Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  I said, “At least he didn’t kick your cans over.”

  She glared at me. If faces were tools, hers was a filleting knife. “That supposed to be a joke?”

  The door closed.

  A crank, but her instincts were good: nothing random about the body dump, focus on the unusual neighbor. Now that I knew about Bitt absorbing Chet Corvin’s anger, he deserved further observation.

  Evada Lane, one a.m. A starless sky sagged like a rain-soaked tarp, a malnourished moon cast anemic light.

  The first time I’d been here after dark, LEDs on poles and flashing bars atop cruisers had turned the cul-de-sac into a miniature theater district. No show tonight; the silence was constricted—that of a gagged victim.

  I parked a block farther than this afternoon, wanting to avoid some antsy resident’s memory jog. My sneakers had the squeak long run out of them; my sweatpants and shirt were black. I could be taken for a burglar. If Moe Reed or Sean Binchy was on watch, he’d figure it out.

  No sign of either detective as I made my way. Maybe because they were pros. Or the overtime budget had run out.

  As my eyes adjusted, contours of rooftops suggested themselves. Where the street wasn’t as inky as my clothing, specks of purple and lilac showed like pinprick wounds. Lights on in front of Bart Tabatchnik’s house but his car was gone. If I was a burglar, I’d be interested.

  Illumination appeared at only three other residences, one of them Trevor Bitt’s Tudor, where a single second-story window facing the street formed a flesh-colored rectangle.

  Lights off at the Corvins’. I wondered how the kids were doing.

  I covered a third of the block feeling like a prowler. Made my way halfway up with still no sign of either young D. The trunks of street trees were too thin to provide cover and I saw no obvious hiding spots unless you got uncomfortably close to houses.

  Not on watch.

  I kept going, planning to reach the end of the cul-de-sac, circle back, and repeat before returning home and hoping for sleep.

  A sound from up the block froze me midstep.

  Sound duo: a thump, then a click.

  I shifted off the sidewalk onto someone’s drought-scratchy lawn, squinted and focused on the origin of the noise. Purple specks helped me, strobing movement from the side of the Corvin house.

  The barest suggestion of human form emerged before flicking out of sight.

  I trotted closer.

  The form headed toward Bitt’s house, stopped below Bitt’s street window.

  Chelsea Corvin, slightly stooped, standing there.

  She did something with her arms. A yellow tongue flicked, an orange dot appeared, and the flame turned into sprinkles of earthbound stars plummeting to the ground.

  A lit match flung to the ground. A cigarette end brightened under the force of a long inhalation.

  Chelsea smoked it dead, tossed the butt away, let it burn itself out, and did nothing for a while. Then she moved, heading for the side of Bitt’s house that bordered hers.

  I race-walked, stopped two houses away.

  The scrape of feet shuffling on cement.

  She coughed. A signal? Or tobacco having its way with young lungs?

  She’d done this before. For all any of us knew, Bitt had no idea she preferred his property for surreptitious teenage rebellion.

  Most likely, she’d sneak back home.

  Two more coughs that sounded intentional. Then: faint, drum-like rapping.

  Shave and a haircut six bits.

  A squeal as hinges rotated.

  “You’re here,” said a man’s voice. “Good.”

  Squeal, hiss, clap as the door closed.

  I waited a few seconds before sneaking over. The cigarette butt had landed near a patch of agave, losing the battle of survival to night-dewed succulents.

  Bitt’s street window went dark. Another rectangle on the side of the house lit up, as if in compensation. A window that faced the Corvin house. Chelsea’s bedroom.

  I hung around for a while and when the girl didn’t exit, I got out of there. Waiting until I’d passed Bart Tabatchnik’s house before making the call.

  * * *

  —

  Milo’s semi-awake voice was a spit-clogged tuba. He recovered fast; all those years of late-night homicide calls. “Hold on, let me go to another room.”

  Moments later, he was back, a saliva-free trombone. “We surveil, get zilch, you show up once. Keeping your lottery ticket in a safe place?”

  “Beginner’s luck,” I said. “I didn’t spot Moe or Sean.”

  “Moe just picked up his own murder and Sean’s started excavating a cold case. So she definitely went inside.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I knew we were right, he’s a creep. Okay, what now…” Muffled yawn. “Raiding the place just because she’s in there is a bad idea, by the time I make arrangements she’ll probably be gone. And too many unpredictables. But this should be enough for a warrant, gotta be, I’ll talk to Nguyen or go straight to find a damn judge. Only glitch I can see is your presence, you might need to be named as a police sub-agent or something along those lines.” He laughed. “You’ll get paid sooner.”

  I said, “I’m fine with that but there’s another issue. As a psychologist I’m obligated to report suspected child abuse.”

  “Defined how?”

  “That’s the problem,” I said. “There are no clear definitions of ‘suspected,’ the rules change all the time, and whenever I try to get clarification from the state board they give me gobbledygook. If you move quickly, I can make the call at the same time. And I think Felice should know right away. She’ll get upset, might be able to open Chelsea up.”

  “Complications,” he said, “but on balance, you’ve made my life simpler.”

  At ten the following morning, I phoned Felice Corvin’s work number. Her voicemail message said she’d be back in the office in the afternoon. I asked her to call me.

  She didn’t, I tried again, same result. No answer at her personal cell or her landline. At five fifteen, she phoned my service and they patched me through.

  “What is it, Doctor?”

  “I’d like to come by to talk to you.”

  “What about?”

  “It’s better discussed in person.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll clarify when we meet.”

  “This is—is it something about Chet?”

  “Related to Chet.”

  “Related,” she said. “I just got in, Brett’s basketball practice. You can’t tell me what this is about?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Okay, come over within the next couple of hours. But I’ll be cooking dinner.”

  * * *

  —

  She met me at the door, holding a dish towel, hair clipped loosely, wearing a green Lake Tahoe T-shirt, white yoga pants, and makeup that appeared fresh.

  “That was quick,” she said. “You’re a motivated guy, Doctor.”

  I smiled. She stepped aside, eyes wary, led me to the kitchen.

  An empty KFC bucket sat on the center island, along with an uneaten biscuit, a container of coleslaw, paper napkins, and plastic utensils.

  No sign of the kids.

  She said, “Coffee? It’s decaf, after three I can’t handle the real stuff.” Bouncing on her feet, lilt in her voice, the kind of tension that came from forced casualness.

  I said, “Sure, thanks.”

  Clearing the island, she poured two mugs, brought milk and sugar. Once I was settled she sat to my left, positioned so she could avoid eye contact if she chose.

  Untying her hair, she let it swing and sipped. “You really do have me curious.”

  I said, “The investigation into Chet’s death has included surveillance of your street.”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Even though it happened somewhere else?”

  “The surveillance has produced some information that may or may not be related to either mur
der. Either way, I feel strongly that you need to know. My decision, not the police. As we both know, Chelsea leaves your house late at night. Last night she left shortly after one a.m. and entered Trevor Bitt’s house. I’m required to report suspected child abuse.”

  I braced myself for shock, horror, anger.

  Felice Corvin shook her head as if I’d said something foolish and let out a shrill laugh. “Oh, boy.” She put her cup down, took a deep breath, faced away. “First off, it’s not child abuse because she’s not a child. She’ll be eighteen soon. In a few days, as a matter of fact.”

  “Legally, she’s still—”

  “Oh, please. Really?”

  “It doesn’t bother you.”

  “You’ve obviously convinced yourself something ugly is going on.”

  “You disagree.”

  “Oh, Lord.” She returned to the sink, yanked a drawer open, shut it. “I know you mean well. But this isn’t going to help Chelsea.”

  I said nothing.

  She returned to the island, this time facing me, but staying on her feet. “I have no doubt you’re thinking, She’s a horrible mother.”

  Tears formed in her eyes.

  I said, “If there’s something I should know.”

  “Oh, there’s something.” Scanning the room like a hungry animal scrounging for scraps, she settled on her purse and got it. “There’s a whole lot of something.”

  Removing her cellphone, she punched a one-digit pre-program. “Hi. We’ve got a situation…” Glancing at me. “Can’t. Needs to be now…yes, please.”

  Sitting back down, she drank more coffee.

  A doorbell rang. Not from the front; the utility door leading from the backyard to the laundry room.

  Chelsea’s exit route. The body-drag route.

  Felice Corvin called out, “It’s open!” A latch turned. Footsteps. A man trudged into the kitchen, shoes scuffing the floor.

  Tall and rangy with a narrow, pallid face crisscrossed by wrinkles. White hair, precisely side-parted. His clothes bagged, his cheeks were twin hollows, wrinkles deepening toward the bottom, as if dragged down by tiny fishhooks.

  Executive haircut, executive-at-leisure clothes straight out of a cruise-ship ad: gray cashmere V-neck sweater, white polo shirt, razor-pressed khakis, oxblood penny loafers each bearing a shiny copper image of Lincoln.

  Washed-out aqua eyes flecked with brown nested in flesh-colored crepe. No interest in me. He looked at Felice and spoke her name.

  His voice was a feeble croak. He looked ready to cry.

  “This is the psychologist I told you about.”

  The man looked at me, blinking convulsively, lips quivering. She pulled out a chair. He sat. She placed a hand on his shoulder. He trembled.

  “Dr. Delaware, Trevor Bitt.”

  No news there. Same face as on the Internet, older, wearier.

  I said, “Alex Delaware.”

  Bitt said, “Psychologist. I’ve known a few.” Flexing his fingers. Spidery, graceful, restless digits, the nails elongated and filed smooth. Ink stains on the right thumbnail and the meat of the right hand.

  Felice had kept her hold on his shoulder. The ink-stained hand inched upward, was about to make contact with her fingers when footsteps from the left made the three of us turn.

  Chelsea shuffled in, barefoot, holding a bowl in one hand, a spoon in the other. She wore a shapeless gray sweatshirt and jeans.

  Her eyes raced to Bitt. “You’re here.” The bowl tumbled from her hands, hit the floor, shattered. The spoon followed an instant later, bouncing and pinging.

  Trevor Bitt got up, retrieved the utensil. “Where’s your broom?”

  Felice Corvin said, “I’ll handle it, Trev.”

  Chelsea Corvin said, “I will, Daddy!”

  She ran to Bitt, threw both arms around his waist, rested her head on his chest.

  “Let me do it,” he said. “I don’t want those pretty hands of yours cut.”

  “I can do it, Daddy.”

  Bitt reached down and took her right hand. “Save them. You’ve got art to make.”

  Still hugging him, she said, “Let me at least get the broom.”

  “Sure.”

  She let go, tottered, ran off, and returned with a Swiffer that she handed to Bitt like a ceremonial sword. In her other hand, a dustpan. The two of them set about cleaning up, working in obvious harmony.

  Felice leaned close and whispered, “Now you know. So we can move on, okay—Trev, Cheltz, when you finish why don’t you go work on a project.”

  Chelsea turned to her mother. Joy on her broad, pasty face. First time I’d seen that.

  “Really?” she said. “When it’s still light?”

  “If Trevor’s okay with it.”

  “More than okay,” said Bitt. He straightened with what looked like pain, held out the dustpan. “Where do I toss this?”

  Father and daughter left in lockstep, a trudge duet.

  When the utility door closed, I said, “This is the first time he’s been inside your house.”

  Felice Corvin nodded. “It was going to happen, eventually. I wasn’t sure how to do it.” Wan smile. “Guess you took care of that…you didn’t touch your coffee. I’m having more—what I’d really like is a double Martini.”

  “Go for it.”

  “And make myself vulnerable? Don’t think so, Doctor.”

  She walked to the coffeemaker, took a long time to do a simple task, returned to the island. Positioned so she’d have to face me.

  “Okay. Here goes.” The flat of her hand landed on her left breast. “Okay. Nineteen years ago, I was living in the Bay Area, getting my master’s at Cal, and I met Trevor at a party. I’d just ended a toxic relationship—a professor, don’t ask.”

  The “intellectual girlfriend” Lanny Joseph had mentioned.

  She played with her hair. “Trevor was an underground celebrity but I knew nothing about him or his art. I just thought he was a nice, quiet guy, which is exactly what I was looking for. Turned out he’d also ended a fling, some stripper with a subterranean IQ.”

  Bitt’s uncharitable assessment of Maillot Bernard. No doubt he’d sidestepped the incident with the gun.

  I waited.

  Felice Corvin said, “That’s it, basically. We started something, it lasted a year, it ended.”

  “Basically” is a favorite word of liars and evaders.

  I said, “Go on.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” She reclamped her hair. “It ended with Trevor because I met Chet and he swept me off my feet, okay? Trevor was handsome but so was Chet, in a different way. What I saw as super-masculine, back then. He had—was nothing like what you saw. Really. I’ve long thought of him as fruit that didn’t ripen properly. I suppose we all change but Chet really changed. When I met him he was courtly, attentive. The proverbial sweep off the feet, nothing was good enough for me. I loved it.”

  “Trevor hadn’t provided that.”

  “Trevor was quiet and inoffensive. He needed his alone time, lots of it. After the professor, who was a total sociopath with insane mood swings, I was attracted to peace and quiet. But then it became…I’m not proud to say this but I grew bored with Trevor and meeting Chet intensified that. He was stimulating, gregarious, we laughed all the time, always had something to talk about. When I was with Trevor, there was a lot of silence. At first I was content but then I realized I was never joyful. After a while I felt burdened—having to carry the ball socially.”

  “If you didn’t talk, no one did.”

  She reached out, as if to touch my hand. Drew back. The downward eyes of a child caught in the act.

  “With Chet,” she said, “I was the audience, could just sit back and be entertained. I loved that. Loved him for quite some time. Then—enough, okay? You don’t need to know about all our relationship garbage.”

  I said, “Did you see Chet and Trevor simultaneously?”

  She stiffened. “Wow. Someone’s being brutally direct. Was I a two-timing
slut?”

  “Not my question.”

  “I know, I know, you’re being logical. Yes, there was overlap. And during that overlap, something happened.”

  She touched her mug. “Do I need to spell it out?”

  “Pregnancy.”

  “Which I didn’t realize for a while. I’d never been regular and I didn’t gain a lot of weight until my sixth month. By that time, doing something about it seemed…I just couldn’t. I was terrified to tell Chet, he said no problem, let’s get married.”

  “Chelsea was Trevor’s but Chet never knew. Did Trevor?”

  Her cheeks flushed. The rest of her face followed, rosiness spreading beneath her neckline. “I was with Chet by then. To you it probably sounds cold-blooded but I didn’t want to hurt him.”

  Answering one question, no sense pushing. “How did you learn Chelsea was Trevor’s?”

  “I always suspected it,” she said. “The timing. The blood typing proved it. Chelsea’s AB blood, the same as me. Trevor’s A, so he could be a contributor. I knew Trevor’s type because we gave blood together. Some benefit in Berkeley for Africa or somewhere that I pushed him into.”

  Smile. “Once upon a time, I was quite the idealist. When they typed me, I got treated like a big star, AB’s rare. When the needle went into Trevor’s arm, he nearly passed out.”

  “Chet’s type is…”

  “O-positive. And no, he never had a clue. Medical details weren’t his thing. When the kids were sick, he always managed to disappear. That was his approach to life in general. Anything that didn’t fascinate him personally, he ignored.”

  Her fingernails rapped her mug. “Like Chelsea. The moment it became clear she was different, he abandoned her emotionally. Brett, on the other hand, was his guy. Conventional, concrete, athletic. He was never mean to Chelsea, she was just a big zero to him. He’d talk a good case to outsiders, but there was nothing real emanating from him to her and she knew it.”

  “Did she talk about that?”