Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Still in the doorway, he called out, “Police. Anyone home?”

  Nothing.

  Placing his hand on his Glock but leaving it holstered he motioned me to wait and entered.

  A minute later he was back. “All clear.”

  He picked up his case, sniffed, nostrils flaring.

  I said, “Exactly.”

  Empty house but the air lacked the dirty-socks must of disuse. Instead, a pleasant scent washed through, aromatic, familiar.

  Armani.

  I pointed to a brown princess phone on the floor, next to a couch. Eighties vintage, the closest thing to an antique.

  He took an evidence bag out of his case, uncoupled the phone from its cord, bagged it. “If there are prints anywhere, they’ll be here. Not that we don’t know who was answering Chet’s calls. This clinches it, again, you’re right. Girlfriend, not a pro, in that motel room.”

  I said nothing.

  He said, “Stop bragging. Look what happened to Chet.”

  He walked around, opening and shutting drawers and cabinets. Cheap crockery, glassware, utensils, pots and pans. Stepping around the partition to the laundry room, he took his time with the washer-dryer.

  Empty, spotless, dry. Same for a plastic utility sink and a cheap wicker hamper. Utility storage consisted of detergent, bug spray, a coiled garden hose, a toolbox whose stiff latch said it hadn’t been opened for a while, four mousetraps in heat-sealed plastic packets.

  We returned to the living room, continued through the left-hand doorway. Two identical nine-by-nine bedrooms were dimmed by pebbled windows set high in a tongue-and-groove wall and separated by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. Nothing in the medicine cabinet.

  The master bedroom at the end of the hall was larger but far from generous. The smell of perfume was stronger. Clear-glass windows provided the same green view as the living room triangle. The lav was en suite but drab. No sheets, pillows, or cases on the queen bed; one dresser, also unused. No clothes in the closet but lots of neatly folded percale and terry cloth.

  I said, “Rarely used until now. And she cleaned up compulsively. Same as the motel. Same as Braun.”

  He stared. “She’s more than a love interest?”

  “Just throwing out ideas.”

  Noise from the front of the house whipsawed both our heads.

  A door closing. Footsteps.

  Milo unsnapped his gun and pulled it out, sidled toward the doorway.

  He tensed for a second, slipped through, pointed the Glock. “Freeze!”

  A male voice said, “Oh, Jesus God!”

  * * *

  —

  The man’s hands were up and they trembled. So did his legs. “Please, man.” High-pitched nasal voice. “Take what you want and—”

  Milo said, “Police. Continue to cooperate.” Extricating his badge, he flashed it.

  The man said, “Jesus Mary Mother of God.” A meaty face that had gone pale began to take on color, achieved ruddiness within seconds. His posture loosened but he continued to shake.

  “Can I?” he said, waving his fingers. “Got a sore rotator cuff.”

  Milo said, “Name.”

  “Dave Brassing.”

  “The caretaker.”

  “That’s me, sir, I promise, there’s I.D. in my pocket.”

  “Okay, at ease. Didn’t mean to startle you but I called and you never answered so I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Sorry, sir, I was going to.” Brassing waited until the Glock was reholstered before letting out a wheezy sigh and flopping his arms to his sides.

  Late forties to early fifties, stocky, he had a broad face bristled by bushy sideburns and bottomed by eight inches of graying, spade-shaped goatee. A battered, broad-brimmed leather hat sat askew. A gray work shirt was splotched with fear-sweat. Baggy cargo shorts revealed callused knees. The soles of hiking boots were crusted with leaves.

  “Oh, man,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “You scared the stuffing out of me.” His cheeks fluttered as his head moved to the side.

  Milo said, “So, Dave, what brings you here?”

  “Checking around,” said Brassing. “For you, actually. I was going to call after I saw that everything was okay.”

  Not getting the point of evidence preservation.

  Brassing said, “Whew.” His chest heaved.

  “You want some water, Dave?”

  “No, I’m okay…can I sit down?”

  “Sure. Didn’t mean to freak you out, Dave.”

  “My fault, should’ve answered you sooner,” said Brassing. “I saw your car, figured it was police, but when you rushed out with that heater…” He exhaled, face glassy with sweat. “Guns are a thing with me. I used to hunt, nothing bothered me. Then I got held up a few years ago and when I see ’em, I get kind of queasy.”

  “Sorry ’bout that.”

  “Yeah,” said Dave Brassing. “Armed robbery. It was hairy.”

  Milo said, “It happen around here?”

  “Down in San Berdoo. I was working at a tire store, couple of hoodies came in and shoved iron in my face and had me clean out the register, I thought I was going to—thank God there was some cash in there.”

  I said, “What a thing to go through.”

  “Wouldn’t wish it on my enemy,” said Brassing. “I’m not saying I got rid of my weapons, fact is I’d have been better off packing when they showed up. But I look at guns different, now. The one they used was a .38 Smith-W. One of mine was one of those, I got rid of it.”

  He bit his lip. “I don’t even want to watch movies with shooting. Anyway, I should’ve called out Hello, it’s Dave, or something, I didn’t figure. Phew. Okay, I’m breathing again.”

  Milo said, “You’re sure you’re okay? Don’t want water?”

  “I’m fine, thanks, no worries—actually, yeah, water sounds good, mind if I get it myself?”

  “Go for it, Dave.”

  Brassing walked to the kitchen, filled a glass from the sink, held it up to window light.

  “It was good last time I checked but winter there was runoff-silt. Nothing dangerous, just minerals, but it tasted bad.”

  He chugged the entire glass, filled another, repeated. “Took me a while to convince them to fix it, finally did. Deposits in the tank, not a small job.”

  I said, “They don’t use the house, don’t want to put out the money.”

  “You got it.”

  “How long have you been taking care of the place?”

  Brassing put down the empty glass and sat back down. “I don’t really take care, like a big, detailed deal. What it is, I come in once a month except winter, when it’s two three times, got to make sure the pipes don’t freeze, all that good stuff.”

  He pointed to the rear window. “Also that, in the winter. That much glass, you get constriction of the frames, the glue dries, you get leaks.”

  I said, “Then there’s the mousetraps.”

  “Oh, yeah, that, too. Little buggers used to get inside, poop all over the place, that was gross. I sealed off holes and cracks, baited outside to keep them away from inside.” Tensing. “You’re not saying you saw some in here?”

  “Just traps near the garbage cans.”

  “That’s okay,” said Brassing. “I also got them placed clear back to the end of the property.”

  “Where is that, Dave?”

  “Right where the grass ends.”

  “Not the trees,” I said.

  “That’s the neighbor, super-rich guy, computers or something, he’s got fifteen acres, at least. Big stone house. Not that he uses it, either. That’s the way it is here. They say it’s an investment—he said that. Mr. Corvin. He wasn’t a bad type. Still can’t believe what happened to him.”

  “Mrs. Corvin told you.”

  “On her message. That was kind of…but I’m not judging.”

  I said, “Unemotional?”

  “Yeah,” said Brassing. “ ‘Hi, Dave, need to let you know.’ Then she lays th
at on me. Like please check the garbage cans and oh, yeah, Chet got killed.”

  “Is that her usual approach?”

  “Couldn’t tell you, maybe I seen her three times, I always dealt with him.”

  “Could we hear the message?”

  Looking puzzled, Brassing produced his phone, scrolled, activated.

  Felice Corvin’s voice came on, cool, soft, articulate. “David Brassing, this is Mrs. Corvin. Not sure of your schedule but I’m calling to let you know the police will be examining the house in the near future. Mr. Corvin was shot and killed.”

  Click.

  Dave Brassing said, “Wow, that’s colder than I remembered.”

  Milo said, “You’ve met her three times.”

  “Maybe, could be two.”

  “What about the kids?”

  Brassing shook his head. “They said they had kids but never seen any.”

  “And Mr. Corvin?”

  “More,” said Brassing. “But not a lot. They bought the place something like two and a half, three years ago. I worked for the people before them, the Liebers. That was real caretaking, they were older folk, retired, they used it all the time, were still skiing when they were like eighty. They recommended me to the Corvins.”

  I said, “How many contacts have you had with Mr. Corvin?”

  “Oh…I’d say…eight, nine? Mostly on the phone. Don’t know, really.”

  Milo said, “In three years.”

  “Yup. It’s mostly copacetic, here.”

  “How about this year?”

  “Hmm…twice, three? Last time was like…a month ago? The mice. I guess he was here and saw droppings. He called me up, said, ‘What do I pay you for?’ ”

  “Copping an attitude.”

  “Well,” said Brassing, “can’t say I blame him, who wants to see that? I finally figured out there was a small hole in the lint trap vent. Sealed it off, no more little Mickeys.” He smiled. Lots of missing teeth and the dentition that remained was yellow and ragged.

  “Problem solved,” I said. “Was he grateful?”

  “He never complained.” Removing his hat, he scratched dense, gray hair.

  Milo said, “When Mr. Corvin stayed here, who was he with?”

  “Who?” said Brassing. “I’m assuming her.”

  “Mrs. Corvin.”

  Brassing’s bushy eyebrows flickered. “You’re saying not?”

  “Not saying anything, Dave. When’s the last time the master bedroom got used?”

  “Hmm,” said Brassing. “Not for a while. I haven’t been here in a month but even before that—it’s not like it was regular.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “They always cleaned up real good,” said Brassing. “New sheets, new pillowcase.”

  I said, “There’s perfume in the air. Smell it?”

  Brassing sniffed. “Can’t smell so good—yeah, I’m catching a whiff.”

  “Familiar?”

  “No, not really.”

  “Deviated septum?” said Milo.

  Brassing tapped his right nostril. “Tumor. Back when I was in high school. Played football, got a monster headache, everyone figured it was a hard tackle but it was a tumor. Benign, they rooted around and got rid of it, I had headaches for years but now it’s okay. But not much sense of smell. Some of my taste, too, my wife says it don’t matter, anyway, I’m no gourmet.”

  Gap-toothed smile. “Guess I’m the lucky one.”

  Milo and I looked at him.

  “The tumor, then getting held up and surviving?” said Brassing. “A few other things in between, God pulled me through.”

  “I admire your faith, Dave,” said Milo.

  “My pastor says it’s easy to have faith when things work out good, the key is when it’s rough—think I’ll get myself more water.”

  He drank a third glass, came back.

  Milo said, “So you have no idea who Mr. Corvin stayed with?”

  “I’m getting a feeling it wasn’t the wife, huh? You’re thinking that’s what got him killed?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Dave, we’re just asking questions.”

  “Got it. Wish I had answers for you.”

  “No idea who might’ve stayed here with Mr. Corvin.”

  “Sorry, nope.”

  “What about something left in the garbage—a credit slip, anything with I.D.?”

  “No garbage,” said Brassing.

  “What do you mean?”

  “The cans were always empty. I guess they could’ve taken it to the dump. It’s at Heap’s Peak, a few miles down the mountain, on the way back to the freeway.”

  “They don’t pay for trash collection?”

  “They do,” said Brassing. “When I throw stuff out—mousetraps, whatever—it gets picked up.” He tugged at his beard. “Fifty bucks a month doesn’t sound like much but I like to come up here, anyway, breathe some good air.”

  “Come up from where?”

  “San Bernardino. I’m semi-retired, do flea markets on the weekend. Used to do other houses but now it’s just this and another one closer to the village.”

  “When Mr. Corvin was here, which car did he drive?”

  “The first time I met him he had a Jaguar—the big sedan. The only other times—maybe one, maybe two, he had a Range Rover.”

  Brassing slapped his forehead. “Shoot, I forgot, sorry. A week ago, after I checked my other house—the Palmers—I decided to drive by, just an overall look, nothing huge I needed to deal with. And this car drove toward me the opposite way, seemed to be coming from the property. I can’t be sure but the houses are pretty far apart, it seemed to be coming from here. It was already up the road by the time I got here and nothing looked wrong so I figured it was just someone doing a three-point turn.”

  Milo said, “What kind of car?”

  “That I can tell you,” said Brassing, “Camaro, eighties. Cool color: black. It makes them look more racy, you know?”

  I said, “A week ago. So last Friday.”

  “That’s when I do the Palmers. Twice a month. They play golf, I go in and check around.”

  Milo said, “Catch a look at who was driving?”

  “Nope, it was going pretty fast.”

  Milo handed Brassing his card. “You see it again, try to get the license plate, even if you don’t, give me a ring, okay?”

  “It’s important? Sure,” said Brassing.

  The three of us stood.

  Brassing said, “Uh, one thing, sir. I’m not sure if I still have the job. Thought I’d give Mrs. Corvin some time to settle down before I ask her.”

  “My advice,” said Milo, “is let it ride. You don’t hear from her, you’ve got the job.”

  Brassing winked. “Don’t upset the apple cart, huh?”

  “Exactly, Dave. When’s your next visit scheduled?”

  “Like in a couple weeks.”

  “You can drive by but don’t go inside until I tell you it’s okay.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I need to keep the place as is.”

  “For CSI stuff?”

  “That kind of thing.”

  “Got it.” Brassing read the card. “Homicide. Can’t believe that actually happened.”

  Milo and I stood outside as Brassing drove away in an old Ford van.

  He said, “Braun, Bitt, Chet, Chet’s girlfriend, and now the Camaro kid at Braun’s house and here. So he’s definitely involved and there’s definitely a link between Chet and Braun. The whole chocolate thing…I was starting to think the case was coming together but it’s feeling like a magician’s gag. Poof, nothing materializes—are you seeing something I’m not?”

  I said, “Wish I was.”

  “Brutal honesty,” he said. “So what now?”

  “I’d resume the surveillance on Bitt and call Henry Prieto to let him know he was onto something with the Camaro. He still thinks of himself as a cop, will eagle-eye. Who handles law enforcement here?”


  “San Bernardino sheriff, Twin Peaks station.”

  “Would they do a forensic workup of the house?”

  “With no obvious crime? Hard to say.”

  “Long as we’re here,” I said, “we could check the places where Corvin spent money. Could give us something on the girlfriend.”

  “He’s got a love nest here, why would he use a hotel in San Berdoo?”

  “Moving around to be less conspicuous, creature comforts, or just plain novelty. The company was paying for everything, so why not take advantage. On the way, we can stop in Arrowhead Village and ask around.”

  He shot a cuff and looked at his Timex. “It’s pushing four, we’ll be coming back late.”

  “Less traffic.”

  He slapped my back. “Unbridled optimism. Patent it and you’ll own your own jet.”

  * * *

  —

  We sat in the Dodge and examined Chet Corvin’s recent San Bernardino expenditures.

  Six stays in three hotels, all tagged as “Inns.” Three restaurant tabs at two Italian and one Mexican restaurant. Everything close to the freeway, in the inland city’s business core.

  A call to the Twin Peaks sheriff’s station produced bafflement when Milo admitted the house wasn’t a likely crime scene. He got shunted up the brass rod, ended with a captain named Bacerra who resisted but finally agreed to “limited cooperation”: Once permission to enter was granted in writing by the current owner and non-intrusive access could be guaranteed, the A-frame would “eventually” be processed for prints, fibers, and “obvious” body fluids. Meaning a visual inspection but no dogs or alternative light source unless something “probative” came up.

  Milo said, “Thanks,” trying to mean it. “I can get you a key for access and there’s also a caretaker. In terms of written consent, would a fax work?”

  “Probably,” said Bacerra. “It’s going to take time, anyway. We’re swamped with real stuff.”

  * * *

  —

  In Arrowhead Village, forty or so trendy-leaning businesses were backdropped by the lake. Emphasis on clothing and personal appearance—beauty salons, a Pilates studio, a gym.