I said, “Expecting a crime scene?”
“Expecting anything.” We covered our shoes and hands and I followed him to the front door.
Big lumbering shape in coarse brown.
Adult bear, ready to forage.
The alarm panel just inside the door whined. Milo punched buttons from the code he’d memorized, created silence, took in the layout.
A single high-peaked space was sectioned by furniture and appliances into a living room with a doorway to the left, a dining area, and a kitchen separated from a laundry room by a waist-high partition.
Open beamed ceiling. Cheap blue felt carpeted the entire floor. The rear wall was glass, a triangle composed of several window frames and interrupted by a rear door. Outside was a skimpy lawn, then a mass of black-green, the rear boundary unclear. A glass-shaded chandelier — unreasonable facsimile of Tiffany — dangled from a center beam. The furniture was bolted-together blond wood and plastic, contrasting with dark-stained wood walls and ceiling. Every upholstered surface was brown; if Milo sat down, he might disappear.
Still in the doorway, he called out, “Police. Anyone home?”
Nothing.
Placing his hand on his Glock but leaving it holstered he motioned me to wait and entered.
A minute later he was back. “All clear.”
He picked up his case, sniffed, nostrils flaring.
I said, “Exactly.”
Empty house but the air lacked the dirty-socks must of disuse. Instead, a pleasant scent washed through, aromatic, familiar.
Armani.
I pointed to a brown princess phone on the floor, next to a couch. Eighties vintage, the closest thing to an antique.
He took an evidence bag out of his case, uncoupled the phone from its cord, bagged it. “If there are prints anywhere, they’ll be here. Not that we don’t know who was answering Chet’s calls. This clinches it, again, you’re right. Girlfriend, not a pro, in that motel room.”
I said nothing.
He said, “Stop bragging. Look what happened to Chet.”
He walked around, opening and shutting drawers and cabinets. Cheap crockery, glassware, utensils, pots and pans. Stepping around the partition to the laundry room, he took his time with the washer-dryer.
Empty, spotless, dry. Same for a plastic utility sink and a cheap wicker hamper. Utility storage consisted of detergent, bug spray, a coiled garden hose, a toolbox whose stiff latch said it hadn’t been opened for a while, four mousetraps in heat-sealed plastic packets.
We returned to the living room, continued through the left-hand doorway. Two identical nine-by-nine bedrooms were dimmed by pebbled windows set high in a tongue-and-groove wall and separated by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. Nothing in the medicine cabinet.
The master bedroom at the end of the hall was larger but far from generous. The smell of perfume was stronger. Clear-glass windows provided the same green view as the living room triangle. The lav was en suite but drab. No sheets, pillows, or cases on the queen bed; one dresser, also unused. No clothes in the closet but lots of neatly folded percale and terry cloth.
I said, “Rarely used until now. And she cleaned up compulsively. Same as the motel. Same as Braun.”
He stared. “She’s more than a love interest?”
“Just throwing out ideas.”
Noise from the front of the house whipsawed both our heads.
A door closing. Footsteps.
Milo unsnapped his gun and pulled it out, sidled toward the doorway.
He tensed for a second, slipped through, pointed the Glock. “Freeze!”
A male voice said, “Oh, Jesus God!”
The man’s hands were up and they trembled. So did his legs. “Please, man.” High-pitched nasal voice. “Take what you want and—”
Milo said, “Police. Continue to cooperate.” Extricating his badge, he flashed it.
The man said, “Jesus Mary Mother of God.” A meaty face that had gone pale began to take on color, achieved ruddiness within seconds. His posture loosened but he continued to shake.
“Can I?” he said, waving his fingers. “Got a sore rotator cuff.”
Milo said, “Name.”
“Dave Brassing.”
“The caretaker.”
“That’s me, sir, I promise, there’s I.D. in my pocket.”
“Okay, at ease. Didn’t mean to startle you but I called and you never answered so I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Sorry, sir, I was going to.” Brassing waited until the Glock was reholstered before letting out a wheezy sigh and flopping his arms to his sides.
Late forties to early fifties, stocky, he had a broad face bristled by bushy sideburns and bottomed by eight inches of graying, spade-shaped goatee. A battered, broad-brimmed leather hat sat askew. A gray work shirt was splotched with fear-sweat. Baggy cargo shorts revealed callused knees. The soles of hiking boots were crusted with leaves.
“Oh, man,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “You scared the stuffing out of me.” His cheeks fluttered as his head moved to the side.
Milo said, “So, Dave, what brings you here?”
“Checking around,” said Brassing. “For you, actually. I was going to call after I saw that everything was okay.”
Not getting the point of evidence preservation.
Brassing said, “Whew.” His chest heaved.
“You want some water, Dave?”
“No, I’m okay... can I sit down?”
“Sure. Didn’t mean to freak you out, Dave.”
“My fault, should’ve answered you sooner,” said Brassing. “I saw your car, figured it was police, but when you rushed out with that heater...” He exhaled, face glassy with sweat. “Guns are a thing with me. I used to hunt, nothing bothered me. Then I got held up a few years ago and when I see ’em, I get kind of queasy.”
“Sorry ’bout that.”
“Yeah,” said Dave Brassing. “Armed robbery. It was hairy.”
Milo said, “It happen around here?”
“Down in San Berdoo. I was working at a tire store, couple of hoodies came in and shoved iron in my face and had me clean out the register, I thought I was going to — thank God there was some cash in there.”
I said, “What a thing to go through.”
“Wouldn’t wish it on my enemy,” said Brassing. “I’m not saying I got rid of my weapons, fact is I’d have been better off packing when they showed up. But I look at guns different, now. The one they used was a.38 Smith-W. One of mine was one of those, I got rid of it.”
He bit his lip. “I don’t even want to watch movies with shooting. Anyway, I should’ve called out Hello, it’s Dave, or something, I didn’t figure. Phew. Okay, I’m breathing again.”
Milo said, “You’re sure you’re okay? Don’t want water?”
“I’m fine, thanks, no worries — actually, yeah, water sounds good, mind if I get it myself?”
“Go for it, Dave.”
Brassing walked to the kitchen, filled a glass from the sink, held it up to window light.
“It was good last time I checked but winter there was runoff-silt. Nothing dangerous, just minerals, but it tasted bad.”
He chugged the entire glass, filled another, repeated. “Took me a while to convince them to fix it, finally did. Deposits in the tank, not a small job.”
I said, “They don’t use the house, don’t want to put out the money.”
“You got it.”
“How long have you been taking care of the place?”
Brassing put down the empty glass and sat back down. “I don’t really take care, like a big, detailed deal. What it is, I come in once a month except winter, when it’s two three times, got to make sure the pipes don’t freeze, all that good stuff.”
He pointed to the rear window. “Also that, in the winter. That much glass, you get constriction of the frames, the glue dries, you get leaks.”