Night Moves

by Jonathan Kellerman

  Light’s dual specialties were “easing the grief burden of survivors as they enter the world of probate court” and “speedily solving the problems of accident victims wronged by insurance companies.”

  Milo said, “Slip, fall, die, he’s got you covered. Here goes more nothing.”

  To his shock, one of three garishly green “24 hour numbers” on Light’s site banner was picked up on the second ring.

  “This is Mitch,” said a radio-announcer baritone. “What problem can I solve for you, my friend?”

  Milo told him.

  Mitchell Light, now subdued, said, “Police? I have no specific recollection of that property.”

  “You’re the trustee, Mr. Light.”

  “I’m currently shepherding numerous estates through probate. The courts are overwhelmed, everything crawls.”

  “But you get your commission along the way.”

  “Do you work for free?” said Mitchell Light. “No need to be implicative, Lieutenant. I’ll do my best to get you any information I have. If such information proves ultimately available and obtainable.”

  “Thank you. When could you do that, sir?”

  “In as timely a manner as circumstances provide. Assuming no legal roadblocks or other encumbrances materialize.”

  “Could you give me an estimate, Mr. Light?”

  “I’m in Cabo, right now, plan to be back in three days. The process will begin shortly after. Assuming no unforeseen circumstances.”

  “Could a member of your staff check—”

  “My staff is with me, Lieutenant.”

  Female giggle in the background.

  Milo said, “There’s nothing you can tell me? Herbert McClain, died at ninety-one—”

  “Good for him,” said Light. “If he’d written a will, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Clink of glasses, more giggling.

  Milo said, “How about the tenants? Can you recall anything about them?”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Light?”

  “What tenants?”

  “The place is currently occupied by—”

  “That’s unacceptable,” said Mitchell Light. “I do not allow tenancy in my properties. Avoiding complications.”

  My properties. If probate went on long enough, his invoice would probably buy him the deed.

  Milo said, “What type of complications?”

  “Some alleged heir shows up and carps about the rent or the management? I keep all my properties vacant, Lieutenant.”

  “Someone’s living in that one.”

  “Then you need to investigate and you need to mete out appropriate fines, penalties, whichever consequences are called for. When I return in four days, get back in touch with me. I’ll certainly be initiating eviction procedures.”

  “Do I have your permission to enter the residence?”

  “Well, I’d think so, Lieutenant.”

  “Could you put that in writing?”

  “I told you, I’m on corporate retreat.”

  “How about by email?”

  Long exhalation. Followed by a female murmur.

  Mitchell Light said, “I will attempt that. But don’t count on it, the Internet’s sloppy, here.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Preserving the rule of law,” said Mitchell Light, “is my passion.”

  * * *

  —

  I said, “Squatting made easy. Check probate records, find out who’s not paying attention, and move in.”

  Milo’s desk phone jangled.

  “This is Susan Minelli,” said a crisp, confident voice. “The police are asking about my old house? Why?”

  Milo said, “The tenants are people of interest in a case, Ms. Minelli. What can you tell us about them?”

  “Some sort of financial thing?” said Minelli.

  “Can’t get into details, ma’am.”

  “You just did,” she said. “Okay, a money thing. Shit. Why am I not shocked?”

  “You’ve had money issues with them in the past?”

  “They’ve always been late with the rent and haven’t paid a dime for the past five months. I only found out because we just got the quarterly from the management firm and there’s a big hole on that one. I demanded Aslan—the managers—deal with it. They said eviction is the only option. They’re being sloths. My partners and I had already discussed hiring someone else, now for sure, as soon as the contract’s up.”

  “What a hassle, ma’am.”

  “Real estate,” said Minelli. “If I only knew then. So you can’t tell me what’s going on?”

  “Not right now,” said Milo. “When that changes, I’ll be sure to let you know. Meanwhile, don’t try to make contact with the Weylands.”

  “That’s their name?” said Susan Minelli. “Aslan just gives them a number.”

  “Either way, ma’am, please keep your distance from them.”

  “They’re dangerous?”

  “At this point, they’re best left alone.”

  “Great, I’m renting my gorgeous Pali house to criminals. What? Drugs? Terrific. They’ll probably take the carpets and the drapes and God knows what else.”

  “We’ll do our best to look out for you, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am. That’s nice—like in Dragnet. Do you wear a skinny black tie?”

  “On bad days.”

  Susan Minelli laughed. “You sound like an okay guy. So how’s the weather in L.A.?”

  “Nice.”

  “Sure, why not?”

  Milo put the phone down with delicacy and pulled off as much of a leg stretch as the closet allowed.

  I said, “They’re squatting in both places.”

  “The con’s life.”

  “That kind of transience, they could be figuring to move on.”

  “God forbid.” He scanned his email. “Nothing from Mr. Light of the Universe. You heard him grant me verbal authority to enter.”

  “I did indeed.”

  “Two squats, gotta keep my eye on both. But I’m getting the hell inside Marquette.”

  Judge Sonia Martinez was on vacation.

  “Fishing in Alaska, hopefully a bear won’t eat her,” said Milo.

  He called Biro for another name, Biro had nothing to offer. Several more calls finally pulled up Galen Friedman, a recent appointee with higher political aspirations and a rep as “a cop groupie, his daughter just started the academy.”

  Friedman listened to fifteen seconds of Milo’s spiel and said, “You’ve obviously done your homework. Bring the application to my house and you’re all set.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Where are you?”

  Friedman gave him an address on June Street in Hancock Park.

  “Terrific, Your Honor. Meantime, may I assume verbal—”

  “Is sufficient?” said Friedman. “You may, go catch some criminals, Lieutenant Sturgis. And don’t forget the little ones in December.”

  “Which little ones?”

  “Ill children are my fervent cause, Lieutenant. I chair an appeal for Orthopedic Hospital at year’s end. It defines worthy.”

  “I’m on board, sir.”

  “You bet you are, Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  —

  After completing the warrant application, Milo said, “Just to keep things smooth,” and phoned Deputy D.A. John Nguyen.

  Nguyen said, “You’re still after the loco cartoonist?”

  “No, he’s off the radar.”

  “What, then? Something’s changed?”

  “A lot’s changed, John.”

  When Milo finished, Nguyen said, “You’ve built up the grounds. I could’ve gotten you in with any judge.”

  “Didn’t wanna bug you, John.”

  “Sure, that was it,” said Nguyen. “Friedman hit on you for one of his charities?”

  “Sick kids.”

  “See you at his party,” said Nguyen. “You’ll get to see his house. Freakin’ castle. But shit hors d’oeuvres
.”

  * * *

  —

  Milo got a uniform named Shari Bostwick to deliver the paperwork to Friedman.

  She said, “Hancock Park, ooh,” and left.

  I said, “No desire to see the castle?”

  “Not tonight.” He stood, shook himself off like a wet dog, and tossed his jacket over his shoulder. “My real estate dreams are more modest. Let’s see which troops I can convene.”

  * * *

  —

  Moroni was on a motorcycle trip to South Dakota, Lincoln visiting relatives in Birmingham, Alabama.

  Leaving Reed and Binchy and anyone else Milo could muster.

  Everyone he talked to had reasons and excuses. The most he could get out of a harried sergeant was patrol cars driving by Evada Lane “maybe two, three times” per shift.

  Milo said, “Appreciate it, but don’t bother.”

  He phoned Raul Biro again. “What you said before, bored? Still that way?”

  “Ready to shed my skin.”

  “Okay, got something for you but it’s not gonna actually be stimulating.”

  Biro said, “Better than the alternative.”

  Milo told him to keep an eye on the Evada house. “Be there when the sun sets.”

  Another email check ended with a smile. “Miracle of miracles, Mr. Light of Day actually came through—permission to enter the Marquette house by any means necessary. Okay, you go home and relax, Moe and Sean and I will handle it.”

  “Smaller team than with Bitt.”

  “Given what happened last year, maybe it’s better keeping it light and tight.”

  I’d been there when a raid on another house had led to a murderer being shot to death by an overeager rookie. Ruled justified but the process had dragged on and the shooter had left law enforcement.

  I said, “What time, tonight?”

  He looked at me.

  I said, “All this foreplay and no climax?”

  “Listen to you, Dr. Salty. It’s the vest again and you’ll stand even farther back.”

  “I’m getting used to the look and I don’t mind solitude.”

  “Fine, but first help me scheme.”

  By nine p.m. Milo and I were sitting in his unmarked, four properties north of the house on Marquette. The street was lit intermittently but the moon was well nourished and we had a decent view.

  As Reed had described, the block was mostly apartment buildings. The exceptions were an acre of land, fenced, weed-choked, waiting for development, and the plain, little box Herbert McClain had lived in for six decades before dying without a will.

  You see throwbacks like that in L.A.—people holding on, undeterred by real estate values as they seek the comfort of the familiar. Upkeep often suffers, and the house where Paul Mearsheim squatted looked unloved. The front yard was flat dirt and thistly stuff, the shingle roof checkered by bare spots. An old TV aerial perched on the peak. Drapes covered windows whose frames sagged and splintered.

  All that was missing was a dented, dusty sedan with original blue plates.

  In another city, the attached double garage might be deemed overbuilt for the puny structure. In L.A., built around the car, it made sense.

  Lights dimmed by heavy curtains illuminated the right side of the house but so far, no signs of habitation. Same situation at Evada Lane, per Biro’s half-hour call-ins.

  Milo said, “If they’ve rabbited, I’m cooked.”

  I thought that had a culinary ring to it but didn’t comment. Situations like this, the less said, the better.

  Per usual, I had no role other than “observer.” Last year, that had expanded to witness. Subpoenaed on the police shooting, I’d spent unbilled time answering pre-cooked questions.

  Time passed. An itch developed over my left nipple. When it didn’t go away, I unbuttoned my shirt, managed to get a finger under the vest, and scratched.

  Milo said, “They put something in the fabric. Next time be careful what you ask for.”

  I rebuttoned my shirt. “I’m content.”

  “Foreplay.” He laughed. Phoned Moe Reed, parked down the block, south of the squat. Binchy was up a ways, on the opposite side of the street. Both young detectives were in civvies: brown shirt and jeans for Binchy, black sweats, sneakers, and a knit cap for Reed, his weight lifter’s chest swelled ridiculously by the vest.

  Milo had told him, “Lose the hat, you look like the McBurglar.”

  Reed said, “And I was going for Secret Agent.” Now, he said, “Nothing, L.T.”

  Same message from Binchy.

  The plan that had culminated with the suspect shooting had been a major production, featuring a day of serial surveillance by several vehicles and Reed impersonating a parcel driver. Tonight would be Milo knocking politely on the front door and, if spoken to, identifying himself truthfully.

  Keeping his voice light and unthreatening, calling Mearsheim “Mr. Weyland,” and explaining that he had a few questions to ask about Trevor Bitt.

  That might throw Mearsheim off but chances were the door-knock would be immediately threatening. If Mearsheim tried to escape through the back, Reed and Binchy would be there, waiting. If things went really south and he barricaded himself in, everything would change.

  If that happened and Trisha Bowker was in there with Mearsheim, hopefully she wouldn’t end up a hostage. Or, worse, a co-combatant.

  High risk but the rationale for doing it this way—and I’d supplied part of it—was criminal predictability.

  Psychopaths are, at the core, boring creatures of habit. What we knew about Paul Mearsheim suggested he was a high-functioning psychopath, a lifelong con, and a murderer who’d never been arrested because he operated with finesse. His performance the night of the Braun murder had been Oscar-quality.

  My best guess was that, certain he could talk his way out of anything, he’d avoid impulsive violence and opt for cool, calm, and outwardly harmless.

  But that was only a guess.

  * * *

  —

  At nine thirty-two, headlights appeared from the south, reaching Binchy first. He called: “Not sure but I think so.”

  Cars had been coming and going on Marquette at a thin pace. This car turned up the driveway of the McClain house and parked in front of the right-hand garage.

  Silver Taurus. Milo pulled out the night-binoculars he’d cadged from a detective assigned to protecting dignitaries.

  The Taurus’s driver’s door opened. A smallish man got out and walked to the front door.

  Easy gait, no backward glances as he unlocked and stepped in.

  I said, “Like he owns the place.”

  Milo called Binchy and Reed. “It’s him. Leave your vehicles in place and proceed on foot. You know the rest.”

  Within moments, both detectives had snuck around to the back of the house.

  * * *

  —

  No movement from inside the house. Milo waited fifteen minutes, checking his watch every five.

  “Okay,” he said. “It’s ten ten, in Asia double numbers are good luck.”

  He got out of the car, smoothed his jacket over his holster, and proceeded toward the house.

  I found a spot we’d agreed on: shadowy niche of a neighboring apartment building, mostly blocked by a huge rubber tree.

  He’d wanted me to stay in the car; I’d negotiated. The tree clinched it: overgrown, a vegetative umbrella.

  I watched as he reached the house’s front door. Knocked. Waited a few seconds and knocked again. His big form tightened up as a crack of light appeared between door and jamb.

  Talking to someone. Tensing up.

  He pulled the door open. Gun out as he rushed in.

  Seconds later Binchy and Reed were out front, following him inside.

  * * *

  —

  Guns but no gunfire. I took that as everything going smoothly, waited a few moments, and made my way over.

  Paul Mearsheim, newly bearded, his head shaved clean, lay on
his back, one arm folded beneath his body.

  His mouth was agape, his eyes dull. A black hilt plus an inch of butcher knife blade protruded from his chest.

  His throat had been slashed, flesh separating in a wet, ruby grin.

  Milo and Binchy and Reed stood around the body. They’d holstered their weapons, and looked stunned. The woman between the young detectives shook and wept and clutched her sides with bloody hands. Each of them maintained a hold on her arm.

  Forties, average build, short blond hair, a pleasant face.

  Donna Weyland had lost weight since posing with her school district co-workers. She wore blue jeans, a white top, pink running shoes. Everything splotched and speckled with red.

  Blood acned the wall behind Mearsheim’s body. Folds in his shirtfront created opportunities for the blood pooling.

  Crimson arterial blood. Some of it, commandeered by gravity, trickled over his narrow chest and spread on the floor, purpling old, gray carpeting.

  Fresh kill.

  Donna Weyland’s hands clenched. She began to hyperventilate.

  Milo said, “Breathe slowly.”

  She shut her eyes and sucked in air. Began forcing words out between gasps. “He…said…he…was…kill me…I…”

  Pointing to a shotgun lying six or so feet from Mearsheim’s right hand. “He…I…had…to…”

  Bringing a knife to a gunfight had worked. Somehow.

  My brain became a fast-shutter camera.

  Sobs racking her body.

  But no tears.

  Walking around the four of them, I peered at Mearsheim’s corpse.

  No way to get a look at the hand pinned under his body but the one I could see bore no defense wounds.

  The throat slash had smooth borders.

  No hesitation marks. A massive wound that screamed murderous confidence.

  Lopsided, beginning with an upward swoop that began at the left side of Mearsheim’s skinny gullet and climbed to just under his right ear.

  Right-handed slasher.

  Coming from behind.

  No sign of a struggle.

  The shotgun. Too far to have been dropped by a mortally wounded man.