I said, “Then there’s the mousetraps.”
“Oh, yeah, that, too. Little buggers used to get inside, poop all over the place, that was gross. I sealed off holes and cracks, baited outside to keep them away from inside.” Tensing. “You’re not saying you saw some in here?”
“Just traps near the garbage cans.”
“That’s okay,” said Brassing. “I also got them placed clear back to the end of the property.”
“Where is that, Dave?”
“Right where the grass ends.”
“Not the trees,” I said.
“That’s the neighbor, super-rich guy, computers or something, he’s got fifteen acres, at least. Big stone house. Not that he uses it, either. That’s the way it is here. They say it’s an investment — he said that. Mr. Corvin. He wasn’t a bad type. Still can’t believe what happened to him.”
“Mrs. Corvin told you.”
“On her message. That was kind of... but I’m not judging.”
I said, “Unemotional?”
“Yeah,” said Brassing. “ ‘Hi, Dave, need to let you know.’ Then she lays that on me. Like please check the garbage cans and oh, yeah, Chet got killed.”
“Is that her usual approach?”
“Couldn’t tell you, maybe I seen her three times, I always dealt with him.”
“Could we hear the message?”
Looking puzzled, Brassing produced his phone, scrolled, activated.
Felice Corvin’s voice came on, cool, soft, articulate. “David Brassing, this is Mrs. Corvin. Not sure of your schedule but I’m calling to let you know the police will be examining the house in the near future. Mr. Corvin was shot and killed.”
Click.
Dave Brassing said, “Wow, that’s colder than I remembered.”
Milo said, “You’ve met her three times.”
“Maybe, could be two.”
“What about the kids?”
Brassing shook his head. “They said they had kids but never seen any.”
“And Mr. Corvin?”
“More,” said Brassing. “But not a lot. They bought the place something like two and a half, three years ago. I worked for the people before them, the Liebers. That was real caretaking, they were older folk, retired, they used it all the time, were still skiing when they were like eighty. They recommended me to the Corvins.”
I said, “How many contacts have you had with Mr. Corvin?”
“Oh... I’d say... eight, nine? Mostly on the phone. Don’t know, really.”
Milo said, “In three years.”
“Yup. It’s mostly copacetic, here.”
“How about this year?”
“Hmm... twice, three? Last time was like... a month ago? The mice. I guess he was here and saw droppings. He called me up, said, ‘What do I pay you for?’ ”
“Copping an attitude.”
“Well,” said Brassing, “can’t say I blame him, who wants to see that? I finally figured out there was a small hole in the lint trap vent. Sealed it off, no more little Mickeys.” He smiled. Lots of missing teeth and the dentition that remained was yellow and ragged.
“Problem solved,” I said. “Was he grateful?”
“He never complained.” Removing his hat, he scratched dense, gray hair.
Milo said, “When Mr. Corvin stayed here, who was he with?”
“Who?” said Brassing. “I’m assuming her.”
“Mrs. Corvin.”
Brassing’s bushy eyebrows flickered. “You’re saying not?”
“Not saying anything, Dave. When’s the last time the master bedroom got used?”
“Hmm,” said Brassing. “Not for a while. I haven’t been here in a month but even before that — it’s not like it was regular.”
“How could you tell?”
“They always cleaned up real good,” said Brassing. “New sheets, new pillowcase.”
I said, “There’s perfume in the air. Smell it?”
Brassing sniffed. “Can’t smell so good — yeah, I’m catching a whiff.”
“Familiar?”
“No, not really.”
“Deviated septum?” said Milo.
Brassing tapped his right nostril. “Tumor. Back when I was in high school. Played football, got a monster headache, everyone figured it was a hard tackle but it was a tumor. Benign, they rooted around and got rid of it, I had headaches for years but now it’s okay. But not much sense of smell. Some of my taste, too, my wife says it don’t matter, anyway, I’m no gourmet.”
Gap-toothed smile. “Guess I’m the lucky one.”
Milo and I looked at him.
“The tumor, then getting held up and surviving?” said Brassing. “A few other things in between, God pulled me through.”
“I admire your faith, Dave,” said Milo.
“My pastor says it’s easy to have faith when things work out good, the key is when it’s rough — think I’ll get myself more water.”
He drank a third glass, came back.
Milo said, “So you have no idea who Mr. Corvin stayed with?”
“I’m getting a feeling it wasn’t the wife, huh? You’re thinking that’s what got him killed?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Dave, we’re just asking questions.”
“Got it. Wish I had answers for you.”
“No idea who might’ve stayed here with Mr. Corvin.”
“Sorry, nope.”
“What about something left in the garbage — a credit slip, anything with I.D.?”
“No garbage,” said Brassing.
“What do you mean?”
“The cans were always empty. I guess they could’ve taken it to the dump. It’s at Heap’s Peak, a few miles down the mountain, on the way back to the freeway.”
“They don’t pay for trash collection?”
“They do,” said Brassing. “When I throw stuff out — mousetraps, whatever — it gets picked up.” He tugged at his beard. “Fifty bucks a month doesn’t sound like much but I like to come up here, anyway, breathe some good air.”
“Come up from where?”
“San Bernardino. I’m semi-retired, do flea markets on the weekend. Used to do other houses but now it’s just this and another one closer to the village.”
“When Mr. Corvin was here, which car did he drive?”
“The first time I met him he had a Jaguar — the big sedan. The only other times — maybe one, maybe two, he had a Range Rover.”
Brassing slapped his forehead. “Shoot, I forgot, sorry. A week ago, after I checked my other house — the Palmers — I decided to drive by, just an overall look, nothing huge I needed to deal with. And this car drove toward me the opposite way, seemed to be coming from the property. I can’t be sure but the houses are pretty far apart, it seemed to be coming from here. It was already up the road by the time I got here and nothing looked wrong so I figured it was just someone doing a three-point turn.”
Milo said, “What kind of car?”
“That I can tell you,” said Brassing, “Camaro, eighties. Cool color: black. It makes them look more racy, you know?”
I said, “A week ago. So last Friday.”
“That’s when I do the Palmers. Twice a month. They play golf, I go in and check around.”
Milo said, “Catch a look at who was driving?”
“Nope, it was going pretty fast.”
Milo handed Brassing his card. “You see it again, try to get the license plate, even if you don’t, give me a ring, okay?”
“It’s important? Sure,” said Brassing.
The three of us stood.
Brassing said, “Uh, one thing, sir. I’m not sure if I still have the job. Thought I’d give Mrs. Corvin some time to settle down before I ask her.”
“My advice,” said Milo, “is let it ride. You don’t hear from her, you’ve got the job.”
Brassing winked. “Don’t upset the apple cart, huh?”