Nothing covert about the identities of most of these “operatives.” Quite the opposite: names, addresses, email and sometimes actual. Lots of headshots falling into two categories: grimly tough and beatifically smiling.
No one resembled the moon-faced man in pleated jeans who went off on self-described quests.
I returned to the kitchen.
Robin read my face. “Oh, well, have some orange slices. I goosed them up with whipped cream, no sense being too virtuous.”
Milo phoned at seven the following morning. The coffeepot was bubbling, Robin was bathing, Blanche curled in my lap gnawing a chew-stick.
“Early riser,” I said.
“More like no-sleeper. By the time I got out of the office last night, the blood was back in my alimentary canal so I stopped for dinner at the Pantry. I won’t go into details but I will tell you pork chops are an excellent side for T-bone.”
I thought: Same for Lipitor. “Sounds like a repast.”
“The mind doesn’t function until the body’s happy, amigo. Around ten, I get a call from Reed: Braun’s Jeep turned up in Playa Del Rey — more like pieces of it, parked in an alley, taken apart by the local locusts then torched. I drive over there, pressure the techies for a quick print wipe, they find partials on the sill of the driver’s door. No AFIS match, best guess is Braun’s but I’d need his damn hands to verify. By now it’s pushing one a.m. Here’s where it gets interesting.”
“You drove to the Corvins and got surprised by something.”
Silence. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I’m wrong?”
“You buzzkilled my punch line. Where you hiding the damned tarot deck?”
“Dog ate it.”
“Not your dog, she’s a gour-mette. Yes, O Oracle of Delphi, I drove to the Corvins to bleed off some energy and on the off chance that I’d missed something the other buncha times. I parked around the block and walked, avoided the CC cameras. It’s a ghost town at that hour, most of the houses are dark. As I get near the cul-de-sac, I see someone stepping out of the shadows and heading to the Corvins’. Thank God for rubber soles, I manage to catch a glimpse before they duck around the side of the house where that dinky gate is.”
“Same path the killer took.”
“But this was no intruder, amigo. This was Chelsea doing her night-moves thing. Not with Chin-Fuzz or anyone else. By herself, just like her daddy described. Normally I’d say big deal, the girl’s odd, she has a sleep disorder, whatever. But just as she slipped out of view one of the house lights went off. Next door at Trevor Bitt’s. Can I prove she was actually in there with him? A few seconds before, I might’ve. But it’s provocative, no?”
“Extremely,” I said. “Chelsea and a much older man would be way more problematic for her parents than a peer they don’t approve of. If they haven’t taken action, they don’t know.”
“Agreed, but maybe Chet suspects something and he called you hoping you’d tell me and I’d do some snooping.” He laughed. “Which just happened. I know it doesn’t explain Braun. And it leaves the deprogramming theory in the dirt, unless I can establish a link between Braun and Bitt. But still.”
“Braun doesn’t seem to be linked anywhere.” I told him about the futile Web search. “But if he knows Bitt based on a shared sexual interest, he could be using deep cover.”
“Coupla dirty old men with a thing for teenage girls,” he said. “Oh, man.”
“Vulnerable teenage girls.”
“That’s Chelsea, all right. So who’s Chin-Fuzz? The prey is both boys and girls? Or like Prieto said, he’s just Braun’s kid stopping by to see Dad before he packs out on an adventure.”
“Or he’s irrelevant,” I said. “Someone selling a car Braun was thinking of buying.”
“Either way, I’m back to focusing on Bitt. His messing with Chelsea would explain why he won’t give me the time of day. I called a couple of judges about grounds for a warrant, got the answers I expected. Any suggestions?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Then I’ll go with the original plan: drop Braun’s name with Chet and Felice, see how they react. Say tonight, six-ish. You up for it?”
“Can I bring the tarot deck?”
“Nah, leave it at home with the crystal ball and the turban,” he said. “We’ll stick with the usuaclass="underline" I provide the official presence and the personal security, you handle the tact and sensitivity.”
At six thirty p.m. I pulled up behind Milo’s unmarked, parked at the mouth of Evada Lane. As we neared the Corvin house, he stopped and pointed. “That’s where I saw her.”
Narrow patch of grass and concrete fronting Trevor Bitt’s keep-away gate.
I said, “In the dark, a nice niche. If she wasn’t inside, she could have been sneaking a smoke or a drink.”
He trotted over, returned. “No bottles or cans or butts, tobacco or otherwise. Also, I didn’t spot anything in her hands and if she wasn’t inside Bitt’s place, why did his light go off right after she left?”
Without waiting for an answer, he swiveled toward the Corvins’ driveway. “Both cars. Chet’s back home.”
I said, “Nothing like family time.”
Felice Corvin came to the door wearing green velvet sweats, hair bunched up and clipped, face scrubbed of makeup, a can of Coke Zero in her left hand.
Well-shaped eyebrows rose. “Yes?”
Milo said, “Evening, Ms. Corvin. If you’ve got time, could we come in for some follow-up?”
She eyed me. “Does that mean police work or psychotherapy?”
“The former, ma’am.”
A beat. “We just finished supper, okay if it’s brief.”
Fancy name for take-out KFC at the kitchen table. No sign of Brett or Chet. Chelsea stood at the sink with the water running, washing a drinking glass that looked clean.
The walk from the front door had taken us through neat, clean, perfectly composed space. No hint of the horror the family had been through ten days ago. Next to a toaster oven, a Sonos speaker streamed music. Indie folk-rock; electronically tweaked but still whiny vocals coping with two minor chords.
Felice cleared away the paper cartons and stashed the ketchup packets in a drawer.
Chelsea kept washing the same glass. She hadn’t turned to look at us.
Milo sat at the table without being invited. When I did the same, Felice’s eyebrows climbed again. “Would you like something to drink?”
Milo said, “No, thanks.”
“I’m having tea. You’re sure?”
“Okay, then, appreciate it.”
She got busy with bags of Earl Grey and mugs silkscreened with national park scenes, turned to her daughter and spoke softly. “That won’t get any cleaner, honey, and I need the instant-hot.”
Chelsea didn’t move. A gentle nudge inched her away from the spigot. Her hands dripped but she didn’t dry them. Placing the glass on the counter, she backed away, bumping into a butcher-block table and turning abruptly.
Doughy face, raisin eyes, stringy hair. Expression hard to read but nothing happy about it.
Milo and I smiled at her. We might as well have been baring fangs.
She hurried out.
Felice watched her for a second, then brought tea to the table, smiling tightly.
Milo said, “How’s everything going?”
“Lieutenant, that does sound like therapy.”
He smiled.
“Sorry,” she said. “Hellish day at work, city bureaucracy, then crazy traffic. In answer to your I’ll-assume-courteous question, everything’s fine, thank you for asking.”
“Chet upstairs?”
“Chet’s out of town. Portland. I believe.” The last two words and a half sneer said it alclass="underline" I don’t ask, he doesn’t tell, neither of us gives a damn.