We walked from store to store, showing pictures of Chet Corvin, Hal Braun, and Trevor Bitt, eliciting head shakes. Several merchants said, “Some of the weekenders never come in.”
The losing streak was broken at one of the last shops, Snowbird Jewelers. Just over a month ago, Chet Corvin had purchased a silver filigree necklace set with amethysts for $612.43, paying with cash. The proprietor, an older Iranian man in a white shirt and tie, remembered Corvin because he was “very enthusiastic.”
Milo said, “About what, sir?”
The man adjusted his eyeglasses. “Buying it. Winking all the time.” He demonstrated, the result more comical than lascivious.
“Did he come in alone?”
“He did,” said the man. “It was a surprise. You’re saying not for the wife, eh? I figured.”
“Why’s that?”
“The winking. Wives get presents, they don’t get winking.”
We got back in the car and began the descent of Highway 18. Covering the shopping center had taken time and the sky was fighting to stay lit, bashful lemon-colored sun hiding behind cotton-puff clouds. Below the firmament, the forest had turned black. As dusk set in, the road curves grew challenging.
Milo took a turn without braking. The Dodge squealed in protest. He slowed down.
Two mile markers later, he said, “Six-hundred-dollar necklace. So he was in love or lust or whatever guys like him are in. Let’s check out the local hostelries.”
Nothing inn-like about the Hampton Inn by Hilton, just a four-story beige rectangle logo’d in tomato red.
The cheerful young woman at the desk lost her cheer when Milo showed her his badge along with Chet Corvin’s photo.
Samantha.
“Um, I don’t think I can talk about guests.”
“This guest is deceased.” He’d gentled his tone. That made it sound worse, which was probably his intention.
Samantha shrank back. “Dead?”
Milo said, “Murdered. So if you could help us, we’d really appreciate it.”
“Um…hold on.” Backing away, she opened a rear door and slipped through. Nothing happened for several minutes. The lobby was empty, no one checking in or out. Soft rock streamed from above.
A grave-looking woman in her midthirties emerged from the back. “How can I help you, Officers?”
Briana.
Milo repeated what he’d told Samantha.
She said, “I’d have to check with Legal Affairs to verify that we can divulge that and they’re gone for the day.”
Milo placed an arm on the counter and leaned in. “Appreciate your being careful, Briana, but we’re not asking for state secrets, just checking to see if anyone around here remembers Mr. Corvin.”
She looked away. Fiddled with her name tag. “Actually, I do. He’s been here a few times.”
“Three times, between five and eight weeks ago,” said Milo. “We have his credit card history.”
“Oh,” said Briana. “Well, I can’t tell you much more than that. I only remember him because he was kind of…” She sucked in breath. “I don’t want to…put anyone down. Certainly not a deceased person.”
“Of course not, Briana. But this was a particularly nasty cold-blooded murder, so anything you could tell us would be appreciated.”
Her eyes flicked upward. “One of those times, I checked him in. It’s not like I had a strong memory of it, but your picture reminded me.”
“He stood out.”
“Well,” said Briana. “More like he was…too friendly? I didn’t do anything special for him but he told me I was A-one, said he’d ask for me personally from now on.”
“Flirtatious?”
“He didn’t engage in inappropriate touch or use suggestive language and gestures.”
Someone who’d attended the corporate seminar.
I said, “But…”
“He acted as if we already knew each other. And now that I think about it, I guess he did use a suggestive gesture. Winking.”
“Did you find him creepy?”
“Not really, more like annoying. Too much of what my grandma calls being ‘forward.’ I feel kind of bad talking about him, now that he’s been…”
Milo said, “Did he stay here alone?”
“It was a single-occupancy reservation. All three times.” Her eyes shifted up again, then to the left.
Milo said, “That’s not exactly what I asked, Briana.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant. I can’t divulge those kinds of things.”
“Not even off the record?”
“I heard there really was no such thing in law enforcement.”
“From who?”
“My grandpa, he was a sheriff in Fontana.”
“Maybe in his day,” said Milo. “There sure is off the record, now.” He crossed his heart.
“Hmm. I should probably ask Grandpa to make sure.” Sudden, icy smile. “Just kidding, I believe you. Okay. Off the record.”
She looked around.
“The third time he was here, he checked in alone, also. But later that evening I did see him with someone and they were pretty friendly. She went up in the elevator with him. I can’t tell you if she stayed over. Not because I don’t want to, because I don’t know. But she definitely went up with him and they were kind of…affectionate.”
She blushed. Nice to see that was still possible.
I said, “Just that once.”
“I wasn’t on night shift for the other two, so I can’t tell you what happened.”
Milo said, “If you took a peek at the room-service charges, maybe we could figure it out.”
“You said you had his credit charges.”
“They don’t specify.” He opened his case, took out the records, showed her.
She said, “Oh. That makes sense, for guest privacy we don’t itemize…I’m sorry, I definitely can’t show you our paperwork without authorization from Legal.” Sly smile. “But I guess I could see for myself.”
She smiled. “Grandpa would tell me to stop pussyfooting and help you out. He’s always griping about the ACLU. Hold on.”
The lobby door swung open with an assisted whoosh, admitting a Doppler wave of traffic noise and a harried-looking couple in their fifties. Both wore baggy T-shirts, shorts, white socks and sneakers, pushed matching red roller bags toward the counter.
When they were ten feet away, the man announced, “Checking in.”
Briana said, “Be right with you, sir,” and walked through the door that had taken Samantha.
The woman said, “She disappears, that’s some idea of service.”
Samantha reappeared. “Hi! I can take care of you, here.” She motioned the couple to the far end of the counter.
“Not so bad,” muttered the man.
“We’ll see,” said the woman.
The check-in process commenced. One credit card declined, then a second. Incredulous looks from the couple. Card three was the charm. Lots of face-covering scowls as they race-wheeled toward the elevators.
Samantha typed on a computer, avoiding looking at us. Briana returned and told her to go back in the office and check “the monthlies.”
When the office door closed, she said, “Okay. What I can tell you is the second and third times, your Mr. Corvin either had a huge appetite or someone was with him.”
“Two steaks, et cetera,” said Milo.
Briana recited from memory. “Dinner was one surf and turf, one chicken salad, two garden salads, two ice cream sundaes, a bottle of wine. Breakfast was two omelets, two orange juices, and toast for two. Plus they used two vodka minis from the self-serve fridge.”
“Hearty breakfast plus screwdrivers,” said Milo. “Was the wine Chardonnay?”
Her eyes rounded. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess. So what did this woman look like?”
“Can’t really say, sir. I barely had a look at her.”
“What do you remember?”
“Honestly, not mu
ch.”
“Age?”
“I guess like him but I couldn’t swear to it. Maybe a little younger.”
“Heavy, thin?”
“I’d have to say average.”
“Tall, short?”
Briana shook her head. “Nothing stood out. Probably average, again. Sorry.”
“You’re doing fine. What about hair color?”
She smiled. “That I can tell you. Dark and kind of longish. The truth is, the two of them walked fast. Straight over there.” Eyeing the elevators. “I mostly saw the back of her.” Deeper blush. “His hand was on her…tush.”
“Chummy,” said Milo.
“Pardon?”
“Friendly.”
“If that’s what you call it,” said Briana. “I just figured they were all heated up and raring to go.”
“She didn’t remove his hand.”
“Oh, no,” said Briana. “She kind of wiggled.”
* * *
—
Her response to photos of Hal Braun and Trevor Bitt was quick and serene. The easy questions on the test.
Never seen him. Not him, either.
Milo thanked her again. The “Anything else?” that sometimes provides pleasant surprises produced a head shake.
As we walked away, she said, “Grandpa will be proud of me.”
* * *
—
The Hilton Garden Inn wore the same beige-and-red livery as its cousin. Again, four stories. Nothing inn-like or garden-like.
Milo went through the same process with a cheerful young man named Cooke, eager to tell us he’d been on the job five days.
Enough time to know the drill: He punted to a supervisor, a woman who could’ve been Briana’s sister. Lara.
Maybe there’s a machine somewhere, extruding staff for the corporate hydra.
Lara had no memory of Chet Corvin but she was more forthcoming than Briana: checking her records without prodding and confirming that room-service charges from six weeks ago “sure looks like two people. But I can’t tell you who he was with.”
No recognition of Braun or Bitt.
She returned to her office.
Cooke fist-bumped air as we left. “Good luck, guys.”
When we were out of earshot, Milo said, “Name like that, kid should work in the kitchen.”
* * *
—
Stop three was a Residence Inn Marriott where Corvin had checked in just over a month ago. Beige stucco and a huge creative leap to white lettering. Except for the corporate logo in—big shock—red.
More pleasant young people, what had now become a routine of refusal, cadging, followed by a trickle of information.
Dinner for two, no specific memory of Corvin, blank stares in response to Bitt’s and Braun’s photos.
That left the restaurants.
Papa Giorgio was closed for renovation and had been since two days after Chet Corvin had charged dinner. San Remo and Mexicali Café were bustling, throngs of hungry weekend diners crowding the host stations. The people behind the stations looked harried and distracted and pretended not to notice us.
Milo made his way past the crowd, stepped in close to each of them, and announced, “This is about a homicide,” loud enough to be heard over the din.
A few people near him recoiled.
Wilson R. at San Remo said, “Oh, man—just hold on for a sec.”
Lourdes Briseno at Mexicali said, “Omigod, sure, sure, please just wait.”
Two quick shuffles through computers produced Chet Corvin’s receipts at both restaurants. Dinner for two, the unifying factor, red meat: at San Remo, spaghetti Bolognese and fettuccine with beef cheeks; the Combo Grande at Mexicali, a masterpiece for two built around carne asada.
Two bottles of high-priced Chardonnay.
Corvin’s quirky taste in wine, or pleasing his companion?
Milo asked each of the hosts if they could recall the couple who’d eaten those meals.
Wilson R. said, “Not unless they’re regulars…” Examining the receipt. “Nope.” To the queue: “Bainbridge, party of four?”
Lourdes Briseno said, “I really wish I could help you guys but I really don’t remember. Really. So sorry.” She walked away with the next lucky eaters.
The Mexican place was our last stop. We’d arrived just after eight p.m., had been kept waiting as the population of salivating citizens swelled. Lots of families, lots of kids.
Milo said, “Post-hunger baby boom.”
Cupping his mouth to be heard above human chatter, flatware clatter, and piped-in mariachi music.
Lourdes Briseno returned, looking surprised to see us.
Milo said, “You didn’t hear my last question. Do you remember the party?”
“Oh. No, I don’t, really sorry.”
“No prob.” He loomed a bit, gave the wolf-grin. “Been a long day. Any way you could squeeze us in for dinner?”
“I…” She looked past us. “Sure. Of course. We really appreciate what you do.”
Picking up two menus, she guided us toward the rear of the restaurant, raising grumbles.
Milo mumbled, “Bring on the pitchforks and the lanterns.”
Lourdes Briseno, sounding utterly unconvincing, called out, “One second, people. They have a reservation.”
She hurried us to a table set into a corner. More of a drink stand, barely wide enough for two people if elbows were kept at bay.
I thought: Just like his office.
Milo rolled his shoulders and slid in.
Lourdes Briseno said, “I know it’s really cramped, but it’s really the best I can do, really sorry.”
When she left, Milo said, “I really believe her.”
He studied his menu like a monk assigned to an illuminated manuscript. “Everything sounds pretty good—place smells good, finally something to block out that damn perfume.”
He began to lay the menu down. That would’ve covered his half of the table, so he held on to it. “The combo—what Chet ordered—actually sounds pretty good.”
“It’s for two.”
“You’re back to being ascetic?”
“Go for it.”
“Great,” he said. “Once I get my share down here”—patting his gut—“maybe I’ll have one of those new-age mystical experiences.”
I said, “Cow-induced insight?”
“Ingest what the victim did and stimulate empathy.”
“Better than ingesting the victim.”
He laughed.
Lourdes Briseno returned with a handheld device. “We’re really jammed so I’m taking care of you guys. Do you know what you want?”
Milo gave her the order.
She said, “Great choice, it’s really popular. To drink?”
“The heart says cerveza, the job says iced tea.”
She pouted. “Aw, poor guys. Okay, some chips and salsa will be coming up in a sec.”
She bounced away. No mention that we’d ordered the same thing as Corvin. She probably hadn’t noticed.
That’s the way it is with most people: Details are an intrusion. Then there’s the rest of us, lying in bed at three a.m., scrolling through volumes of mental small print.
I said, “Cow and Chardonnay.”
Milo nodded. “Don’t tell the gender police but I’m thinking lady’s choice. That, the necklace, whoever she is, they had more going on than porn in a motel. And the fact they’ve been together two months points against a hit woman. So the question is what happened to her at the Sahara. And if she escaped and cared about Chet, why not come forward?”
“Fear,” I said. “That fits with her being the one who called it in. Avoiding 911 to stay anonymous and keep her voice unrecorded.”
A busboy brought a mini-trough of corn chips, a soup bowl full of salsa, beer steins filled with frosty tea. Using a comically dainty finger grasp, Milo extracted a chip, dipped, tasted, sipped, repeated, and let out a contented sigh. “Quality but not at the expense of quantity. The
key to success in the Home of the Brave.”
A dozen pulverized chips later: “Chet and Madame X tryst up at the lake and down here in the city. Maybe she’s someone local. Now, what about the Camaro?”
I said, “Ventura to Arrowhead covers a lot of ground. Strong emotion can do that.”
“Hatred as jet fuel of the soul. Didn’t some psychologist say that?”
“Never heard it.”
He grinned. “That’s ’cause I just made it up. Yeah, you’re making sense. The hippie had some kind of beef with Braun and Corvin. His age, that could slam us back to what you said before: Chelsea’s forbidden boyfriend. He stalked both his victims, took care of Braun first, spotted Chet driving here and then back to Hollywood.”
I said, “Maybe EmJay Braun’s remembered something since we spoke to her.”
He phoned Wife Number Three. She continued to know no one with a black Camaro.
Milo listened for a while, said, “Not to my knowledge…no, honestly, ma’am, we’re just asking questions…exactly…okay, I will…I’ll definitely put in the request. Take care.”
He hung up. “She’ll be looking at cars on her block all the time now and freaking out. On top of that she’s having a painful arthritis attack. I’m definitely meant to feel guilty.”
He demolished a few more chips. “My atonement is I call Ventura PD, ask for some drive-bys at her place.”
He followed through, got referred up the chain, per usual, ended up with a tepid “We’ll see,” from someone of his own rank.
He said, “Long as we’re in the Ventura groove,” and called Henry Prieto. This time, he hung up laughing. “He’s already got his eyes peeled, don’t I think he’d let me know if he knew something?”
Twin mountains of marinated beef each ringed with slices of avocado and radishes arrived. Side bowls of refried beans, rice, and posole stew, supplemented by a coarse, black-stone bowl of guacamole and a platter of glazed, pepper-rubbed pork ribs.
“Whoa,” said Milo.
“She says mucho gusto,” said the server, pointing to Lourdes Briseno, holding an armful of menus as she shepherded a party of eight across the room. Grumpy octet, the squinty-eyed look of plane-wreck survivors assessing their friends’ nutritional value.
Night Moves Page 19