Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  She hung her head, placed her palms on her cheeks. Some of the flush had faded, leaving her skin with the mottle of raspberry swirl ice cream.

  I said, “We’re going to leave now. If you think of anything you want to tell us, Lieutenant Sturgis will give you his card.”

  Three immediate, staccato nods. Mechanical movements, as if an unseen puppeteer was manipulating her head.

  Milo handed her the card. She studied it. “Rectangle. I’m gonna draw rectangles.”

  Milo looked relieved to step outside. The sun was gone, mustard rooftops deepened to smoky brown. Backyard chatter updrafted from somewhere. Someone was grilling meat.

  I said, “Who texted you?”

  “Sean took it upon himself to recheck Chelsea’s social media. Still nothing.”

  I said, “With a secret boyfriend, she’d have reason to avoid social media. But when I brought up the Camaro she didn’t blink and this isn’t a glib girl.”

  Reaching into his pocket, he unfolded the page of diamonds. “Why does she do this?”

  “No idea.”

  “Take a guess.”

  “Maybe striving for order? Or it’s all she can do.”

  He took another look before refolding the paper and slipping it back into his pocket. “I’ve seen worse in galleries.”

  I said, “Put it in your investment portfolio, one day she might be famous.”

  “A truck,” he said. “One of the Weylands, there goes another lead.”

  “Has to be Donna. When we were with Paul, the Taurus was in the driveway.”

  “Makes sense, they’re splitsville. She packed her stuff in the bed and left.”

  “He told us she was visiting her mother, I can see him not wanting to get into his marital problems. But at the time, I got a clear sense she’d been away for a while, not a few hours.”

  He rubbed his face. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Probably nowhere,” I said. “But it might not hurt to take a closer look at the neighbors on the other side.”

  “What, Donna didn’t take the truck, Paul did? Then he stashed it somewhere, swapped for the Taurus, and got back in time to play benevolent neighbor? Why?”

  “Like I said, it’s likely nothing. On the other hand, a pickup would be great for transporting a body, the return trip perfect for ditching a shotgun and a bloody tarp. If you knew the cops would be at your house, you’d want to be careful.”

  He rubbed his face. “Weyland’s a homicidal maniac? You’re giving me mental whiplash, amigo.”

  “We’ve been focusing on Bitt because everyone pointed us in his direction. Including Weyland.”

  “That’s because everyone knows Bitt’s weird.”

  “Sure. But step away from that and the same factors making Bitt a suspect could be applied to Weyland. He could know the Corvins didn’t set their alarm, he’d be familiar with the layout of the Corvin house. In fact, he’d have an easier time than Bitt transporting a body to the Corvins because his property abuts their garden gate.”

  Both of us turned toward the pseudo-hacienda. Empty driveway, lights off.

  Milo said, “Paul the mild-mannered blood-fiend?”

  “Like I said, probably—”

  “Nothing, yeah, yeah. What would be Weyland’s motive and how does Braun figure in?”

  “I’ve got no explanation for Braun,” I said. “But the motive could be classic: jealousy. What if Donna left Paul because she was one of Chet Corvin’s on-the-sides? On top of that, Chet was derisive toward Weyland. Even when Weyland had taken his, he lorded his finances over the guy—you rent, I own. Sexual jealousy plus long-simmering resentment? We could be talking a combustible mixture.”

  “Chet and Donna,” he said. “If she’s screwing Chet, you’re right, she’s only one of his honeys. That picture we found isn’t the brunette he bought the necklace for and shacked up with in the Arrowhead love nest. Which still hasn’t been processed by San Berdoo, some twit named Livingston seems to enjoy shining me on.”

  I said, “Hair color’s easy to change and pounds can be taken off. Interviewing Donna could clear it up but in all this time we’ve never laid eyes on her. What if she was scared of Paul and was hiding out at the Arrowhead house, moving to hotels with Chet for security? Maybe the two of them decided to make the break and run off together, beginning with a bon-voyage at the Sahara kicked up with wine, lingerie, and dirty movies? What if Weyland stalked Donna to the motel, got in with a ruse, executed Chet, and abducted her at gunpoint.”

  “In Chet’s Rover? Weyland’s already got two vehicles that he supposedly shuffles like cards. Why add a third?”

  “If he used his own wheels and someone copied the plates, he’d be toast. There could also be symbolic value to using the Rover: I’m retrieving what’s mine and taking your fancy wheels.”

  “So where’s the Rover now?”

  “If he stashed the truck or the Taurus a few minutes away, he could’ve driven over and swapped it. My guess would be a dark side street, so he could transfer his captive without being spotted. If he left the Rover unlocked with the keys in the ignition, how long would it last in East Hollywood?”

  “On its way to El Salvador.” Jamming his hands in his pockets, he walked away from me, paced thirty steps, walked past me and did another twenty.

  He returned and looked up and down the block. “Oh, man, the way your gray cells pop.”

  I said, “Chet and Donna isn’t that far-fetched. Take away online hookups and how do affairs begin? At work or between friends and neighbors. Not that I’ve got evidence but—”

  “Neither do I after twenty-two days but who’s counting. Shit.”

  He beelined to the Weyland house where he stopped in the driveway and glanced at the Corvins’ garden gate. I caught up as he continued to the Weylands’ front courtyard.

  No mail piled up at the door. The view through the front windows was unfettered and unremarkable. The same bland space the Corvins had used for sanctuary while a corpse moldered next door.

  Milo said, “Hopefully ol’ Paul’s doing his school district thing and I can pay him a visit soon. Meanwhile, let’s learn more about him and his missing missus.”

  * * *

  —

  We sat in the unmarked, where he scanned the recovered-vehicle list. Still nothing on Chet Corvin’s Range Rover. Pass-coding onto DMV revealed no registrations under Paul Weyland’s name but Donna Weyland was the owner of a four-year-old silver Taurus and a three-year-old gray Ford Ranger pickup.

  Milo copied down the VINs and the tags, moved on to the criminal databases.

  Both Weylands appeared to be solid citizens.

  I said, “Okay, so it’s an air sandwich. Though I do find it interesting that the cars are in her name. Maybe he has credit problems. If she controls the money, there’s another layer of resentment.”

  He tapped the steering wheel. “You know I take what you come up with seriously but there’s a problem with the stash-the-evidence theory. Weyland couldn’t go too far because he had to be back in time to play Mr. Helpful with the Corvins. Making it to PCH and back might be possible but finding a rural dump spot in Malibu would be a serious drive, no way.”

  I thought about that. “Are there any storage units nearby? In the best of all worlds, one with ample tenant parking and CCTV.”

  He said, “I’ll have Sean check but first I need to keep Petra in the loop.”

  He tried her numbers, got no answer. The same for Raul Biro. Both Hollywood D’s were sent a long text, catching them up, and asking them to reexamine video footage for evidence of either Weyland vehicle on the night of Chet Corvin’s murder.

  No return texts. “Can’t begrudge them private lives,” he said, sounding as if he might one day believe that.

  Sean Binchy was still at the station, a man without any apparent circadian rhythms and cheerful as always. Milo asked him to look for storage units near the Corvin house.

  “Got it, Loot.”

 
“Also, put BOLOs out on the Weylands’ vehicles, here’s the info.”

  Binchy copied. “Something come up on them?”

  “Not yet, Sean, but maybe it’s not a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

  “All that nice real estate, go know, Loot, huh? Glad you called, I was just about to try you. The desk left me a message slip for you. Someone named Henry Prieto, want me to follow up?”

  “No, I’ll handle it. Thanks, Sean.”

  “Hey, I love my job!”

  * * *

  —

  “Prieto residence.”

  “Lieutenant Sturgis, sir. Got a message—”

  “Three hours ago you got it,” said Prieto. “Right after I saw that black Camaro driving up and down my street in a suspicious manner. It made two circuits, parked in front of her place—Maria Braun’s. Driver proceeded to exit, continued toward her front door, observed me observing him, and ran off like a scared bunny. Male Caucasian, nineteen to early twenties, five-eleven, thin build, one forty to fifty, stringy blond hippie hair to his shoulders, acne pimples on his face. Too far away to ascertain eye color. I wrote down the plate. Tags are not current. Blue, could be ’14, ’09, ’04, et cetera depending on how far back you want to go.”

  “You’re a gem, Sergeant.”

  “Doing my job. Got a pencil?”

  * * *

  —

  Back to DMV with the Camaro’s plates. As expected, no match to currently registered vehicles but fees had been paid in 2009. Milo took the time to put out this BOLO, listing the car as stolen, before sending another text to Petra adding another CCTV target.

  Onward to the Camaro’s last owner of record: Edda Mae Halversen, the 1200 block of Laguna Street, Santa Barbara, California.

  I said, “Hal Braun went up to Santa Barbara and came back fired up about something.”

  Milo looked up Edda Halversen. Ninety-one years old, five-four, one sixty, white and blue, corrective lenses required. No license for five years.

  I said, “She can’t drive anymore so her grandson—or great-grandson—gets the car but lets the reg lapse. Or he’s just someone who bought it from her and she can give you a name.”

  “Let’s find out,” he said. “If she’s still breathing.”

  * * *

  —

  If a current landline was evidence of life, Edda Halversen was inhaling and exhaling. The number was unlisted and took a while to get, Milo finally getting help from a Santa Barbara detective he’d worked with before named Braxton, who scoped utility records.

  Milo thanked her and made the call. No pickup, no voicemail. He logged back to NCIC.

  “Ninety-one,” he said. “This’ll be a waste of time unless she’s Ma Barker…yup, pure as milk. Okay, let’s try the Camaro kid. Maybe he’s a Halversen, too, and naughty to boot.”

  Several men with that surname had run afoul of the criminal justice system but none came close to matching the skinny blond youth Henry Prieto had seen.

  I said, “Whoever he is, he is linked to Braun and Arrowhead. Meaning he might know about Chet and Donna.”

  “Arrowhead,” he said. “Let’s see if I can make someone guilty enough to get off his ass.”

  * * *

  —

  His notepad gave up the number of San Bernardino detective Roger Livingston. Off shift but Milo pulled rank with the desk making no mention he was L.A., not local, and got a personal cell number.

  Livingston picked up, sounding confused by Milo’s name.

  Milo began to explain. “Oh, yeah, that,” Livingston said, sounding as if he was sitting on a monumental hemorrhoid. “You needed to call me at home?”

  “I’m working two homicides. Some kind of schedule would help.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t count your chickens, we’re short-staffed, get shootings on a regular basis, not like Beverly Hills.”

  “I’m West L.A.”

  “Whatever,” said Livingston. “It’s serious, here. Like yesterday. We picked up a 187 in need of boo-koo tech attention. Torched vehicle, victim in the driver’s seat with a bullet hole in his head, we’re still trying to I.D. him.”

  Milo said, “Where’d it happen?”

  “Coming down from Arrowhead into the city,” said Livingston. “Gully off 18. Tight curves in the road, we get go-overs all the time but this wasn’t no accident. Gasoline used as an accelerant, plates removed, VIN number filed off. Obviously a drug-gang thing. Some of those weekenders are scumbags.”

  “By any chance are we talking about a Taurus or a Ford Ranger?”

  “Nah, a lot more painful,” said Livingston. “Hot wheels gone to waste. One of those Range Rovers.”

  Milo clamped his hand atop his head and worked to keep his voice even. “A Rover could be related to my cases. Put money on it, in fact.”

  Long silence from Livingston. Other voices drifted into the background. Kids.

  Livingston said, “Hold on,” and moved somewhere quieter. “What the hell?”

  “One of my vics—the owner of the house I asked you to process—drove a Range Rover. The guy who shot him took it, along with a female hostage.”

  “A female,” said Livingston. “Well our vic’s a man. Despite being barbecued, you could see a few beard hairs. Long ones. And a leather hat that looks like grilled steak. Now I got to go take care of my kids—”

  “Guess what, Roger. I might be able to I.D. your vic.”

  “What?”

  “The caretaker at the house I asked you to process had a beard and wore a leather hat. Name’s David Brassing.”

  “You’re shitting me,” said Livingston.

  “Where in the head was the wound?”

  “Temple.”

  “Which side?”

  A beat. “Left. I think.”

  “So the killer either fired from outside the car or your vic was in the passenger seat while it was parked, shooter got out and lit up and staged the push-over.”

  “Anything’s always possible,” said Livingston.

  “David Brassing,” said Milo. “If you want I can call his house, find out if he’s been missing. Then again, it’s your case, Roger.”

  “Shit,” said Livingston. “Hold on, I need to write all this down.”

  He went offline for a minute. “Okay, got a pen. Let’s have everyone’s names.”

  Milo read off the list: Chet Corvin; Paul Weyland; Donna Weyland; David Brassing. “Got all that, Roger?”

  “Yeah…shit, my loo’s gonna love this. Not.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Lieutenant Ahearn.”

  “Gimme his number.”

  “Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Livingston. “He don’t like being called unless it’s an emergency.”

  “Three related homicides in two jurisdictions,” said Milo. “That’s kind of emergent, Roger.”

  Two beats. “Okay, here it is but don’t blame me.”

  Despite Livingston’s warning, Detective Lieutenant Alan Ahearn took the call calmly and graciously. No kids in the background, just jazz. Something syncopated, a Latin beat.

  He and Milo agreed on a first-name basis. Milo’s posture loosened, someone he could communicate with. He gave Ahearn a summary, repeated Livingston’s assessment of a drug hit.

  Ahearn said, “Roger said that, huh? Caretaker at the house…can you hold for a sec, see if we’ve got anything on him?”

  “Sure.”

  Ahearn was gone briefly. When he returned, no more music. “Brassing has a record with us but small-time and not recent, I doubt this was a big drug thing. More important, his wife filed a missing on him when he didn’t come home two days ago, which fits the initial pathology on the Rover. What’s your theory, he went over to check out the house, got unlucky and surprised someone?”

  “Exactly, Al,” said Milo. “How far is the dump site from the house?”

  “Not terribly close,” said Ahearn. “Three, four miles.”

  “But walkable if you’re in shap
e.”

  “Your guy Weyland a fitness type?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You like him for Brassing because…”

  “I’ve got zero evidence, Al, but his truck was seen driving away from the scene of my first murder, his wife could’ve been fooling with my second victim and she hasn’t been seen in a while. It’s possible she was hiding out in the A-frame when she wasn’t meeting up with Corvin in those hotels. We’re wondering if Weyland found out but waited to make his move until she shacked up with Corvin in Hollywood. Probably because a hit at a motel with direct door access to each room was a helluva lot easier than prowling the halls at some Hilton or making noise up in Arrowhead.”

  Ahearn said, “He offs the competition, takes his lady back. But why would he return here and off Brassing?”

  Milo said, “Good question. All I’ve got are questions.”

  “Know about that, Milo.”

  I held up a finger.

  “Hold on for a sec, Al.” Milo listened to me and returned to Ahearn. “If sexual jealousy’s the main motive, returning to the A-frame could be symbolic, Al. He wants to have his way with her in the same place she cheated on him.”

  “Symbolic…who was that?”

  “Consulting psychologist.”

  “You got one of those? Man, we’ve been trying to get funding for two years, all we have are counselors for when officers get PTSD. I’d ask you if it’s worth it but he’s sitting right there.”

  Milo smiled. “It’s worth it.”

  “Good to know,” said Ahearn. “Okay, what about the kid in the Camaro?”

  “Still a total blank, Al, but he’s linked to my first victim and Brassing saw him in your neck of the woods.”

  “And now Brassing’s dead. Maybe the kid’s the bad guy.”

  “He’s involved somehow,” said Milo. “The plan before I heard about Brassing was to head up tomorrow to Santa Barbara, talk to the woman who last registered the car.”

  “No reason to change that, we’ll take care of here,” said Ahearn. “Let me know what you learn and I’ll do the same. First thing tomorrow, one of my D’s will talk to Brassing’s wife and find out who his dentist is. If he didn’t take care of his teeth, we’ll go the DNA route but there’s about a month turnaround. I’ll also schedule drive-bys of the A-frame and have my guys looking out for both of Weyland’s cars and the Camaro. And the place will get processed.”