Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Milo waved at her.

  She returned the gesture wearily.

  “At least someone likes me,” he said. “Too bad she’s really irrelevant.”

  * * *

  —

  I was hungry and adrenalized, put away more food than usual before hitting the satiation wall. I pushed my plate away. Milo’s attention was fixed on his own dinner, his arms food-ingesting turbines. I was drinking tea when he came up for air.

  A glance at my partially eaten alp. “She probably did that. Ms. Armani.”

  “Did what?”

  “Sat there like you, self-righteous and slim, while ol’ Chet packed it away.”

  I said, “You engaging in culinary snobbery?”

  “Just pointing out the sin of moderation. It’s a cross I bear. Not just you, Rick. The rest of the unreasonably reasonable world.”

  He hunched over his food and got back on task. Another avocado heard from.

  His remark made me think about Chet Corvin and his mistress, rendezvousing, dining, partying at several locations. That sparked another thought.

  I said, “This is far-fetched but what if Donna Weyland—the woman who just left her husband—is a brunette around Chet’s age or younger?”

  He put his utensils down. “What brought that on?”

  “Mental meandering. I thought of that scene we saw a few nights ago, Paul Weyland, driving up, all hangdog, telling Felice his marriage was over. In all this time, we’ve never seen Donna. A new relationship would explain that, and where do people find lovers? At work and close to home.”

  “The old neighbor game,” he said. His eyes sparked. “Hey, Felice was pretty touchy-feely with Weyland. Otherwise she’s been an ice queen. What if the infidelity cut both ways?”

  “Chet and Donna, Felice and Paul.”

  “Sounds like a movie, but why not, your basic steamy suburbia. Hell, the whole goddamn cul-de-sac could be a nest of sin—Bitt and Chelsea on one side, marital messes on the other.”

  He frowned. “Be great for prime time but how does Black Camaro fit in? Not to mention Braun…hell, there’s one thing I can do.”

  He phone-Googled an image search, handed me the cell.

  Five Donna Weylands, three of them in their twenties. A gorgeous black cheerleader at the University of Houston was caught in midair, an Alaska Air flight attendant from Vancouver, British Columbia, posed in a bikini on an unnamed beach, a game-show developer from Williamsburg, Brooklyn, sported more iron in her face than a high-power magnet, Donna Ethelina Weyland of Paterson, New Jersey, had passed away in 1937.

  Donna A. Weyland, an employee of the L.A. Unified School District, appeared once, in a group shot of an educational task force convening in Reno.

  Middle-aged, full-faced and zaftig, hair that could be gray or blond clipped in a no-nonsense page, oversized eyeglasses, a hesitant smile.

  Milo said, “She mighta broken Paul’s heart, but I’m not getting Armani, pricey chocolates, and vino from someone like Chet.”

  I handed the phone back. He swabbed at his mouth with a napkin, motioned the busboy over, and ordered coffee.

  Milo drank two cupfuls, pried his bulk upward, and tossed cash on the table. No need to wait for the check, he always surpasses.

  I said, “Let’s split it.”

  “Like that’s gonna happen.”

  Scooping more chips out of the bowl, he tilted his head toward the front door. “Pitchforks are gone, let’s head back to alleged civilization.”

  Not a word from Milo the following day. Nothing on my Saturday calendar other than dinner with Robin. Meanwhile, she was working.

  I drove to the Palisades, parked a quarter mile from the Corvins’, and walked.

  Using your legs in L.A. when you’re not accompanied by a dog makes people nervous. When I was a block away I clipped my expired LAPD consultant badge to my belt. It entitles me to nothing but can mute anxiety.

  At the mouth of Evada Lane, that was put to the test.

  As I entered the cul-de-sac, an older, pale-blue BMW 6 drove past me, stopped for a moment, then rolled up the driveway of the second house on the north side of the block. Illinois plates, the paint salt-pocked and grimy.

  A man got out carrying a macramé shopping bag. Forties, thick mop of gray hair, matching beard. He wore a tweed jacket, pressed jeans, a blue work shirt, brown-and-tan wingtips. Standing near his driver’s door, he pressed a finger to his chin as if considering options.

  I kept going, positioning myself so the badge was easy to spot.

  “Police?” he said.

  I stopped. He put his bag down. “If I’m correct, I’ve noticed another one of you guys, looked like a weight lifter? I was coming home after a weekend away, early morning, saw him around the corner. When he saw me, he started jogging, which seemed odd at that hour. I hope he’s one of you and not some muscle-bound burglar.”

  I smiled.

  He said, “Knew it! I’m pretty impressed with how you guys are sticking with it. How long’s it been—weeks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Kudos. Where I’m from, good luck getting follow-up.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “South Side of Chicago.”

  “Professor?”

  “It’s that obvious?”

  “You don’t look like a gangster.”

  He chuckled. “South Side’s all thugs and academics? That’s a little facile. Actually, you’re right. Actually, there’s considerable spillover between thugs and academics.”

  I laughed and walked over to him. The macramé bag was filled with groceries. Packaged steak on top; grass-fed, organic, Whole Foods.

  I held out my hand. “Alex Delaware.”

  His grip was firm. “Bart Tabatchnik. I’m at the U. for a semester teaching economics. I hope I’m not about to oversell something I observed. I really didn’t think it was important, still don’t, but seeing you, I figured why not? Seeing as it’s still unsolved.”

  I said, “Anything you can offer would be appreciated.”

  “This was a couple of weeks before it happened,” said Bart Tabatchnik.

  “Even so.”

  “Okay. I’m sure you know that the fellow who lives to the left is an artist named Bitt. After the murder, people were murmuring about him, apparently they think he’s odd. I’ve had no contact with him but it made me curious so I looked him up and his work is pretty out there. Normally, I’d assume a clash of norms is at play—it’s a pretty conservative neighborhood, I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble. But then I saw his face and I realized I’d seen him before. Only once, but it might be substantive. Then again, it might not.”

  He stroked his beard. “Sorry, I tend to get prolix, occupational hazard, get paid to lecture, cut to the chase: Around a week after the murder I saw Bitt and another man having a confrontation. I wondered if that was Corvin—on the off chance, I don’t know anyone here but it was his house—anyway, I looked him up and it was Corvin.”

  Pausing. “If he’s already told you about it, I have nothing to add.”

  No idea Corvin was dead. It takes a village to breed gossip. The residents of Evada appeared to relate on the emotional level of cans on a pantry shelf.

  I said, “What did you see?”

  “I’d have to term it an encounter between Bitt and Corvin. I won’t call it an exchange because Corvin was doing all the talking. Quite a bit of talking. His body language seemed somewhat assertive.” He demonstrated by leaning forward.

  I said, “How did Mr. Bitt react?”

  “Not at all, he just stood there. I felt there might be tension brewing, though I had no overt indication of that. But living on the South Side, you develop a feel for that. I felt as though something might occur.”

  “Physical violence.”

  “It struck me as a possibility. I didn’t want any part of that so I went inside, put my things away, returned to my front window. Whatever had begun was over. Corvin was walking back toward his house and
Bitt had crossed the street and was headed in the opposite direction. I came out to smoke a cigar—my landlord won’t allow it in the house. And the woman who lives right there”—pointing to the left—“came out and asked if I’d seen the ‘fuss.’ I said I had, she called them a couple of stupid little boys, went on a rant about paying huge property taxes to live in a nice neighborhood and still having to deal with stupidity.”

  He smiled. “She’s a bit of a crank.”

  I said, “Name?”

  “Don’t know—if you’re going to speak to her, please keep me out of it.”

  “You bet. Bitt and Corvin live at the other end of the block but they took their issues here.”

  “I did wonder about that,” said Bart Tabatchnik. “Perhaps they were out walking, encountered each other, and some sort of prior issue rose. As to what that might be, sorry, no idea.”

  “Appreciate the input, Professor. Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  “Nope and please keep my name out of everything. My interest is in spotting micro-trends, I tend to be more observant than most. But I really don’t want anyone in my face.”

  “Of course.”

  Lifting his shopping bag, he trotted to his front door, turned toward me, fist-bumped air, and went inside.

  He hadn’t taken a single look at my badge.

  Nothing like the neighborhood crank when you wanted details.

  The mat in front of the house adjoining Tabatchnik’s said Not Buying What You’re Selling. No answer to my knocks or the doorbell.

  I returned to the Seville, called Milo’s office phone, relayed Tabatchnik’s account.

  He said, “The guy made Moe last night. Damn. An encounter, huh?”

  “It doesn’t sound friendly,” I said, “so the mutual interest in chocolate may not mean camaraderie.”

  “Okay, good to know. I was gonna call you, Moe spotted Chelsea doing one of her night moves at one a.m. She slipped through that joke of a gate, meaning she left through the rear door. She headed straight for Bitt’s place, lit up a cigarette, looked up at Bitt’s window, and went back home. Bitt’s lights were out so maybe she didn’t want to wake him. Or I’m dead wrong about something creepy going on, she just wants to sneak a smoke. The other bit of nothing is no prints or DNA on the phone I lifted at the A-frame, and the unidentified one from the motel is too incomplete to analyze.”

  A car drove past me. Older gun-metal gray Mercedes diesel, an intent, white-haired woman scowling and crawling forward, two hands clenching the wheel. She turned into the driveway bordering Tabatchnik’s.

  I said, “Call you back,” and watched as the car lurched to a squeaking stop, bucked, and repeated that staccato performance several times.

  The white-haired woman, tiny, thin, ponytailed, dressed in black knit pants and top and black flats, walked around to the passenger side. Opening the door with effort, she extricated a black purse, positioned the strap on a narrow shoulder. Next came a paper shopping bag—Gelson’s—that she placed on the ground. It took two attempts to shut the Merc’s heavy door. She manually locked the car on both sides, retrieved the bag, and held it in two hands as she approached the front door.

  I was a Boy Scout as a kid, have that impulse to help, but the hostile doormat killed any idea of chivalry. I waited until she’d managed to bring her groceries inside and shut her front door. The dead bolt snicked. I gave her additional time to settle before ringing the bell.

  A raspy voice said, “Who is it?”

  “Police.”

  “Prove it.”

  I unclipped my badge and held it up to the peephole.

  “Hmph,” said the voice. Nothing happened for a few moments and I wondered if she was calling the station. Without Milo pre-notified, that could complicate matters. But the door opened and she stared at me, then the badge.

  “Let me see that.”

  One of the few. I handed it over. She squinted. Maybe farsightedness would save me.

  “You’re a good-looking guy, this does nothing for you…Ph.D.? What kind of police is that?”

  “I’m a psychologist who works with the police.”

  “Have a niece who’s a psychologist. She’s also a tattooed lunatic.” Giving me the once-over. “What can I do for you, I guess it’s Doctor.”

  “We’re doing some follow-up on the incident at the Corvin house.”

  “That’s their name, huh?” She snorted. “The incident? Just come out and say it, a lunatic sliced someone up and left body parts in their house.”

  “That’s another way to put it,” I said, smiling. She didn’t reciprocate.

  “Don’t soft-pedal for my sake, I was an emergency room nurse for thirty years. Before that, I was in the military.” A bony hand shot out. “Edna San Felipe.”

  She squeezed hard, flung my hand away like a used tissue. “Know anything about hospitals?”

  Strange question. “Used to work at Western Peds.”

  “The kids’ hospital,” said Edna San Felipe. “Even so. The name ‘Horatio San Felipe’ ring a bell?”

  “Sorry, no.”

  “My brother was the greatest heart surgeon who ever lived. Pig-valve substitution for the pneumonic, he figured out how to repair with minimal invasion. Our father was U.S. ambassador to Honduras. Our grandfather and great-grandfather grew more bananas than Dole.”

  She shook her head. “No one learns history, anymore. So what can I do for you, Doctor?” Making my degree sound like a correspondence-course joke.

  “If there’s anything you want to tell me about the murder—”

  “A stranger’s corpse ends up in someone’s house? That’s not random. How’d it get there? Why them? It’s still not solved, they have to be hiding something.”

  “Is there something about them—”

  “No, I’m just being logical.”

  “Do you have any impressions of them?”

  “So I’m right,” she said.

  “At this point—”

  “No, I haven’t any impressions,” she said. “Never had dealings with them except once in a while I’d see him—the husband—and he’d try to chitchat. He’s an oily type, pretending we know each other when we don’t. Like a politician.”

  “Any contact with Mrs. Corvin?”

  “She’s a typical one,” said Edna San Felipe. “The tinted hair, the clothes, the manicure.” Displaying her own nails, blunt and unpolished. “The E.R., you’re elbow-deep in someone’s bowels, you don’t fool around with talons.”

  “One of my friends is an E.R. surgeon.”

  “Where?”

  “Cedars. Dr. Richard Silverman.”

  “What does he patch?”

  “He’s a trauma surgeon.”

  “Bet his nails are short.” She began to close the door.

  I said, “So there’s nothing about the Corvins you can—”

  “The wife works, I’ll give her that. I know that because I see her load the kids in the morning and she doesn’t come back until late afternoon when she brings them home—now, those are a couple of…” Finally, at a loss for words.

  “The kids.”

  “The boy looks to me like a potential reprobate,” said Edna San Felipe. “One day I heard my garbage cans clunk to the ground and when I went out to check, that one was skateboarding up the block.”

  “Did you complain?”

  “What good would that do, there’s no discipline anymore.” She smiled crookedly. “What I did do was line the lid of my cans with habanero paste, that’s a chile pepper able to blow a hole in your colon. If the brat tried it again and touched his face, he’d learn.”

  She held my gaze. “You think that’s child abuse? I call it education. Same for someone’s dog nosing around, habanero the grass, let the mutt learn by experience. And don’t worry about risk to the garbagemen, they’ve got these automatic trucks, sit on their keisters and use a power hoist.”

  She folded her arms across a scrawny chest. Daring me to argue.


  When I didn’t she said, “Then there’s the girl. There’s obviously something wrong, there. Is she retarded or autistic? It’s one or the other, that blank look in her eyes. She walks around at night. I’ve come home late from my place at the beach, seen her. At night. Late. Where’s the parental supervision?”

  The door swung a few inches wider. “The police have no idea so they called you in to psychoanalyze?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “I’d like to ask about another of your neighbors—”

  “No one’s a neighbor, here,” said Edna San Felipe. “We co-reside but there’s no socializing. It wasn’t that way in Honduras. Our workers were happy as clams to be picking bananas, everyone socialized, from all levels of the social ladder. Who?”

  I said, “Trevor Bitt.”

  “That one was my first thought when I heard about it.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Basic logic. Something bizarre happens, look for a bizarre person.”

  “Have you had dealings with him?”

  “None whatsoever. But he’s also not normal, no question about it.”

  “A person on the block witnessed what might’ve been an argument between Mr. Bitt and Mr. Corvin.”

  She glanced at Tabatchnik’s house. “He sent you to me?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I happened to see it, I don’t rubberneck. Unlike him, what do those people call snoopers—yentas. Like the Streisand movie. Love her voice but never bought her as a man.”

  “What can you tell me about the encounter between Bitt and Corvin?”

  “I saw two grown men acting like children in a playground.”

  “Aggressive.”

  “Facing off,” said Edna San Felipe. “Like brats.”

  “Any idea what the conflict was about?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Professor Tabatchnik said Mr. Corvin was doing all the talking.”

  “He was.”

  “And Mr. Bitt just stood there.”

  “Like the Sphinx,” she said. “He wasn’t happy, that was obvious from what you people call body language. I’d take a long, hard look at him. Like I said, not random and the man’s clearly unhinged. Slouches around looking like a robot. Pretends not to hear when you say hello. Which I did just once, believe me.”