a sensitive guy and I revere my mother. So what else can you tell us about Mr. CEO?”
“That’s it. He’s never been here before since I bought the place and that’s four years ago.”
“One-shot walk-in.”
“We get them,” she said. “Kind of like church o
r temple, you know? Atoning?”
Milo showed her Hargis Braun’s photo. “Is he one of your customers, also?”
She studied the image. “No. Who’s he?”
“Part of an investigation.”
“What, there’s some sort of middle-aged white-guy thing going on?”
“Nothing scary,” he said. “Thanks for your time.”
“Can I give you guys samples?”
“Appreciate it but we’re on the job, Ms.—”
“Nola. Aw c’mon, I won’t tell your mommies. Soft center or hard?” Eyelash aerobics.
Milo said, “I’m a sucker for caramel.”
“Then you’re in luck, ours is like nirvana, we use creamery butter from the Alps. You, sir?”
“Anything semisweet.”
Nola tossed her hair. “Très sophisticah-ted.” Fishing two truffles out of the case, she dropped them in fluted paper cups. “Here you go, I picked the color specially for you guys.”
The cups were a perfect match to the tan uniforms of West Hollywood sheriffs. LAPD’s blue but Milo said, “Great, thanks, Nola.”
“Enjoy! Try them right now so I can see your reaction. I love to make people happy!”
I bit off half of my truffle. A hard shell encased something liquid, alcoholic, and nicely bitter—maybe Campari.
I said, “Great,” and finished with a second bite.
“There you go!”
Milo’s caramel was sheathed in milk chocolate, shaped like a teardrop, and dotted with white chocolate. He popped the whole thing into his mouth, jaws working on the caramel as he thanked her again.
“I love it, Nola, it’s amazing. Would you mind if I showed you another photo? I’m sure it’s nothing but what the heck.”
“Why would I mind? Anything for you guys, you keep us safe.”
Night Moves Page 16