“Lake Arrowhead’s in San Bernardino County. First time we met Corvin, he mentioned a weekend home there.”
He grinned. “Great minds. Yeah, I called Felice, she confirmed it. Said the family hadn’t used the place since two winters ago. She wanted to know why I was asking. I said Chet seemed to be calling there, I had yet to find out why. But she got the point, became rather irate.”
I said, “The call dates say the relationship began at least two months ago in L.A. For the past week or so, he moved her to the family getaway.”
“In preparation for his new life.” He stood, bowed, sat back down. “Felice’s anger worked in my favor. She gave me permission to go there and take a look. There’s a local guy, sees after the place twice a month, has a key. I left him a message, haven’t heard back. But I don’t need him, Felice said she’d leave one under the mat.”
“New friend.”
“Common enemy.”
I began walking out.
“Where you going?”
“Shave, shower, et cetera.”
“Getting yourself dapper?” he said. “Good. I have my standards.”
Chapter 25
A manila envelope leaned against the door of the Corvin house. Trevor Bitt’s pickup was parked next door. Milo studied the cactus Tudor, scratched the side of his nose and contemplated, then returned to the unmarked he’d picked up this morning. A smooth-driving slate-blue Dodge Charger that still smelled of new car. Way above his usual ride. Hope leads you to all sorts of self-affirming places.
Once behind the wheel, he uncoiled a string on the flap of the envelope. Inside was a key chained to a fob and a folded piece of white paper. The fob was a plastic Disneyland souvenir. Snow White, chaste and unaware she was despised. The paper listed computer-typed directions to the Arrowhead house, the alarm code, and the number of Dave Brassing, the occasional caretaker.
Programming the car’s GPS, Milo checked it against Felice Corvin’s directions. “Perfect.”
Big V-8, muscular and smooth.
I said, “How’d you score the hot wheels?”
“Got A’s on my homework and begged Daddy for the keys.” Big grin. “Found out a mere sergeant in Burglary was planning to use it tomorrow and pulled rank.”
“What’s next, an Oscars after-party.”
“Actually, I coulda gone to one last year. One of Rick’s patients is the bimbo girlfriend of a noted producer. Drove into a pole while taking a selfie. Rick put her arm and her shoulder together. Well enough to service Daddy Filmbucks because he extended the invite.”
“Why didn’t you go?”
“More allergies. Both of us.”
“To what?”
“Ego cancer and bullshit.”
The route from the Palisades to the Inland Empire’s resort areas was the 405 North, the 134 East, merge to the 210, State Route 18 up to the mountains.
Decades ago, European road architects figured out that curves keep drivers awake, hence the Autostrada, the Autobahn, and the like. Not so, Caltrans. The result is thousands of miles of hypnotic straightaway that scalpel through marginalized neighborhoods. It’s a nonstop display of trailer parks, houses that might as well be trailers, discount malls, car lots the size of small towns, big-box retailers with the grace of an unshielded sneeze.
Intersections in freeway districts are built around gas stations, grease pits, and fast-food joints. The less fortunate citizens of California contend with toxic air, brain-scraping noise, and opportunistic criminals hopping off the freeway to felonize before on-ramping back in celebration.
When I’m not behind the wheel, I find it hard to stay awake on the freeway and I dozed off halfway through the ninety-mile drive.
I woke up on the outskirts of San Bernardino and checked my watch. What should’ve been a ninety-minute drive had stretched to two hours and thirteen minutes.
“Accident?”
Milo’s jacket had taken on wrinkles. His hair spiked where he’d rubbed his scalp. “Coupla semis tangoed twenty miles back, ambulance injuries. Cleared by the time we got there but that didn’t stop idiots from gawking, now it’s even worse, with the cellphone photos. Explain that to me. What’s the thrill?”
I said, “New-age slapstick. Enjoying the fact that the other guy slipped on a banana peel.”
“Cruel world,” he said. “Lucky for me.”
A mile later: “You were snoozing away, amigo. How the hell do you sleep like that?”
I rarely do but how would he know? “Clear conscience.”
“Damn,” he said, slapping his forehead. “Too late for that.”
The outskirts of San Bernardino were what you’d expect, made dreary by Beijing-level smog.
The airborne dirt vanished a few miles into Highway 18, the state route’s primary access to the San Bernardino Mountains. Four lanes that shift gradually to a gear-challenging climb and top-of-the-world views.
Eighteen snakes up to a series of ski resorts before sloping east and descending to the Mojave Desert. The final stop is Adelanto, a town founded over a century ago as a citrus-growing community, switching to poultry farming when that didn’t work out, continuing to struggle as the economic allure of two private prisons proved illusory.
I’d been there a few years ago, evaluating the custodial fitness of a father imprisoned for a massive insurance scam and about to be released. The kind of guy who could easily fool a polygraph. My report was thin on details but loaded with implication. The judge got the point.
Today’s trip included only the first twenty or so miles of 18, as we entered Arrowhead Village. Along the way, signs proclaiming gated, guarded communities and admonishing trespassers had alternated with flecks of lake view that pierced the tree canopy randomly — loose sapphires in a green velvet box. On the water side of the commercial center’s cottagey shops and restaurants, the forest had been cleared, exposing an expanse of blue peppered by white boats.
The lake itself is pure Southern California: theatrically gorgeous but artificial. Created as a reservoir left unfinished after being ruled illegal and subject to decades of shifting ownership, fraudulent land transfers, and inside deals, it had finally settled as a weekend escape where dockside mansions served as stopovers for movie stars and tycoons.
We continued west, turned onto Brewer Road, and entered a tract of modest residences widely spaced on generous lots. Weekend places for the financially comfortable. The attraction here was the much smaller Grass Valley Lake and a golf course. No gates, no warnings.
Our destination, marked by a rustic address sign on a tilting stake, was curtained by white pines, black oaks, and ponderosas and visible only as a smear of cedar siding.
Milo said, “Just Molly and me-ee, in our brown heaven,” and hooked onto a long dirt driveway bordered by rocks the size of Galapagos tortoise shells. The house finally came into view seconds later, shoved off center by a clutch of monumental firs.
One-story A-frame, cedar planks oiled long ago and graying at the edges. No garage, no fencing. Two large plastic garbage cans stood to the left.
We got out of the car, greeted by chittering birds and rustling leaves. Milo checked the cans. Empty. His eyes shifted to the ground nearby. Three mousetraps, one hosting a rodent skeleton. Close by was a rogue patch of grass defying its host patch of gravel. Ruts and tracks ran through the blades and continued to the graveclass="underline" wildlife partying, most likely squirrels, chipmunks, and raccoons. The trash-can lids were held in place by metal clasps. Claw marks scored the tops. Coons or bears — juveniles lacking the skill and attention span to pull off a prolonged assault.
Milo returned to the Dodge, now dusted with pollen, popped the trunk, and removed his attaché case. Out came two sets of booties and gloves.