Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  * * *

  —

  Bitt climbed unsteadily, gripping the banister, stopping every few steps to catch his breath. When we reached the landing, his chest heaved. If this wasn’t theater, he was in no shape to transport a body and drag it across a house.

  Milo said, “You okay, sir?”

  “I’m fine.” Bitt leaned on the banister. “The night of the first murder, I saw something. I thought it was unimportant. It probably is. A truck drove past my studio window.”

  He pointed to an open door. An easel faced the front of the house, soaking in friendly southern light.

  Milo said, “What time?”

  “Before the hubbub—maybe an hour before? Can’t say for sure. The engine sound is what caught my attention. I was painting, looked outside and saw it. At first I thought I’d been robbed.”

  Milo said, “Robbed of what?”

  “My truck, Lieutenant. It resembled mine.”

  “Dodge Ram.”

  “I’m not saying it was the same make, just a general resemblance. About the same size and a dark color, possibly black, like mine. I went downstairs, saw that my truck was still there, and forgot about it.”

  Milo looked at me. Both of us remembering Binchy’s witness spotting a pickup leaving the neighborhood.

  He said, “A murder next door but you figured it wasn’t important.”

  “Would another apology do any good?” said Bitt, sounding dispirited.

  “What time did this take place?”

  “Don’t wear a watch,” said Bitt. “Don’t pay attention to time. All I can tell you is well before the Corvins returned. I heard their engine, too, that SUV he drives rumbles. I saw them get out and go inside the house and went back to work. A while later, the light in my studio changed, the window was striped with color. Those bars atop your police cars are extremely color-saturated. Then those other lights on poles. People talking.”

  “You weren’t curious enough to come out and check?”

  “When I saw Chelsea leave the house—the others, as well—I assumed it was a burglary. The next day, Felice told me what had happened.”

  Milo said, “Does Chelsea have a pal who drives a dark truck the same size as yours?”

  Bitt’s head swung toward him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “We consider everything.”

  “Chelsea’s gentle.”

  Milo touched the side of his eye. Bitt winced.

  “I don’t know anything about Chelsea’s friends. She’s never talked about having any. But she had nothing to do with anything.”

  “You know that because…”

  “I know my daughter.”

  “Would you be willing to release your financial records for inspection?”

  The topic shift threw Bitt. Classic detective trick. When he stopped blinking he said, “What kind of inspection?”

  “Unusual cash withdrawals.”

  “For what—really, Lieutenant?” said Bitt. “As if I’d know how to hire some kind of assassin?”

  “A look at your records could clear up the issue.”

  “Be my guest, Lieutenant, but there are no records here, everything’s handled by a trustee.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A management firm in Palo Alto. Swarzsteen Associates, they’ve worked with us for generations. The executive for my account is Don Swarzsteen.”

  Milo said, “Spell that, please.”

  Bitt recited slowly.

  “So how does it work?”

  “I suppose I’ll need a release. Get me a form and I’ll sign it.”

  Milo said, “I meant how do you get your bills paid?”

  “Swarzsteen pays them—credit card bills, utilities, taxes. For odds and ends, they send me a monthly allowance.”

  “How much?”

  “Two thousand a month.”

  “Tight budget,” said Milo.

  “Enough for me,” said Bitt. “At the end of the year, I send some of it back and Don reinvests it. That I can show you.”

  We followed Bitt as he opened the door to a bedroom set up with a Chinese wedding bed, a Victorian dresser, three paintings on the three walls, and little else. He rifled in a drawer and handed Milo a computer printout.

  Year-end summary below the letterhead of the investment company, most of the activity co-managed by the Palo Alto office of Chase Private Client. Current balance in an “extraneous expenses account,” $12,356.13, monthly deposits of $2,000.00 on the third of each month, slightly over half making a return trip.

  Bitt said, “My needs are simple. I use it for food and art supplies.”

  I said, “Speaking of art,” and headed for the studio.

  * * *

  —

  Not one easel, a pair, the second positioned against a windowless section of the western wall, invisible from the doorway. The one facing the street propped a painting of two luminous, beautifully rendered emerald-breasted birds hovering in midair. The other displayed a canvas the same size filled with muddy blotches.

  Bitt pulled a sketch pad out of a flat file and showed us a pencil sketch of two macaws. “What I was working on, that night.”

  I said, “Why don’t you cartoon anymore?”

  Bitt said, “I came to see it for what it was. Mean-spirited, seize on deformity and magnify. I had enough.” He pointed to Chelsea’s painting. “Interesting, no? Bringing order to chaos. To me, this paler section up here represents dawning clarity.”

  That sounded like art-speak b.s. I saw blotches.

  Love knows no bounds.

  Bitt took our silence as debate.

  “It’s conceptual,” he insisted. “She’s the only thing I’ve ever really conceived.”

  We left Bitt in his studio and convened on the sidewalk. Afternoon was conceding to evening, trees zebra-striping sidewalks, a mustard glow limning rooftops.

  Milo said, “Please tell me you don’t agree.”

  “About what?”

  “Bitt’s clean.”

  I said, “Cardiac tech verified his alibi?”

  “Belted and hooked up for eight hours, never left the sleep lab.”

  The door to Bitt’s house opened and the artist stuck his head out. “I just got off the phone with Don Swarzsteen. No form necessary, call him at your convenience.”

  Milo said, “My new pal. Dammit.”

  “Your level of charm, you’re surprised?”

  Another door opened a few houses down. Another head, peering out briefly then withdrawing. Suburban whack-a-mole.

  A brief phone chat with Donald Swarzsteen III left Milo shaking his head as he pocketed his cell. “Guy has that ’tude you get from people who live off the rich.”

  I said, “Thinks he’s more than a babysitter.”

  “You must be a psychologist. Yeah, he’s a stick-up-the-ass snoot. He also backs up Bitt’s claim that there’s no other money.”

  We entered the Corvin house. Marlin Moroni stood watch on the upstairs landing. He came down, looking bored.

  “Girl’s in her bedroom doing whack drawings. I figured it was okay, she gets ideas about her fucking pencil, I can handle it.”

  I said, “Whack as in?”

  “Hope you don’t want me to get medical, Doc. Whack as in tiny little squares over and over. But what do I know about art? She’s also got headphones on. Attached to a—get this—CD player, Country Joe and the Fish, my older brother was into all that flower-power crap.”

  I said, “San Francisco, her father’s era.”

  Moroni said, “You cleared him?”

  “Disgustingly alibied,” said Milo. “What about the boy and Mrs. C?”

  “He’s in his room, playing videogames, she’s at the kitchen table pretending nothing happened. I got a look at her screen, something about curriculum.”

  “She works for the school district.”

  “Figures, she’s got that mean-teacher vibe. Anything else you need?”

  Milo said, “Nah, you can go. Thanks
, Marlin.”

  “Thank you for the overtime,” said Moroni. He checked a rubber-strapped diver’s watch. “Shift’s not officially over but I’m assuming we’re not going to get all fractional.”

  Milo said, “I’ll put it in as a full, enjoy life.”

  Moroni rolled his shoulders and put on mirrored shades. “This one chalks up as a good day. Had nothing to do in the first place and I’m walking away healthy.”

  * * *

  —

  Felice Corvin sat typing at the kitchen table. She saw us but kept working.

  Milo said, “Let’s talk about Chelsea.”

  Felice’s fingers rested on the keys. Her eyes faced her screen. “Hasn’t there been enough stress for one day?”

  “Not as much as there could’ve been, ma’am, as in I don’t need a white cane.”

  “That was unfortunate.”

  “Fortunate for me, ma’am.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry. Chelsea’s sorry.”

  “She can atone by cooperating.”

  “She has nothing to offer, Lieutenant.”

  “I won’t know that until I talk to her.”

  “I’m her mother, trust me.”

  Milo said nothing.

  Felice shut her laptop. “She’s a minor.”

  “She comes of age in a few days.”

  “Rules are rules.” That sounded like something she was used to saying.

  “I have no problem with rules,” said Milo. “The penal code’s got one about attempted assault on a police officer.”

  “Oh, please! She didn’t even touch you.”

  “Not for lack of trying, Ms. Corvin. She can be arrested right now, for a serious felony. I’m assuming you’d rather I talk to her.”

  “This is extortion.”

  “No, ma’am. Extortion is a crime and I’m not a criminal. I’m laying out contingencies.”

  She didn’t answer.

  He said, “Have it your way.” Reaching around under his jacket, he produced his cuffs.

  Felice shot to her feet. “Please!”

  Milo looked her in the eye. She made a fist but uncurled it quickly.

  “You’re wasting your time, but fine, let’s go talk to her. You’ll see she has nothing to say.”

  “Sorry, no.”

  She squinted. “No, what?”

  “I talk to her, you stay here.”

  “You’re not allowed, she’s a minor.”

  “I’m allowed if you say so.” His fingertip began a slow climb toward his eye.

  “Stop that, I get the point.”

  Milo smiled. “Interesting choice of words.”

  Felice Corvin gritted her teeth. “You’re being vindictive.”

  “I’m working two murder investigations.”

  “That Chelsea knows nothing about.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  She crossed her arms. “I don’t see why I can’t be with her.”

  “I want to talk to her when she’s not being influenced.”

  “That’s absolutely moronic.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, ma’am. If you prefer, Chelsea can be taken in, booked, and put in a holding cell. You’ll hire an expensive lawyer who’ll get her bail and block access to her. But the process will continue and that means indictment and either a deal or trial.”

  “This is…Orwellian—how can you go along with this, Dr. Delaware? A so-called healthcare professional.”

  I said, “No one’s out to harm Chelsea. We realize raising her has been a challenge.”

  “Oh, you have no idea.”

  “Now that she knows who her father is, new challenges will come up. The quicker she can be eliminated from the investigation, the better.”

  Her chest rose and fell. “You’ll guarantee her emotional well-being?”

  “No one can guarantee anything. I can assure you that she’ll be treated with sensitivity.”

  “Then why can’t I be there?”

  “Because it’s important that Chelsea be treated as an individual.”

  “Oh, sure, it’s for her own good.”

  “It might be,” I said. “When’s the last time she was taken seriously?”

  Her cheeks reddened. “You have no right to say that, she’s always—fine, do whatever useless thing you think you need to do. But I’m holding you responsible. Both of you. I’m also going with you to the stairs and staying there. If I hear anything the least bit inappropriate, I’m going to step in.”

  Milo said, “Fine with me.”

  He beckoned her toward the doorway with an arm flourish. She sat there. Waved dismissively. “Oh, forget it, I’ll stay here, the onus is on you.”

  As we crossed the dining room, Milo whispered, “You disapprove of my methods?”

  I said, “She did try to blind you.”

  He grinned. “Friend in need.”

  When we reached the stairs, he said, “How about you take this?”

  “What do you want me to concentrate on?”

  “Friends, social life, the Camaro, her love life—hell, anything she wants to say. Not that I’m hoping for much.”

  “I’m the court of last resort, huh?”

  “That’s why you get the big bucks.”

  * * *

  —

  Chelsea Corvin hunched at her desk, headphones mussing her hair. She’d filled a quarter of the sheet with precise rows of raisin-sized ovals. A tongue-tip protruded between her lips.

  Milo stood back. I stepped in front of the girl, ensuring I was visible.

  She shifted her grip on the pencil, holding it in a curled fist, like a toddler. I stood there. Her line broke and she switched back to an adult grip and kept working. Like mother…

  Keeping my eye on the graphite point, I removed the headphones.

  No reaction. “Hi, Chelsea. I’d like to talk to you.”

  She shifted her hand, embarked on a new row of ovals. Stub-nailed, grubby fingers tightened around the pencil.

  “Chelsea—”

  “About what?”

  “First of all, I want to let you know Trevor’s fine.”

  “Dad.”

  “Dad’s fine.”

  The pencil point hovered above the desk.

  I pulled up a chair beside her. “Finding out he’s your dad is a big change.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “It isn’t a big change?”

  “No.” She finished the row.

  “Chelsea, is there anything you can tell us about the man left in your house?”

  “The dead guy,” she said. “Uh-uh.”

  “What about what happened to—what should I call Chet?”

  Silence. New row.

  “Should we call him Chet, Mr. Corvin—”

  A smirk stretched her lips. “Used-to-Be-Dad.”

  “Used-to-Be-Dad it is.”

  She gave a start. Muttered under her breath.

  I said, “Pardon?”

  She half turned. Hot black eyes; cigarette holes on paper. “He never liked me.”

  “Never?”

  “He liked Brett.”

  “Any idea who killed him?”

  “Someone he got mad.”

  “Like who?”

  She looked at me again. “Someone he got mad. That’s probably why the dead guy was in his room.”

  “You think Used-to-Be-Dad was targeted.”

  “He got them mad.”

  “Them,” I said.

  “Anyone.” Shrug. “What-ever.”

  “No idea who that might be?”

  “He’s not my dad,” she said.

  “I know. So who might’ve targeted him?”

  “He’s not my dad.” Whining. “How can I know?”

  Irritation, then indifference. But no tension, no tells. I waited out two more rows.

  “Chelsea, do you know anyone who drives a Camaro?”

  “Nup.”

  “A black Camaro?”

  “Nup.”

  “N
one of your friends drives a black Camaro.”

  “I don’t got friends.” Matter-of-fact, no visible regret.

  Milo’s phone beeped a text. She looked back at him, said, “Sorry. For before.”

  “No prob, kid.” He read the message and frowned.

  I said, “No one you know drives a Camaro.”

  “Nuh.”

  “Dad drives a pickup.”

  “Uh-uh, a Range Rover.”

  “I meant Trevor.”

  She turned scarlet. Her hand faltered. “Yeah.”

  I said, “Do you know anyone who drives a truck like Dad’s?”

  “Him.” Hooking a thumb to the left.

  “Him?”

  “Him,” she said.

  “Who’s that, Chelsea?”

  Another leftward jab.

  “I don’t get it, Chelsea.”

  “Him. In that house.”

  I said, “Mr. Weyland drives a truck like that? I saw him in a Taurus.”

  “He got a car and a truck.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Weyland.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What color is it?”

  “Gray.”

  “Dark or light?”

  “Dark.” Another row completed, she smoothed the paper with her hands. Judged herself and scowled.

  “Anything else you want to tell me, Chelsea?”

  Two deep breaths before she put her pencil down. She twisted clumsily in her chair and faced Milo. “Sorry. Really.”

  He said, “Forget it, kiddo, no big deal.”

  She mouthed, Kiddo. Smiled. Turned grave. “Sorry. Really really.”

  “It’s really no prob, Chelsea. Just be careful in the future.”

  “You won’t put me in jail?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Mom said…” The girl shuddered.

  “Mom told you I was gonna put you in jail?”

  “If I don’t shape up soon, I’m in for trouble.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “I don’t do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Hurt people.”

  Like father…

  Her hands fluttered. Opening a desk drawer, she took out a sheet and held it out to him. Rows of diamonds.

  “For you.”

  “Original art? Thanks, kiddo. Though I’m really not supposed to take gifts on the job.”

  “Uh…Mom could mail it to you?”

  Milo said, “No need, Chelsea, this’ll be fine.”