Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Out came Bitt’s DMV shot.

  Nola said, “That’s Trevor the artist.”

  “You know him?”

  “I know his name is Trevor and that he’s an artist. He did me a drawing—I’ve got it in back, want to see?”

  * * *

  —

  She returned with a five-by-seven pencil sketch in a thin black frame. A pair of fluffy white rabbits feminized by long lashes. One animal was half the size of the other. Baby bunny smiling sleepily as it nestled in the refuge of its mother’s curling body.

  Nola said, “I told him I had a daughter and he left for like a minute, came back with paper and a pencil, and drew it right here, on the counter. See—he signed it to me.”

  The inscription was near the bottom, beautifully printed, slanting forward. What a comic-book artist might use for emphasis.

  To Nola and Cheyenne. May all your dreams be sweet. Best, Trevor.

  She said, “He just stood here and did it while I watched, didn’t erase once. I figured to give it to Cheyenne but she thought it was silly.” Shrug. “She’s sixteen. So I kept it for myself—you’re not going to tell me he’s a bad person, are you?”

  Pressing her palms together.

  Milo said, “Not at all.”

  “Then, what?”

  “I wish I could give you details, but like I said nothing for you to worry about.”

  “I’m not worried but I am curious,” said Nola. “You have his picture along with that other guy. And you asked about that CEO sleazeball. Hmm, let’s see how good I am at detecting. A gang of middle-aged white guys, has to be a shady business deal. What, real estate? A Ponzi? My ex was—but you don’t want to hear about that.”

  Her expression said she hoped we did.

  Milo said, “How often did Trevor come in?”

  “Just twice. When he did the drawing was the second time, that was right before last Christmas. The first was around a year ago. Look at these super-smooth lines, that’s pretty impressive. At least to me.”

  Milo said, “Any idea who he was buying chocolate for?”

  “Someone super-lucky, he put out some bucks,” said Nola. “C’mon, what’s up, some sort of Enron thing? My ex thought they were a great company, invested some of our savings with them. That’s why I’m here. Though I do love it, turns out.”

  “No, Trevor’s an artist, just like you said.”

  “Last name?”

  “Bitt.”

  She phone-Googled. “Oh, with two t’s…he’s got a Wikipedia bio…famous comic-book artist? Is this worth something? I bet it is, thanks guys, eBay here we come. How about some bonbons, got them in the freezer out back, milk chocolate for guava, dark for raspberry.”

  With obvious pain, Milo said, “No thanks,” and headed for the exit. Before he got there, the door was pushed in hard, forcing him to sidestep.

  No apologies from the man charging forward, head down, shoulders tight.

  Thirties, as emaciated as the manikins next door, wearing blood-red skinny jeans, a scooped-neck orange tee, and electric-blue high-tops. His hair was buzzed at the sides, piled high on top, his beard a black chunk of topiary.

  Milo muttered, “Undead.”

  The new arrival raced to the counter. “I need something, Nola.” As if ordering a casket.

  She said, “Oh, Richard. What did you do now?”

  Back in the Seville, Milo said, “Chocolate. A link between Corvin and Bitt?”

  I said, “What made you show her Bitt’s photo?”

  “Wish I could say it was brilliant deducing but just grasping.” He pulled a cigar out of his pocket, rolled it between his fingers. “Besides a sweet tooth, what the hell else did the two of them have in common?”

  “Maybe nothing.”

  “Did we just inhabit parallel universes, amigo? A fancy candy store they both happen to patronize?”

  “There’s another way to look at it.”

  He sighed, put the cigar back. “Isn’t there always. What?”

  “Corvin’s only been here once but Bitt bought gift boxes twice. The first time was around a year ago. ‘Around’ could mean a couple of weeks, give or take. What happens in two weeks?”

  “What—oh, shit,” he said. “Chelsea’s birthday? Bitt bought her a present?”

  “Maybe that and a box for Christmas. The connection to Chet could be nothing more than him seeing the chocolates in Chelsea’s room and asking her about it. If she shined him on, he’d likely drop it. But what if he filed the store’s name away and noticed it on his way to the Sahara. It jogged his memory.”

  “You believe in that level of coincidence?”

  “I believe there’s a relationship between Bitt and Chelsea. Her after-dark expeditions and his being so squirrelly point that way. And those drawings we saw in Chelsea’s room—all those pages of repetitive designs—might be her attempt to impress a real artist.”

  “She digs Bitt, he pretends to be impressed, nasty stuff ensues in the studio.” He frowned. “You really think Corvin wouldn’t push things with Chelsea if he saw high-end goodies in a shiny box? More to the point, Felice wouldn’t?”

  “From what we’ve seen, Chet and Chelsea didn’t have much of a relationship. He called me in to see her without consulting Felice, used the girl to embarrass her mom and me. I don’t think he told Felice much, period. Even if Felice did find out, she might prod a bit, but if Chelsea sank her heels in and refused to say, I think she’d have backed off. Assuming it was a gift from a boy. Finally.”

  The cigar reappeared. He bit off the tip, spat it out the window. “Anything’s possible, but I’m still thinking the simple route. Like Nola just said, a gang of white dudes. Daddy plus the weirdo next door plus too-good-to-be-true guy named Hal.”

  I thought: The simple route? All from a box of chocolate? Said, “Sure,” and started the car.

  We were back in his office thirty-five minutes later. The rest of Chet Corvin’s credit card history sat on his desk. Fewer charges on the remaining cards but the same pattern: cities up and down the coast, a few more stops south in San Bernardino, Riverside, and San Diego. Hotels, restaurants, occasional charges for groceries and men’s clothing.

  No alcohol, no chocolate, no lingerie. The last day of Corvin’s life had been different and I said so. “Maybe because he was about to make a change. Preparing to leave his old life behind and venture out with a new love.”

  He poked the pile of charge records. “This is business stuff.”

  “But romance could easily be buried in here. Book a single-occupancy room, someone sleeps over, who’s going to know? And with a double meal charge, who’s to say he didn’t take a client out? As long as he kept it reasonable, no one would take a close look.”

  He placed the forms in the murder book. “I need those phone records.”

  He checked with Binchy, Reed, the desk officer, the downstairs clerk. No messages from the phone company, the mail had come and gone, nothing.

  Snatching up his desk phone, he punched numbers, shook his head. “This is Lieutenant Sturgis from LAPD West L.A. I seem to keep missing you. Wondering about those logs I requested on a homicide victim. Chet. Middle initial M. Corvin.”

  A voice you might interpret as friendly if you couldn’t see the way his facial muscles strained the bones below.

  He slammed the phone down. “At least I learned about a place for a good Christmas gift.”

  “Rick likes chocolate?”

  “Allergic,” he said. “I’m talking self-gratification.”

  * * *

  —

  At eight thirty the following morning, he called, sounding buoyed. “Phone logs got emailed just as I was about to leave last night. Can I bring them by?”

  “When?”

  “I’m parked outside.”

  I’d been playing guitar in my bathrobe out in the studio with Blanche. By the time I reached the front door, Milo was standing inches from the threshold, olive-drab vinyl attaché case in hand, his b
ulk blocking out most of the light.

  He forged in like a gust of wind, sat down in the living room.

  His hair was nearly tamed by some sort of product, his ravaged face razored as smooth as it was going to get. A brown sport coat woven from a nubby fabric that evoked a cheap couch went nicely with wheat-colored jeans and a yellow shirt new enough to sport box creases.

  Planning to go somewhere, later.

  I said, “Natty.”

  He humphed and popped the case and took out a sheaf of papers. Six months of phone calls on the personal cellular account of Chet M. Corvin.

  Each had been checked off in blue ballpoint. A few were margined by notes in Milo’s hand. Hyatt, Portland; Embassy Suites, Tacoma; Firewood Café, Oakland airport.

  Two numbers were circled repeatedly in red. Twenty-eight calls to and from a 310 listing over the past two months. Eleven to the 909 area code were clustered during the last week of Corvin’s life.

  Milo tapped the twenty-eight-caller. “Local but disposable and expired, no way to trace. I was hoping Chet used the Burner app on his phone to create his own temporary but no such luck, just your basic by-the-month dope-dealer accessory.”

  I said, “Something to hide.”

  “That girlfriend scenario of yours is looking better. And maybe we can find her. The 909 is in San Bernardino, a landline. I tried, no answer, no machine. But it’s active. Any guesses?”

  “Lake Arrowhead’s in San Bernardino County. First time we met Corvin, he mentioned a weekend home there.”

  He grinned. “Great minds. Yeah, I called Felice, she confirmed it. Said the family hadn’t used the place since two winters ago. She wanted to know why I was asking. I said Chet seemed to be calling there, I had yet to find out why. But she got the point, became rather irate.”

  I said, “The call dates say the relationship began at least two months ago in L.A. For the past week or so, he moved her to the family getaway.”

  “In preparation for his new life.” He stood, bowed, sat back down. “Felice’s anger worked in my favor. She gave me permission to go there and take a look. There’s a local guy, sees after the place twice a month, has a key. I left him a message, haven’t heard back. But I don’t need him, Felice said she’d leave one under the mat.”

  “New friend.”

  “Common enemy.”

  I began walking out.

  “Where you going?”

  “Shave, shower, et cetera.”

  “Getting yourself dapper?” he said. “Good. I have my standards.”

  A manila envelope leaned against the door of the Corvin house. Trevor Bitt’s pickup was parked next door. Milo studied the cactus Tudor, scratched the side of his nose and contemplated, then returned to the unmarked he’d picked up this morning. A smooth-driving slate-blue Dodge Charger that still smelled of new car. Way above his usual ride. Hope leads you to all sorts of self-affirming places.

  Once behind the wheel, he uncoiled a string on the flap of the envelope. Inside was a key chained to a fob and a folded piece of white paper. The fob was a plastic Disneyland souvenir. Snow White, chaste and unaware she was despised. The paper listed computer-typed directions to the Arrowhead house, the alarm code, and the number of Dave Brassing, the occasional caretaker.

  Programming the car’s GPS, Milo checked it against Felice Corvin’s directions. “Perfect.”

  Big V-8, muscular and smooth.

  I said, “How’d you score the hot wheels?”

  “Got A’s on my homework and begged Daddy for the keys.” Big grin. “Found out a mere sergeant in Burglary was planning to use it tomorrow and pulled rank.”

  “What’s next, an Oscars after-party.”

  “Actually, I coulda gone to one last year. One of Rick’s patients is the bimbo girlfriend of a noted producer. Drove into a pole while taking a selfie. Rick put her arm and her shoulder together. Well enough to service Daddy Filmbucks because he extended the invite.”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  “More allergies. Both of us.”

  “To what?”

  “Ego cancer and bullshit.”

  * * *

  —

  The route from the Palisades to the Inland Empire’s resort areas was the 405 North, the 134 East, merge to the 210, State Route 18 up to the mountains.

  Decades ago, European road architects figured out that curves keep drivers awake, hence the Autostrada, the Autobahn, and the like. Not so, Caltrans. The result is thousands of miles of hypnotic straightaway that scalpel through marginalized neighborhoods. It’s a nonstop display of trailer parks, houses that might as well be trailers, discount malls, car lots the size of small towns, big-box retailers with the grace of an unshielded sneeze.

  Intersections in freeway districts are built around gas stations, grease pits, and fast-food joints. The less fortunate citizens of California contend with toxic air, brain-scraping noise, and opportunistic criminals hopping off the freeway to felonize before on-ramping back in celebration.

  When I’m not behind the wheel, I find it hard to stay awake on the freeway and I dozed off halfway through the ninety-mile drive.

  I woke up on the outskirts of San Bernardino and checked my watch. What should’ve been a ninety-minute drive had stretched to two hours and thirteen minutes.

  “Accident?”

  Milo’s jacket had taken on wrinkles. His hair spiked where he’d rubbed his scalp. “Coupla semis tangoed twenty miles back, ambulance injuries. Cleared by the time we got there but that didn’t stop idiots from gawking, now it’s even worse, with the cellphone photos. Explain that to me. What’s the thrill?”

  I said, “New-age slapstick. Enjoying the fact that the other guy slipped on a banana peel.”

  “Cruel world,” he said. “Lucky for me.”

  A mile later: “You were snoozing away, amigo. How the hell do you sleep like that?”

  I rarely do but how would he know? “Clear conscience.”

  “Damn,” he said, slapping his forehead. “Too late for that.”

  * * *

  —

  The outskirts of San Bernardino were what you’d expect, made dreary by Beijing-level smog.

  The airborne dirt vanished a few miles into Highway 18, the state route’s primary access to the San Bernardino Mountains. Four lanes that shift gradually to a gear-challenging climb and top-of-the-world views.

  Eighteen snakes up to a series of ski resorts before sloping east and descending to the Mojave Desert. The final stop is Adelanto, a town founded over a century ago as a citrus-growing community, switching to poultry farming when that didn’t work out, continuing to struggle as the economic allure of two private prisons proved illusory.

  I’d been there a few years ago, evaluating the custodial fitness of a father imprisoned for a massive insurance scam and about to be released. The kind of guy who could easily fool a polygraph. My report was thin on details but loaded with implication. The judge got the point.

  Today’s trip included only the first twenty or so miles of 18, as we entered Arrowhead Village. Along the way, signs proclaiming gated, guarded communities and admonishing trespassers had alternated with flecks of lake view that pierced the tree canopy randomly—loose sapphires in a green velvet box. On the water side of the commercial center’s cottagey shops and restaurants, the forest had been cleared, exposing an expanse of blue peppered by white boats.

  The lake itself is pure Southern California: theatrically gorgeous but artificial. Created as a reservoir left unfinished after being ruled illegal and subject to decades of shifting ownership, fraudulent land transfers, and inside deals, it had finally settled as a weekend escape where dockside mansions served as stopovers for movie stars and tycoons.

  We continued west, turned onto Brewer Road, and entered a tract of modest residences widely spaced on generous lots. Weekend places for the financially comfortable. The attraction here was the much smaller Grass Valley Lake and a golf course. No gates, no warnings.

  Ou
r destination, marked by a rustic address sign on a tilting stake, was curtained by white pines, black oaks, and ponderosas and visible only as a smear of cedar siding.

  Milo said, “Just Molly and me-ee, in our brown heaven,” and hooked onto a long dirt driveway bordered by rocks the size of Galapagos tortoise shells. The house finally came into view seconds later, shoved off center by a clutch of monumental firs.

  One-story A-frame, cedar planks oiled long ago and graying at the edges. No garage, no fencing. Two large plastic garbage cans stood to the left.

  We got out of the car, greeted by chittering birds and rustling leaves. Milo checked the cans. Empty. His eyes shifted to the ground nearby. Three mousetraps, one hosting a rodent skeleton. Close by was a rogue patch of grass defying its host patch of gravel. Ruts and tracks ran through the blades and continued to the gravel: wildlife partying, most likely squirrels, chipmunks, and raccoons. The trash-can lids were held in place by metal clasps. Claw marks scored the tops. Coons or bears—juveniles lacking the skill and attention span to pull off a prolonged assault.

  Milo returned to the Dodge, now dusted with pollen, popped the trunk, and removed his attaché case. Out came two sets of booties and gloves.

  I said, “Expecting a crime scene?”

  “Expecting anything.” We covered our shoes and hands and I followed him to the front door.

  Big lumbering shape in coarse brown.

  Adult bear, ready to forage.

  * * *

  —

  The alarm panel just inside the door whined. Milo punched buttons from the code he’d memorized, created silence, took in the layout.

  A single high-peaked space was sectioned by furniture and appliances into a living room with a doorway to the left, a dining area, and a kitchen separated from a laundry room by a waist-high partition.

  Open beamed ceiling. Cheap blue felt carpeted the entire floor. The rear wall was glass, a triangle composed of several window frames and interrupted by a rear door. Outside was a skimpy lawn, then a mass of black-green, the rear boundary unclear. A glass-shaded chandelier—unreasonable facsimile of Tiffany—dangled from a center beam. The furniture was bolted-together blond wood and plastic, contrasting with dark-stained wood walls and ceiling. Every upholstered surface was brown; if Milo sat down, he might disappear.