“Don’t count on her being a suspect. Don’t want to mess with your business, always hated when people did that to me. But I don’t see her as doing anything bad. She’s not too bright but she’s a sweet girl, always was. I knew her parents. Salt of the earth. Gustavo worked park maintenance for forty years, Dorothy cleaned offices. The older girl, Sophie, she had no looks but she was the smart one, went to college, works as a paralegal or something. Mary Jo was the looker but not much brain-wise. Maybe it was getting sick so young. Maybe that’s why she settled for him.”
“You don’t like Mr. Braun.”
“I don’t like idlers and loafers,” said Henry Prieto. “This country, it’s going down the tubes, people who work subsidizing loafers. What’s a limp? Nothing says you have to play defensive tackle. Do something, right?”
“You bet.”
“On top of being a loafer, he’s a weirdo. Always smiling, even when there’s no call for it. Like he’s buttering you up for something. My world, you earn your friendship, you don’t step into it like a pair of slippers. What happened to him in West L.A.?”
“Someone shot him.”
“Someone. You don’t know who.”
“We’re just starting out, Mr. Prieto. Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”
“Helpful... the only thing maybe out of the usual is a black Camaro that came by to see him a couple of weeks ago. Day or two before he took that duffel of his and loaded it up in his Jeep. One individual, the driver. Eighteen to twentyish, parked right where you are. Seven a.m., I’d just brought in the paper, was waiting for my coffee to perk, I hear an engine rev, look out and see it. Minute later, Braun comes out of his house and the driver gets out and they have a talk. The driver gets back into the Camaro and leaves. Couple of days later, Braun loads his duffel in his Jeep again and does the same. Made me wonder about a dope deal or something else shady.”
“Braun ever give you reason to wonder about that?”
“Someone doesn’t have a job, I wonder,” said Henry Prieto. “So the Camaro made me wonder. I never saw Braun before with anyone except Mary Jo and some church do-gooders who deliver free food. The two of them just yakked but the kid was a hippie-type so I paid attention. Nothing got bought or sold or paid for.” Disappointed.
Milo took out his pad. “Anything else you can say about the hippie?”
Henry Prieto looked at the ruled sheets. “Same pad we used... average height, skinny, long hair, dirty-blond, one of those fuzzy things here.” Touching his chin. “Someone who can’t grow a decent beard, shouldn’t.”
He smoothed his own ample lip hair. “You got that down?”
Milo’s pen lifted. “Yes, sir.”
“Next, clothing: black T-shirt, white writing on it, I couldn’t read what. Blue jeans, white sneakers. No visible tattoos or distinguishing marks but they put them everywhere nowadays. Eyeglasses. Not a tough-looking type, maybe a student or some other kind of wastrel.”
“With a Camaro—”
“If you know how to work the system, you can have a Mercedes,” said Prieto. “The car was third generation — ’82 to ’92. I owned a ’70 and one of my sons customized a ’78 that he took to the track until the brakes boiled. Nothing custom on this one, regular wheels, no stripes or decals or bumper stickers.”
Prieto clacked his dentures. “Too far to see the tags.”
Milo said, “Did the conversation seem friendly?”
“Not friendly, not unfriendly. Lieutenant — why’s a man of your rank doing real police work?”
“Lucky situation.”
“Every lieutenant I knew was a desk-jockey. Anyway, not friendly, not unfriendly — neutral. A couple of minutes of neutral yakking. Maybe Braun has a wastrel son I didn’t know about. Right age, no?”
Milo nodded.
Prieto said, “I don’t need to teach you your business but that’s a lead, right? Someone gets killed, look at the family.”
“You bet. Anything else you can tell us about Braun?”
“No, it’s not like I was interested in him. I just know what I see when I see it.”
Milo headed back toward the freeway, on-ramped to the 101 South.
I said, “No lunch at the harbor?”
“All of a sudden you develop an appetite?”
“Just looking after your welfare.”
“Touched,” he said. “Nah, too much to think about. What do you think about Camaro Boy? Probably nothing but it’s the only contact for Braun we know about. Too bad it’s wasn’t a Ferrari or something else on a short list.”
I said, “Prieto’s point about a son was interesting but eighteen to twenty would also make the driver right for Chelsea Corvin’s boyfriend.”
“She’s got a secret lover?”
“Maybe not so secret that her folks aren’t up in arms. And we know where that can lead.”
“Romeo-and-Juliet situation,” he said. “We talked about that and you said the crime was too organized for that.”
“Facts come in, I’m willing to change my mind. We know Braun liked seeing himself as a rescuing hero. What if that led to working for one of those deprogramming outfits? The kind parents turn to when they’re trying to save kids from drugs and cults and bad influences. Or he did it on his own, operating as a lone warrior. Either way it could explain adventures he didn’t tell his wife about.”
He tapped the steering wheel. “Limping Lancelot augments his welfare checks. You see Chet and Felice going for someone like that?”
“Desperation loosens standards.”
“Hmm.” A couple of miles later: “If Braun was hired to pry Romeo and Juliet apart, why wasn’t the conversation Prieto saw hostile?”
“Maybe a deal was cut,” I said. “The boyfriend got paid to stay away. But then something went wrong — a change of heart on Romeo’s part. Or Chelsea found out and freaked out and Romeo decided to redeem himself by dispatching the enemy. If so, the Corvins know more than they’re letting on and want to keep it that way for Chelsea’s sake. Meanwhile, she sneaks out of the house in the middle of the night.”
“Trysting with Romeo.” He chewed his cheek. “Young love gone mega-bad. It’s a theory.”
I said, “It fits your first impression. Something about this family.”
No reply until we neared the 405 turnoff. “You think Chet trying to get you involved with Chelsea was a backhanded way of dealing with the romance? Roping in someone with police connections?”
“Maybe. Meanwhile he’s driving to the airport.”
“Lighting a fuse and running from the scene,” he said. “For now, keep your distance from all of them, okay? I’m gonna drop you off and head to the crime lab. If there’s still time, I’ll pay the Corvins a visit, mention Braun’s name, see how they react.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“Not much of one but better than a few hours ago,” he said.
Chapter 15
Over take-out Indian, I recapped with Robin as Blanche snored by our feet.
She said, “Poor Mr. Braun. He sounds kind of desperate — wanting to make his mark or just hungry for attention. Someone like that might have a website or some interesting social media.”
“We checked, nothing.”
“If he considers himself some kind of secret agent, maybe he uses a pseudonym.”
“You’re a very smaaht lady.”
“Who’s that, Cagney?”
“I was thinking Bogie but Cagney will do.”
She smiled. “Go look, I’ll get dessert ready.”
I ran a search on deprogrammers, found setups ranging from corporate slicksters charging big bucks for unkinking wayward rich kids to nonprofit religious groups fueled by their view of morality. A few lone wolves, mostly born-again sobers, none of them Braun.