Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “Strength in numbers,” I said.

  “Guy’s a nut and he’s been known to wave a firearm. She can say what she wants.”

  “She wants me there.”

  “For what, an encounter group? If once we’re inside it goes smoothly, yeah, you can observe. Sounds like she’s trying to run interference for him. Or interfere in order to control the situation.”

  “The thought occurred to me.”

  “Good. I’ll call you if it firms up. Obviously, you’re not gonna be Dr. Door-Buster.”

  “Anything else happening?”

  “Not unless you count two false sightings of Chet’s Range Rover and San Berdoo sheriffs not rushing over to the A-frame. I did get a call from Dave Brassing. He drove by last night, no Camaro or anything else.”

  “Let’s hear it for the citizenry.”

  “Love-hate relationship,” he said. “Nice when it’s love.”

  * * *

  —

  The approach to Trevor Bitt’s house began at four thirty, Milo’s unmarked leading two black SUVs halfway up Evada Lane, the three vehicles parking in a row.

  Early arrival because, “It’s my timetable, not theirs.”

  To the uninitiated that might sound petty. On Planet Cop, anything you can control raises the odds you’ll walk away breathing.

  Sunny afternoon, nowhere to hide, but no obvious reaction to the convoy from any of the neighboring houses. Bart Tabatchnik’s BMW wasn’t in his driveway, the same for Edna San Felipe’s Mercedes. The busybody factor diluted.

  Milo removed two black tactical vests from his car trunk, strapped one on, gave the other to me and made sure I secured it properly. Soft armor but I felt like a turtle with a carapace. A vulnerable turtle, no way to retract head and limbs.

  The same gear was worn by Sean Binchy, Moe Reed, and two burly sergeants Milo had enlisted as supplementary help. Tyrell Lincoln and Marlin Moroni had worked with him on a takedown last year. Someone had died, but not their faults. Both were veterans, attentive and unflappable. Both loved the overtime for the same reason: alimony.

  We stood in back of the rear SUV and Milo began briefing. Pointing out Bitt’s Tudor, the black truck parked in front. The adjoining driveway where Felice’s Lexus had taken on dust.

  Reed said, “She in her place or his?”

  Milo said, “She’s supposed to stay in hers per my chat with her this morning. The plan is I call her, she takes us over to Bitt, supposedly to smooth things out. But I don’t trust either of them. He’s her daughter’s baby-daddy, lived next door for years without the husband knowing.”

  “Until maybe recently,” said Binchy. “And then the husband dies.”

  “Exactly.”

  Moroni said, “Years, that’s freakin’ manipulative.”

  Lincoln said, “Lady can keep a secret that long, she’ll never get a government job.”

  Chuckles all around. Undertone of tension.

  Milo said, “Like I told you all before, Bitt’s been known to flash a long gun and he’s a possible 5150.”

  Citing the state regulation that enabled involuntary commitment. It’s also LAPD radio code for a mentally ill suspect. “Unless Dr. Delaware sees different.”

  I said, “It pays to assume the worst.”

  “Mental with a gun,” said Moroni, rolling massive shoulders.

  Reed said, “A long gun and Braun’s face was full of shot.”

  Milo said, “Once we know Bitt’s under control, priority is to clear his house of weapons. I’ve got a limited search warrant for firearms and edged weapons, including power saws because Braun’s hands were severed.”

  Reed said, “So we check any garage or work space.”

  Moroni said, “A 5150, the hands could be in a pickle jar.”

  “If the jar’s in plain sight, we take that, too.”

  More laughter, masculine, growing edgier.

  Tyrell Lincoln looked at me. “With craziness a factor, you’re the SMART guy today, Doc?”

  Not a compliment, a municipal anagram: System-Wide Mental Assessment Response Team.

  Milo said, “Yeah, today we’ve got real smart instead of regular SMART.”

  He told them about Bitt’s stonewalling for weeks, recounted the specifics of the cartoonist’s gun-show with Maillot Bernard.

  No more levity.

  Marlin Moroni said, “He doesn’t come to the door, we force entry?”

  Milo said, “I wish we could but the warrant isn’t a no-knock.”

  “Why not?”

  “D.A. got involved.”

  Lincoln said, “The caution-cooties.”

  “He stonewalls,” said Reed, “we all go home.”

  “Unfortunately.”

  Moroni said, “That’s chickenshit. D.A. should be 5150’d.”

  “The thought occurred to me, Marlin. The issue is, this level of neighborhood, they’re paranoid about something going real bad.”

  Reed said, “Murder suspect with a gun? You think?”

  Milo said, “We deal with reality, guys. That’s why I agreed to work with Felice Corvin, even though she twangs my antenna. She’s doing the door-knock.”

  Moroni said, “Open up, honeybuns. Pu-leeeze.”

  Lincoln said, “Assuming we get in, incapacitate the psycho, then search.”

  Moroni said, “Discreetly, of course, Ty. This neighborhood, don’t want to mess up the interior decorating.” He glanced at the Tudor. “Cartooning can buy that?”

  Milo said, “There’s family money.”

  “Loony and rich? Just add water and you’ve got Entitlement Soup. I’m assuming Bitt gets cuffed.”

  “Soon as possible,” said Milo.

  “If we get the hell in.”

  “Think positive, Marlin. One concession I did get: If there’s serious grounds to suspect something nasty, we can use the ram. I’ve got it in my car.”

  Lincoln said, “We’ve got ours, too. What constitutes nasty?”

  “Suspect engages in obviously threatening behavior or a hostage situation.”

  Moroni said, “Or a nuclear bomb goes off.”

  Lincoln said, “Nope, a bomb, we need to clear it with the ACL-Yooo.”

  Milo said, “Assuming nothing happens God forbid, we’re stuck with a frontal entry because access to the back of the property is blocked by a serious gate.”

  Lincoln said, “What about the rear neighbor?”

  “High wall.”

  Moroni sighted Bitt’s house again. “Okay if I take a look at the gate?”

  Milo thought. “Make it quick.”

  Moroni sprinted up the block, tucked himself into the space where Chelsea Corvin smoked. Big, thick man in his late forties but he’d held on to some college football speed. He returned seconds later. “Someone boosts me, I’m over.”

  Lincoln held up a hand. “You’re not wearing golf cleats so I volunteer. Maybe I can do it just by throwing you.”

  “Big talk, Stiff Knees,” said Moroni. “If there’s a turn bolt on the inside, I might let you hobble in.”

  A blond woman in sky-blue yoga clothes emerged from a Greek Revival two houses up, arms folded across her chest, cellphone in one hand. As she lifted it, Milo said, “Sean, tell her to go inside and not call anyone. Tell her world peace depends on her.”

  Picking Binchy because he had the softest approach.

  Binchy ran over and graced the woman with his Born Again smile. His vest and gun made the woman go stiff. He slouched and did his best to look un-cop. Same relaxed stance I’d seen in old photos of his ska-punk band: Fender bass held low over the groin as he provided bottom.

  By the end of a brief chat, the woman was smiling and nodding and returning inside.

  Binchy returned. “Nice lady, no prob.”

  Moroni said, “Hot little ass. You get her number? You don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

  Binchy blushed.

  Reed said, “In terms of a bad outcome, what about Bitt’s window views?”

&nbs
p; Milo said, “Unfortunately, Moses, there’s no way to totally avoid scrutiny. Once we’re a property away, let’s shift north, stay as close to structures as we can so the angle’s restricted. When we get to Bitt’s house, keep near the front. That way he’d need to angle any weapon over a sill and shoot straight down. And once we’re in that entry alcove over the door, he can’t get to us unless he blasts through the door with an AK.”

  Silence.

  “I know it’s not an optimal situation but it’s what we have.”

  Moroni said, “We’re doing daytime not nighttime because…”

  “Too many variables after dark. At least this way we can see what’s happening.”

  “Hmm…okay.”

  “Any other questions? Then, I’m calling her.”

  * * *

  —

  No answer at Felice Corvin’s mobile or her landline.

  Reed said, “So much for cooperation. Don’t like the feel of this.”

  Milo said, “Plan B. We go anyway. Unless there are other suggestions.”

  Head shakes. No one cracking wise.

  “One more thing,” he said, fooling with the straps on his vest. “Try not to fall in the cactus.”

  Touching his weapon, he began walking, a general leading a mini-battalion of four armed men into the unknown.

  One unarmed man standing back, feeling extraneous.

  When we passed the yoga-blonde’s house, a curtain ruffled. Other than that, quiet and still. Moroni and Lincoln positioned themselves at opposite corners of Bitt’s house as Milo and Reed and Binchy crowded into the covered alcove, guns in hand.

  I waited near the front porch of a Cape Cod Revival. Junk mail piled up near the door, no security consciousness.

  Milo knocked on Bitt’s door. It opened immediately. That threw him and he stepped back. Then, Glock in hand, he stepped in.

  The young D’s followed. Nothing for a moment, then Binchy came out and gave a thumbs up.

  Lincoln and Moroni came forward from the flanks. Binchy said, “You, too, Doc.”

  * * *

  —

  On TV and in the movies, when the crisis fritters out, hot-dog cops express regret because they crave Rambo-action. Marlin Moroni’s and Tyrell Lincoln’s shoulders dropped as they sheathed their weapons. Both of their faces were slick with sweat and when I joined them the pulses in their thick, sturdy necks were still racing.

  As I followed them in, Moroni said, “Amen, Jesus.”

  Trevor Bitt sat on a tufted living room sofa, hands cuffed in front.

  Milo stood over him, Reed behind. Binchy was off to the left, next to Felice Corvin. To the right stood Moroni and Lincoln.

  Bitt appeared serene. Felice’s face was tight with anger, arms rigid, hands rolled into fists.

  The room was just beyond a vacant entry hall, a dim space with a vaulted ceiling crossed by beams of pseudo-antique timber.

  Milo eye-cued the veteran cops and they headed for the stairs at the rear of the room.

  Felice said, “Where are they going? Chelsea’s up there.”

  Bitt said, “In the studio.”

  Milo said, “Where’s that?”

  “Right above here.”

  Milo said, “She’s seventeen, guys. Be nice.”

  Moroni said, “Storm troopers are always nice.”

  He and Lincoln took the stairs two at a time. Seconds later, Moroni’s voice from above: “Hi, there, my name is Marlin, no one’s going to hurt you, we need to go downstairs so you can be with your mom…that’s a good girl.”

  Chelsea, wearing a paint-specked artist’s smock, appeared on the landing. In one hand was a sketch pad, in the other the kind of black artist’s pencil Robin used. Moroni and Lincoln bracketed her descent. When she reached the bottom, she looked at Bitt. Saw the cuffs and stumbled and made a gagging noise.

  “It’s okay, honey,” said her mother. “This will all be cleared up real soon.” Looking to Milo for confirmation.

  He said, “Everyone cooperates, that’s the plan.”

  Chelsea screamed, “Daddy!” and went for Milo with the pencil.

  He managed to feint away from her, right eye barely avoiding a sharpened point. Inertia pitched the girl forward. She landed on the floor, flat on her back, the pad and the pencil a few feet away.

  Felice Corvin said, “Now look what you people have done.”

  Milo touched the outer rim of his eye socket. Moroni stood over Chelsea and extended a hand. Her head flipped side-to-side and she let out a manic “No!” Moroni edged closer to her but didn’t push it.

  All the other cops were looking at Milo.

  He said, “Felice, you and Chelsea need to go over to your house.”

  Felice turned to Trevor.

  “Now, Ms. Corvin. Or your daughter will be charged with attempted assault.”

  Felice said, “Why’d you come early? This could all have been prevented.”

  Milo said, “You could’ve answered your phone.”

  “I had it on vibrate, didn’t hear.”

  Chelsea made a pathetic bird-like sound. A chick threatened by an owl. Bitt said, “Are you hurt, Tamara?”

  The girl sniffled. Lunged for the pencil.

  Marlin Moroni kicked it away, caught her by one wrist, captured the other and held her fast. She struggled for a moment, then went limp.

  “Cuff her?” he said.

  Felice Corvin said, “She’s a child, don’t be stupid!”

  Milo, still massaging the rim of his eye socket, said, “Stupid is someone gets hurt. We’re going to zip-tie her until we’re sure she’s calmed down. Anyone who doesn’t cooperate will be restrained. Officer Lincoln, take them next door and stay with them.”

  Felice said,“Trevor—”

  Bitt said, “I’m fine.”

  Chelsea said, “Daddy.”

  Bitt said, “Tamara, please listen to these guys.”

  A magical incantation: The girl broke into the kind of smile you see in dreaming infants. No resistance as Lincoln zip-tied her.

  Felice said, “This is shameful.” To me: “In your case, it’s malpractice.”

  Moe Reed stepped in front of her. “Shameful would be your daughter blinding the lieutenant.”

  Felice gave a start. “That didn’t…he’s okay, right? Obviously.”

  Reed shot her a death-glare. Ditto from Moroni. Even Binchy was looking stern.

  Chelsea said, “Let’s go home, Mommy.”

  Lincoln propelled them out the door.

  I turned to Bitt. “Why do you call her Tamara?”

  “Tamara de Lempicka was a great artist.”

  “Building up her confidence.”

  The suggestion seemed to puzzle Bitt. “I want to encourage her.”

  Milo said, “Before we got here, what were you two doing?”

  “Painting,” said Bitt. “We’ve just gotten into acrylics.”

  He looked down at his tethered hands. Some of the nails were nearly covered by pigment. The rest of him was pallid. He was dressed much like the last time I’d seen him: green cashmere crewneck, brown polo, the same compulsively ironed khakis, brown deck shoes with white soles.

  I said, “How’s Chelsea taking to it?”

  A beat. “She gets frustrated.”

  He sat lower, as if betrayed by a rubbery spine. The furniture all around us was dark, heavy, overstuffed. Castoffs inherited from a maiden aunt. The paintings on the wall were a whole different flavor. Abstractions, sparsely hung on white plaster walls pretending to be the hand-troweling of an English manor.

  Nice stuff. I got up and checked the signatures. Judy Chicago, Billy Al Bengston, Larry Bell, Ed Ruscha. Members of the artistic brain trust who’d worked in L.A. during the sixties and seventies. Back when they were affordable, I couldn’t afford.

  Trevor Bitt had swiveled and watched as I inspected. When I returned, his eyes dropped back to his hands.

  I said, “Before you moved here, did you live in L.A.?”

&n
bsp; “Never.”

  “You just like L.A. artists.”

  Bitt smiled. “I’ve got a room of French fauvists in my bedroom, Hudson Valley landscape painters in the spare. Art’s an easy way to see the world.”

  Milo’s hand left his eye socket. He waved a piece of paper in front of Bitt. “This is a warrant to search for firearms and edged weapons on your premises. Would you like to read it?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “If you tell us what you have at the outset, we can do it quicker.”

  “What I have isn’t much,” said Bitt.

  Milo tapped a foot.

  Bitt said, “Does edged include flatware and palette knives—that’s a tool used to spread paint on a canvas.”

  “If it can hurt someone, it’s included.”

  “I’ve got aluminum flatware, one butcher knife that’s still sharp because I rarely use it, and three palette knives.”

  “Location.”

  “Kitchen, kitchen, studio.”

  “Firearms,” said Milo.

  “Arm singular,” said Bitt. “A Holland and Holland rifle I inherited from my father. He shot grouse with it. Or quail, some kind of defenseless little bird. I never went along, it held no interest for me.”

  “But he left you the weapon.”

  “Maybe he figured I’d come around.”

  “Did you?”

  “It’s never been loaded.”

  “You’re sure about that.”

  “I think I’d remember, Lieutenant.”

  “You’ve never brandished it in front of anyone?”

  Bitt sat back and stared at his hands.

  Milo repeated the question.

  “That I have, Lieutenant. More than once.”

  “Under what circumstances?”

  Bitt said, “Being an idiot. A long time ago.”

  “What’s a long time?”

  “Decades. I was a countercultural pretender and sometimes used it for dramatic effect. A prop. It’s never been loaded.”

  “Why do that?”

  Bitt raised his hands to form quotation marks, setting off jingles and rattles. “I wasn’t a ‘nice guy.’ My art wasn’t nice, either. I thought I was being clever and au courant but now it all seems stale.”

  I said, “Has your art changed?”

  “To the extent that I make any,” said Bitt.