Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  “What do you paint, now?”

  “Currently I’m tackling orchids and birds in the style of Martin Johnson Heade. He was an itinerant painter who sold door-to-door. I admire that flavor of enterprise.”

  Milo said, “Back in the day, you enjoyed scaring people with your rifle.”

  “When I was stoned or drunk or just being a jerk.”

  “We won’t find any ammunition in your house.”

  “None.”

  “What about the garage?”

  “There’s nothing in the garage,” said Bitt. “Literally.”

  Milo motioned to Reed, who headed for the rear of the house.

  “Where’s the rifle, Mr. Bitt?”

  “In a burr-walnut case at the back of my bedroom closet.”

  “Anything else you want to tell us about before we search?”

  “In the same closet, there’s a samurai sword. Tourist junk. I received it as payment for an illustration back in…probably ’67, ’68? A concert poster, some band. When I tried to sell it I learned it was worthless.”

  Milo motioned to Moroni and Binchy. Up they went.

  Trevor Bitt said, “I had nothing to do with the man who was killed at Felice’s.”

  Braun had been killed elsewhere. Feigning ignorance or misdirecting?

  Milo said, “We’re dealing with two dead men.”

  Bitt nodded. “Chet.”

  “What do you think of that?”

  “People getting murdered? It’s terrible.”

  “Maybe not for you,” said Milo.

  Bitt blinked. “I’m not following, Lieutenant.”

  “With Chet Corvin gone, you’re free to be with Felice.”

  No emotion on the grayish face.

  “Mr. Bitt?”

  “I suppose I can understand you thinking that.”

  “It’s not true?”

  “There’d be no…Felice and I aren’t involved romantically. Not since our relationship in San Francisco.”

  I said, “The one that led to Chelsea’s conception.”

  For the first time Bitt’s demeanor changed. Blinking half a dozen times, brow forming a V-crease as his lips folded inward. “Yes. But by the time I found out, we were over.”

  “When was that?”

  “When Felice called me five years ago.”

  “And you decided to move next door.”

  “That took some pondering,” said Bitt. “I moved the following year.”

  Milo said, “Living next to your ex-girlfriend-baby-mama and your secret daughter.”

  Bitt’s shoulders rose and fell. “It came at a time when I was ready to make a change. I’d considered Venice. Italy, not California. My aunt owns a deteriorating villa on the Grand Canal.”

  “Felice’s call changed your mind.”

  “After some deliberation.”

  I said, “Ready for fatherhood.”

  “I didn’t aim that high,” said Bitt. “I was hoping for some sort of relationship.”

  “Chelsea calls you ‘Daddy.’ ”

  “For the past two days.”

  “Before that?”

  “She called me Trevor. I tried to be her friend. To inspire her art.”

  “But you hoped for more.”

  Bitt blinked. Footsteps from above vibrated the ceiling.

  I said, “How quickly did the relationship develop?”

  “Not quickly at all,” said Bitt. “At first, I did nothing. Then I asked Felice if I might do something. She said absolutely not. She wasn’t happy I was here, had done her best to ignore me and I kept to myself. Last year, she came over, said she’d changed her mind and I could do art with Chelsea if Chelsea agreed and I swore to be discreet.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Just like that, Doctor.”

  “Impulsive,” I said. “Like calling to tell you about Chelsea.”

  “She can be that way. It’s part of why I was attracted to her back in San Francisco. I have difficulty being spontaneous.”

  “Being discreet meant the man Chelsea thought was her father never knew.”

  “He and everyone else, including Chelsea,” said Bitt.

  “Any idea what changed Felice’s mind?”

  Bitt’s fingers moved as if typing on an unseen keyboard. “She told me she told you. Her marriage had slid downhill.”

  “Why?”

  “You’d have to ask Felice.”

  “She never explained.”

  “Just that,” said Bitt. “I don’t like talking about that kind of thing.”

  “Emotions.”

  “Negatives.”

  “Such as?”

  Bitt sighed. “Infidelity.”

  “Felice learned Chet had been unfaithful.”

  “She’d discovered some credit card bills. I told her I didn’t want to know so that’s where it ended.”

  Milo said, “A little chat.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Just talk?”

  Bitt looked amused. “If you’re asking about sex, I don’t do sex anymore.” He patted his chest. The cuffs clinked.

  “Vow of chastity?”

  “Heart problems. In more ways than one.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I’ve never been an emotional man, have been called emotionally flat. Over the years, I’ve flattened out further.”

  Milo said, “You are a stubborn man. I’ve been trying to speak with you for weeks. Why’d you stonewall me?”

  “I had nothing to tell you.”

  “That’s your answer.”

  “All right,” said Bitt. “I do tend to one emotion.” To me: “Someone in your profession called it free-floating anxiety. Treatment would involve drugs so I’ve passed.”

  Milo said, “You don’t do drugs.”

  “Not anymore, Lieutenant. The result is an undercurrent of dread. I live with it and it propels me inward.”

  “Doing the hermit thing.”

  “In San Francisco I used to get out and do social things for business. I never enjoyed them.”

  Another look at me: “It’s not agoraphobia, any kind of phobia. I don’t have panic attacks and when I need to leave the house, I can. I just don’t prefer it, so I limit my excursions.”

  I said, “To what?”

  “Shopping when I can’t get something delivered. Brief walks to avoid blood clots per my doctor. Doctor visits. That’s where I was the night Chet died.”

  Passive word choice.

  I said, “Nighttime doctor visit?”

  “Hospital visit,” said Bitt. “St. John’s, for tests. They put a belt on me that monitored my heartbeat. It needed to be done at night so they could observe my sleeping patterns to make sure my system doesn’t go haywire when I’m unaware.”

  “You’ve had symptoms.”

  “I’d been waking up short of breath. I called my cardiologist, he scheduled the test.”

  Milo took out his pad. “Name?”

  “Dr. Gerald Weinblatt,” said Bitt. “Sometimes I see his partner, Dr. Prit Acharya. Neither of them was there, the procedure was done by a technician. An African American gentleman, I don’t know his name.”

  I said, “When did you learn about Chet Corvin’s murder?”

  “Felice came over the following day and told me what had happened.”

  “What was her demeanor?”

  “Her demeanor? She was upset. Used up half a box of Kleenex.”

  Sean Binchy came downstairs, gloved hands holding a bronze-fitted wooden case and a cheap-looking gray cardboard box fastened by an oversized rubber band. Placing both on the floor, he undid the latches on the case and lifted the lid carefully.

  The rifle lay in fitted green velvet. Same beautifully figured walnut as the case, with tarnished, hand-engraved metal tooling.

  “Hand-etched, Loot, looks like thirties or forties.”

  Bitt said, “Probably thirties or even the twenties. Father received it as a boy.”

  Milo said, “Mr. Bitt says
he’s never fired it.”

  Binchy lifted the weapon, sniffed the end of the barrel. Sneezed. Coughed and sneezed three more times. “It’s full of dust and stuff, Loot.” To Bitt: “This is a valuable rifle, sir. You don’t believe in taking care of it?”

  Bitt shook his head.

  Binchy undid the rubber band. No velvet interior for this receptacle, just more cardboard. Inside was a dull-looking blade, pitted and corroded along the cutting edge, the handle wrapped in white twine that had browned unevenly.

  Binchy said, “Looks like pot metal.” He peered at the corrosion. “Don’t see blood, but…”

  Bitt said, “There is none.”

  Milo said, “Test it—take it to the lab, now.”

  Binchy left with both weapons.

  Trevor Bitt said, “When you’re finished testing the sword, throw it out. I forgot I had it, only held on to it to remind myself not to be so trusting.”

  Milo said, “You’re generally a trusting guy.”

  “When I took hallucinogens, I was. Except for when I overdid and became paranoid.”

  “Paranoid and brandishing a rifle,” said Milo.

  “It’s nothing I’m proud of, Lieutenant.”

  “No more illicit chemistry for you. Not even for your free-floating anxiety?”

  “For that I use solitude.”

  “Stonewalling the cops was therapeutic.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I regret inconveniencing you.”

  Milo touched the spot Chelsea’s pencil had missed. His eyes got tight and he rhino-jawed.

  Sense memory leading to anger.

  Bitt said, “I knew I couldn’t help you.”

  Milo said, “Where were you the night the body was dumped in the Corvins’ house?”

  “Dumped?” said Bitt. “What do you mean?”

  “Not a complicated word, Mr. Bitt.”

  “Someone put him there?”

  “You didn’t know that.”

  “I knew what Felice told me.”

  “Which was?”

  “They came home and found a dead man in Chet’s den. I assumed he’d been killed there.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “That’s it. As I said, we don’t talk much.”

  “No relationship.”

  “Only as it concerns Chelsea,” said Bitt. “Felice lets me spend time with Chelsea as long as she sees it being helpful to Chelsea.”

  I said, “You’re on probation.”

  He looked at me. Blank face, frozen eyes. “I guess you could say that, Doctor.”

  Milo said, “Why’d you and Felice break up?”

  “She initiated. My guess would be I was dislikable, she’d had enough.”

  “You didn’t talk about that, either.”

  Head shake. “She stopped taking my calls. I didn’t call for very long.”

  I said, “How’d you react when she told you about Chelsea?”

  “Surprise,” said Bitt. “And, I admit, some anxiety. I spent a long time fretting. What did it mean? Eventually, I began wondering if something positive might develop.”

  “Did you worry about Felice making demands?”

  Bitt said, “She assured me she wasn’t interested in money. Then she said she’d been wrong to draw me in, I should forget about it.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Bitt’s lips worked. What began as a frown ended as a smile. “As you’ve seen, I’m not always cooperative.”

  Moe Reed returned. “Nothing in the garage, L.T.” A glance at Bitt. “Like he said, literally. No car, no tools, just dust. There is a toolbox under the kitchen sink, couple of Phillips, one wrench, a measuring tape. In terms of blades, he’s got flatware for two, looks pretty flimsy, and one Henckels knife with no visible blood but I’ll bag it.”

  “There won’t be blood, I’m a vegetarian,” said Bitt.

  Milo said, “Do it. I told Sean to drive to the lab. If he’s close enough, have him come back and add the knife.”

  “There’s no blood,” Bitt repeated. “I promise.”

  Moments after Reed’s exit, Marlin Moroni came thundering down the stairs. “Can I talk in front of him?”

  “Go,” said Milo.

  “Did a second sweep, zip.” To Bitt: “That picture on the easel, you did it?”

  “Work in progress.”

  “You’re pretty good.”

  “I try.”

  Milo said, “Marlin, go next door and see how Tyrell’s doing.”

  I said, “Just thought of something—the son, Brett, may also be there.”

  Moroni said, “Check it out,” and made his exit.

  Trevor Bitt said, “I imagine the boy’s having a tough time.”

  Milo said, “Why’s that?”

  “Chet was his father.”

  “How’d Brett relate to you?”

  “If we passed on the street, he’d sometimes make a face at me. I assumed Chet had told him things about me. Or maybe he’s just that kind of kid.”

  I said, “You were seen having a confrontation with Chet Corvin.”

  “I was?” said Bitt.

  “Up the block, shortly after the body dump.”

  Bitt squinted. “Oh, that. Someone saw it?”

  “What happened?”

  “It was nothing.”

  Milo said, “Tell us anyway.”

  “I’d bought Chelsea some chocolate candy. The second time, the first was for her birthday, Christmas. I told her to keep the box hidden for obvious reasons. She was careful the first time but forgot the second time and left it on her desk. Chet browbeat her and she told him I’d bought it. I was taking a walk and he came after me.”

  “Because…”

  “He’d gotten the wrong impression.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I need to spell it out?”

  Milo said, “You do.”

  “He implied something inappropriate was going on. I assured him that wasn’t so, I was merely helping Chelsea with her art, the chocolate was a reward for her applying herself. He told me that sounded like bullshit, she had no talent. I assured him it wasn’t. He threatened me. If anything ever did happen, I’d be sorry. At that point, I said nothing. I thought he was going to hit me, my heart was taching—beating far too rapidly. Fortunately, he left and I tried to walk it off. We never spoke again and Felice told me my contact with Chelsea would be reduced to when Chet was out of town for more than a day or two. She said Chelsea cried.”

  Milo said, “Why’d you pick chocolate as a gift?”

  “Because I like it,” said Bitt. “This brand is especially high-quality, I got it at a boutique in West Hollywood. One of the things that got me out of the house. She finished every piece of the first box. That’s why I got her a second box.”

  I said, “How often did your contact with Chelsea take place late at night?”

  Bitt sighed. “That. We thought she understood but she began sneaking out, even when Chet was home. Sometimes she’d kick the side of my house, sometimes she’d just stand around.”

  I said, “How’d you respond when she kicked?”

  “I tried to do nothing, Doctor. Sometimes I’d hear her crying softly and if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d be worrying Chet would find her and everything would go to hell. Luckily that never happened but I was careful to avoid any sort of face-to-face with her when Chet was in town. To the point of not leaving in the morning until after Felice had taken the kids to school.”

  “You never let her in?”

  “I did,” said Bitt. “A few times. She wanted to do art but I said we didn’t have time. So we’d sit and drink tea and then she’d return home.”

  Milo said, “I’m going to call that cardiologist right now. If you’ve lied to me, sir, now’s the time to admit it.”

  “I haven’t. Speak to the technician. Twenties, African American, strong features, especially the cheekbones. He’d be an excellent portraiture subject.”

  Milo took out his p
hone and called Moroni back.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Girl’s still zip-tied but she’s quiet, mother’s cleaning up the kitchen, boy’s upstairs, when I looked at him, he flipped me off.”

  “Kids,” said Milo.

  “Mine did that, you know what would happen.”

  Bitt hadn’t followed the conversation. Eyes shut, he rested his neck on the top roll of the sofa. Within moments, his mandible had dropped and he was snoring openmouthed.

  Moroni and Milo looked at each other, then me. Interrogation 101: The guilty ones were more likely to doze.

  Milo pulled out his phone and walked to another room. He came back looking as if he’d drunk a punch bowl of spit. Stepping up to Bitt, he stomped his foot hard. Bitt roused. His eyes worked to focus.

  “Your lucky day, Mr. Bitt, courtesy cardiac tech Antonio Jenkins.”

  He undid Bitt’s cuffs. Bitt said, “We’re finished?”

  “Not quite,” said Milo. “You’re covered for the night of Chet Corvin’s murder but that doesn’t mean you weren’t involved in it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re a man of means, Mr. Bitt.”

  Bitt squinted. “You’re saying I paid someone to kill Chet?”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  “He scared you, he was mean to Chelsea, you wanted to help Felice be free of him.”

  “That’s not how I deal with things,” said Bitt.

  “What’s your thing?”

  “Retreat,” said Trevor Bitt. His fingers fluttered on his lap. “I am, at heart, a coward.”

  I said, “Dogs sometimes bite out of fear.”

  “I’ve never harmed anyone or anything physically in my life. That’s why I refused to hunt with my father. That’s why I got pounded on in prep school.”

  Milo said, “A vegetarian.” Leaving his favorite carnivore wisecrack unspoken: So was Hitler. “Let’s talk about the body left next door. Where were you that night?”

  “Here.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Drawing.”

  “New cartoon?”

  “I don’t cartoon anymore,” said Bitt. “A sketch for a painting. A pair of parrots—follow-up to the berylline hummingbirds I’m working on. What that other officer saw on the easel.”

  “Love to see it myself.”

  Bitt looked puzzled. “That will verify my whereabouts?”

  “Nah, but I’m into art appreciation.”