“His car—”
“A driver took him to the airport. Sometimes he does that when he’s on a tight schedule and has to work in transit.”
“Ah,” said Milo.
“A busy man, Chet.” Making it sound like an insult. “So how’re things going in your world, Lieutenant? Yours, as well, Doctor.”
Her vocal pitch had climbed, talking about her husband. Now she strained for buoyancy, sounded doubly tense.
Milo said, “We may have identified the victim.”
“May have?” she said.
“I’m sure you remember the state of the body.”
“Oh. Of course. Who is he?”
“A man named Hargis Braun.”
No response.
Milo said, “He went by Hal.”
Continued silence. Then the third eyebrow arch of the evening. “Oh, you’re asking if I know him. I don’t. Never heard of him. Who is he?”
Milo showed her Braun’s DMV photo. She had the courtesy to actually study it. “Nope. Is he from around here?”
“Ventura County.”
“Then what was he doing here?”
“Good question, ma’am. Does your family have any ties up there?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I was in Goleta for a conference last year but I never met that man.”
“What about Chet?”
“Chet handles the West Coast,” she said. “So I can see him having business up there. You think this could be related to Chet’s business?”
Milo said, “I wish we were at the point where I could think anything, Ms. Corvin.”
“Would you like me to call Chet and ask him?”
“That would be great.”
She took a cellphone out of a sweatpant pocket, speed-dialed, clicked off. “Straight to voicemail.”
“No prob, I’ve got his number.”
She stirred her tea, looked at the photo. “Sorry, wish I could help you.” She smiled. “Actually, I probably don’t want to be helpful if it means I have to keep thinking about what happened. But he is an absolute stranger to me. Could he be some kind of tradesman — a plumber, a handyman, who worked around the neighborhood and somehow got... sorry, that’s silly. It explains nothing.”
“He didn’t do much, ma’am. On disability.”
“And somehow he ended up in my house.” She shook her head. “Crazy. It gets crazier as time passes. And your showing up with his name and his picture kind of brings me back to it.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, you’re doing your job.”
“Could we show the photo to Chelsea and Brett?”
“Absolutely not. They’re children and why in the world would they know this person?”
“I’m sure you’re right but like you said, doing the job.”
Felice Corvin turned to me, frowning. “You think it’s psychologically okay to suck the kids back in?”
Rhetorical question but I answered. “Depends on how they’re doing. Mood, appetite, sleep patterns, in school.”
She blinked. “I figured you’d just give me the official line.”
Milo said, “Dr. Delaware’s an independent consultant. In every way.”
“Apparently,” said Felice Corvin. “How’ve they been doing? To my maternal eye, they’re fine. Meaning, Brett’s being Brett, emotionally he’s made of titanium. Chelsea’s... Chelsea. I won’t hide anything, she’s always had issues. What you just saw with the glass is typical. OCD. According to several experts. Along with all kinds of other labels and diagnoses. But has she changed since the... since it happened? Not that I can honestly say. Then again, Doctor, someone of your training might know better.”
“My experience,” I said, “is that no one knows kids better than their mothers.”
She stared at me. “You actually sound as if you mean that.”
“I do.”
Felice Corvin took a sip of tea and looked at Hargis Braun’s photo. “He looks harmless enough... no gore, not like what they saw when it happened... fine, what the heck.”
She called for both kids at the foot of the stairs. Brett came bounding down, loud as a herd of buffalo. An oversized L.A. Kings jersey tented freckled legs. Hustling past his mother, he high-fived Milo and me. “Whuh? You got the perp?”
Milo suppressed laughter. “Your mouth to God’s ears, Brett.”
“Whuh?”
Felice said, “That means — never mind. They’ve got a picture to show you. The man who was — the person.”
“The dead guy? Cool.”
Milo handed him the photo.
Brett said, “Fat dude.”
“Brett!”
“Whuh? He is.” Shaping a sphere with his hands.
Felice said, “You don’t know him, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, meaning no you don’t know him.”
“Yeah.” The boy laughed and bounced and shadow-boxed. Felice reached for the photo but he feinted away from her and waved it. To Milo. “Who is he?”
“Don’t know yet, Brett.”
“Fat dude.” Brett’s lip began curling upward, prepping a supplementary wisecrack. But his eyes dulled and all he could come up with was, “Fat.”
His mother said, “Go back and finish your homework, young man.”
“Boooooring,” said Brett, high-fiving air before running off.
Another ungulate stampede up the stairs. A bellowed “Fat!”
Felice Corvin looked at me. “Please tell me that will pass with maturity.”
I said, “His sense of humor?”
“His lack of emotionality. I’ve tried to get him to talk about it but he just makes jokes.”
I said, “Boys his age go through all kinds of stuff.” Putting on my best therapeutic Sphinx-face as I thought of Brett’s father.
Apples falling close to trees.
Felice said, “I hope it’s just a stage,” and called out Chelsea’s name. The girl stepped out of her room, stared down at us, fidgeting, finally descended.
Felice explained as Milo handed Chelsea Braun’s photo. Her appraisal was brief and mute: a quick head shake then a turn to her mother, as if for confirmation.
“Thank you, darling,” said Felice. The girl trudged back up the stairs, clutching the banister.
Milo looked at me. I stayed neutral and that was enough for him.
“One more question, ma’am, and I hope it doesn’t offend you, but I need to ask.”
Felice Corvin folded her arms across her chest. “What now?”
“I’m sure you can understand that our experience tells us certain situations need to be looked into—”
“What, Lieutenant?”
“This has nothing to do specifically with your kids, ma’am, but we’ve seen cases where young people’s relationships lead to violence.”
“What in the world are you saying?”
“Kids dating people their parents don’t approve of. Sometimes it gets—”
Felice cut him off with a horizontal air slash. Her laughter was harsh, a witchy cackle. “Neither of my children dates. I’m not sure anyone does, nowadays, kids just hang out. But apart from that, Brett’s too young for a relationship.” She breathed in. “And Chelsea’s not into any level of emotional... entanglement. Never has been.”
“No boyfriend.”
“I wish.” Felice’s eyes filled with tears. “I wish so many things for her. Is that all? I have things to do.”
She hurried us to the door. Milo said, “Sorry for bothering you.”
“That poor man. Braun. You’ve told me nothing about him.”
“That’s ’cause we don’t know much other than his name, ma’am. When we figure it out, I promise to let you know.”