“Appreciate it but be careful,” said Milo. “For all we know, Weyland’s holed up there with her. The way the street’s laid out, it’s hard to conceal approach.”
“Know it well, used to patrol there,” said Ahearn. “Yeah, good advice. Okay, good talking to you and sorry for the delay.”
“No need to apologize,” said Milo. “Livingston says you’re swamped.”
“Roger,” said Ahearn. “He’s always swamped. Don’t ask.”
* * *
—
We got out of the unmarked and walked to the Seville.
“Poor Brassing,” he said. “First I nearly shoot him, then someone does. What’s your take on the Camaro kid, now? Aiding and abetting Weyland or a baby-faced contract killer?”
I shook my head.
He said, “That’s also my level of insight. You up for a nice coastal drive tomorrow?”
Before I could answer, his cell played Debussy. He looked at the screen, clicked on. “What’s up, Sean?”
“A whole bunch of storage places in Santa Monica and West L.A., Loot, but only one in the Palisades and it’s small. Off Sunset, north of that village shopping area. Google says it’s fifteen minutes from the Corvins in moderate traffic.”
“On a Sunday night a hop and a jump. Go over and talk to them.”
“Can’t, right now, it’s one of those DIY setups at night. Let yourself in with a card key, no staff. I can do a drive-by, see if they have cameras and let you know. Or wait until tomorrow when someone’ll be there.”
“Go home and get some rest, kid.”
“I’m not tired, Loot.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
L.A. to Santa Barbara can be a gorgeous ninety-mile cruise along the Pacific or a gray-air freeway slog for two-thirds of the distance finally graced by glimpses of water on the northern outskirts of Ventura. The last time Milo and I had made the trip was all business, the worst kind.
He picked me up at nine thirty, said, “I lied about scenic,” sped north on the Glen, crossed Mulholland, and dipped into the Valley before picking up the freeway at Van Nuys and Riverside.
Chrome soup until we got past Canoga Park and the traffic demons stopped snarling. At eleven forty-five, we were exiting at the odd, left-hand Cabrillo exit, turning right on State Street, and GPS’ing toward the top end of the shopping district.
Edda Halversen’s street was a western offshoot filled mostly with small prewar houses, some cute, others tatty, plus a few unseemly, obese, newer additions.
The district had begun as solid working-class, housing the people who serviced the mansions of Montecito. Now, except for retirees who’d managed to hold on due to Proposition 13 tax relief, out of reach of anyone with a blue collar.
The house we were looking for was a mint-green wood-sided bungalow. A full-length porch trimmed with lattice and millwork was painted white. Birds-of-paradise and yucca filled a skinny, trench-like bed of dirt paralleling the front. A brown Kia in the driveway bore a Waikiki, It’s A Kik! bumper sticker. The tags were current, the rear seat covered by a knitted afghan.
A metal ramp was propped atop a four-step, concrete stairway. Not enough room on either side to use the steps. Milo and I made the climb.
A screen door framed with the same white gimcrack was unlocked. The solid door behind it was paneled and equipped with a brass knocker shaped like a sperm whale.
Milo said, “Thar she blows,” lifted and lowered.
A pretty young Filipina in pink sweats opened the door. A sheet of black hair hung past her waist. Milo’s badge furrowed her forehead.
He said, “Nothing’s wrong. We’re here to talk to Ms. Halversen?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. But she stepped aside.
* * *
—
The front room was as tiny and dim as EmJay Braun’s. The air was filled with rose-based perfume and crowded by tables and stands hosting porcelain, ruby glass, and miniature teacups on miniature lace doilies. An upright oak piano sat along the right-hand wall. Sheet music on the rack. Porgy and Bess.
Unlike the Braun house, no wide swaths set aside for handicapped access, but space at the rear provided room for a white-haired woman in a wheelchair. She was covered to the waist by a pink quilt, legs propped on rests. A jade-colored sateen robe was buttoned to the neck. Baby-blue polish on her nails. The snowy hair was earlobe-length, combed, waved, clasped on one side with a Bakelite barrette.
She smiled at us.
Milo smiled back and showed her his card. Her eyes were an interesting mix of brown with blue rims. No change in focus as they stared straight ahead.
The young woman said, “She can’t hear or talk, sirs.”
I said, “Stroke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Recently?”
“This one, a year ago, sir.”
I said, “Not the first.”
“The first was two years ago, sir. She needed a walker but was okay.”
“You’ve been with her all that time, Miss…?”
“Vivian. Yes, sir.”
Milo backed away, frowning.
Vivian’s black eyes shot to him, then me. Curious but too frightened or discreet to pursue it.
Edda Halversen began waving her left hand. The smile had never left her face.
Vivian said, “She does that.”
Milo said, “Maybe you can help us, Vivian. It’s not really Ms. Halversen we’re interested in. It’s a young man who drives a black Camaro that used to be hers.”
“Cory.”
“You know him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that spelled C-O-R-Y or with an e?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Last name?”
Weak smile. “Sorry, sir.”
“How do you know Cory?”
“He’s a friend of ma’am.”
“A friend.”
“From working for her, sir.”
“What kind of work?”
“Yardwork, sir. Cleanup. He also visited, sir.”
“Back when ma’am could still talk.”
“Also after, sir.”
“When’s the last time he was here?”
Vivian’s index finger stroked cupid lips. “Maybe six months, sir? I don’t know, really, sir.”
“Was he here to work or to visit?”
“Both, sir.”
“Any idea why he stopped coming by?”
“Joining the army, sir.”
“A half year ago.”
“Maybe a little more, sir. Or less. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”
I said, “You’re doing great. So Cory came to tell Edda he was joining the army.”
“Yes, sir. She did that, sir.” Pointing to the still-waving arm.
Milo said, “Does she understand anything?”
“Food,” said Vivian. “She eats three times a day, also snacks. Her blood pressure is good, sir.”
Edda Halversen’s arm lowered. The smile endured.
I said, “Vivian, how was Cory paid for his work?”
“Cash, sir.”
“Who handles Ms. Halversen’s finances—paying her bills.”
“The bank, sir. They pay me, too.”
“Which bank?”
“First Coastal.”
“Are they around here?”
“Fourteen hundred State Street, sir.”
Milo wrote it down.
I said, “How did Cory come to drive Edda’s car?”
“It was her son’s car,” said Vivian. “Stuart. He died, sir.”
“Sorry to hear that. When?”
“Before I knew ma’am, sir.”
“Any idea how Stuart died?”
“She told me cancer, sir.”
Milo said, “The car was Stuart’s and Edda sold it to Cory.”
“No, sir, she gave it to him. He was so happy.” She smiled, as if to demonstrate.
“When?”
“After the first s
troke, sir.”
“So a couple of years ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She gave him the car because…”
“She didn’t drive anymore, sir.”
“Still, that’s a nice gift.”
“Cory helped her.”
“Nice boy.”
“Very nice, sir.”
I said, “Does he live around here?”
The question seemed to genuinely perplex her. “He rode a bicycle, sir.”
“Before he got the car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have no idea where he lives.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Anything else you can tell us about him?”
Another finger tap, this time covering both lips. “He was always nice.” Her wristwatch beeped. “Time for peach yogurt. Okay, sirs?”
“Of course,” said Milo.
She left and returned with a carton and a spoon.
I said, “Is there anything else you can tell us about Cory?”
“He plays that.” Pointing to the piano. “Very good, sir.”
I walked over and pointed to the sheet music. “Did he play this piece?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Very good. Stuart played trumpet, ma’am said.”
“Professionally?”
“No, sir. Ma’am said he was a rooter man.”
“A plumber?”
“A rooter man, sir. The drains. Ma’am’s husband, too, sir.”
“Rooter men—any pictures of Cory, here?”
“No, sir.” She gave a start. “Oh, sorry, yes, sir.” She looked at the yogurt.
I said, “I’ll feed her.”
Her stare was skeptical.
“I promise to do a good job. Could you please get that photo?”
* * *
—
I spooned peach-flavored crème between Edda Halversen’s lips. She licked them between each swallow. By the third time, her hand was clutching my wrist. Cold, thin, fingers digging in. Strong grip.
Vivian returned with a small color shot. Edda Halversen looking exactly as she did now, in her wheelchair, behind her a wall of shrubbery. Between her and the vegetation stood a young man in a black T-shirt. He’d smiled for the camera but the downward cast of his eyes—focusing on the diminished woman before him—clouded the effort.
Skinny, long-haired, zits. Two years ago, I’d have taken him for seventeen. So maybe closer to nineteen than early twenties. But otherwise, Henry Prieto’s description couldn’t be improved upon.
I handed the photo to Milo.
“Who took the picture, Vivian?”
“My friend Helen. She’s at night, sir.”
“Just the two of you taking care of ma’am.”
“Two weekends a month Vera comes.”
“Who visits ma’am?”
Head shake. “No one, sir.”
“No friends or relatives?”
“Stuart was her only child,” she said, pouting. She took the yogurt from me and I unpeeled Edda Halversen’s talon from my wrist.
Vivian said, “Very sad.” Flash of white teeth, sway of long hair. “But we try to be happy. Right, ma’am?”
* * *
—
Outside, Milo reexamined the photo. “Cory no-name. She never asked why we were curious about him.”
“Probably intimidated by authority,” I said.
“Or,” he said, “she’s covering something.”
“Or,” I said, “he really is a nice kid and she can’t imagine him being in trouble.”
“Spare me nice.”
A text jingled. Petra returning his of last night. She was home with a rotten cold, Raul would recheck the CCTV for the other cars.
He lowered the phone to his pocket. Before it got there, it began playing Saint-Saëns. Some site had cached French romantic music for the working detective?
Sean Binchy said, “Just went over to the storage facility, Loot. They specialize in fancy antiques and art and neither Weyland rents a unit, sorry. What I’m really sorry about is the captain’s shifting me to some cold armed-robbery assaults. Five unsolved up and down Pico.”
“Go for it, kid.”
“Boring, Loot. Captain says this is the wave of the future, low crime rate, time to open up the worm cans.”
“Gotta have a sit-down with the bad guys, Sean. Tell ’em to get their felonious asses in gear.”
* * *
—
We did door-knocks at Edda Halversen’s neighbors. Most weren’t home; a few recalled seeing the blond boy in the photo mowing the lawn but no one knew his name or where he lived.
As we headed back to the unmarked, Milo said, “Not that nice of a kid. Long hair says he’s not in the army, so he lied to Edda.”
I said, “Or he tried to enlist and got rejected. Or got in and was discharged.”
“You’re everyone’s defense attorney today? I woke up at three in the morning thinking about Weyland being my bad guy all of a sudden. I can’t get it to settle as a solo deal, Alex. We’re looking at a helluva game of musical cars. The night of Braun’s murder, he uses his truck to ditch evidence and trades for the Taurus, which he stashed in parts unknown. The night of Chet’s murder, he stashes whatever he’s driven to Hollywood, walks to the Sahara, pops Chet, abducts Donna or whoever the woman is, and drives away in Chet’s wheels. That’s not enough, he drives to Arrowhead in the Rover, gets surprised by Brassing and pops him, does the torch deal and walks back to the A-frame. There’s no garage there, so what’s he driving now?”
I said, “Two drivers could explain it.”
“Two drivers would sure as hell make it more feasible,” he said. “And who better for an accomplice than someone who’s been seen skulking around both victims’ houses? Who, on top of that, lies about military service, thinks registering a car is a suggestion, and rabbits when he sees Prieto watching him. That sound like innocence to you?”
I said, “He does play piano.”
He laughed. “There you go, artistic license. Seriously, am I missing something?”
“You’re making sense. And if Cory is a criminal, it could work in your favor.”
“How so?”
“Un-solid citizens are often known to the authorities.”
* * *
—
Detective Sheila Braxton was in her car. She said, “Need another phone number?”
“That was helpful, thanks, but no, I need info on a possible suspect I got via the number. Kid named Cory, nineteen to early twenties, skinny, blond, drives a black Camaro with ’09 tags. You ever run into him?”
She said, “I suppose the age and physicals could fit if Cory’s short for Cormac.”
“All I know is Cory.”
“Hard to see the Cory I’m thinking of as a murder suspect.”
“Nice kid, huh?”
“Nice enough, but it’s kind of complicated,” said Braxton. “I’m on my way to lunch. You have time?”
“You bet. Where?”
“I was planning on Burger King.”
“Upgrade, Sheila. On me.”
“Well, that’s nice of you, Milo, but not necessary.”
“Life’s about more than necessity, Sheila. Name a place with tablecloths.”
“Hmm. You into seafood?”
“Like a shark.”
Braxton laughed. “Cabrillo just north of Stearn’s Wharf. New place they say is good. Moby Richard.”
“Cute,” said Milo. “They call me Fishmeal.”
“Pardon?”
“See you in ten.”
The Moby Richard sign featured a weirdly slim whale—a cetacean personal trainer.
Checked blue oilskin tablecloths, black-and-white period photos on gray walls, raw bar to one side, open-grill kitchen to the left. New place but three-quarters full.
Milo said, “There she is,” and headed for a typical cop’s table: rear corner, clear view of the action.
Sheila Braxton was in her fifties, ta
ll, pretty, with a wry smile and a mop of iron-colored curls. She wore a deep-green crewneck, black slacks, and olive flats, tiny diamond studs in her ears.
Milo made the introductions.
She said, “Psychologist. Crazy world, I’m sure you’re always busy.”
A waiter in a man-bun and a waxed mustache came over and read off a long list of catch-of-the-day specials in a French accent. Sheila Braxton looked amused as she ordered scampi and a side salad. I went for grilled salmon.
Milo said, “Surf and turf.”
Man-Bun said, “Pardon?”
“Right here.” Jabbing the menu. “Filet steak and Pacific lobster. Medium rare on the steak.”
“Combination two, very good.”
“Take your word for it.”
“Pardon?”
“Merci.”
Man-Bun pranced five steps and returned. “Drinks, please?”
Iced teas all around. The waiter’s second departure was durable. Braxton grinned. “You always liked that, Milo. Throwing people off balance.”
“Call me Lieutenant Sumo.”
“Lieutenant? Congrats. And you’re still working cases?”
“It’s complicated, Sheila.”
Braxton looked at me.
I said, “He threw the right people off balance.”
She was laughing as Man-Bun brought the tea in jam jars. Took a sip and put hers down. “I was a little guarded on the phone because I see the individual in question as vulnerable. No, I haven’t turned into a social worker. The case wasn’t even mine, it was Bob Mannings’s, I was the secondary.”
Milo said, “Big Bob. He finally retire?”
“He died before he could.” To me: “My mentor, Doctor. Used to be LAPD, moved here and worked violent crimes.”
“Good man,” said Milo.
Braxton said, “The best. He took me under his wing when the female thing was a lot different.”
Man-Bun brought bread. No one touched it.
Braxton said, “Anyway, I’ll lay it out: Bob caught the case and it got away from him. What we all hate: likely homicide but no body, a darn good idea who the bad guy was but no way to put it together. It stuck in Bob’s throat, kept him on the job longer than was good for him.”
Night Moves Page 28