“Exactly, Dave. When’s your next visit scheduled?”
“Like in a couple weeks.”
“You can drive by but don’t go inside until I tell you it’s okay.”
“Why’s that?”
“I need to keep the place as is.”
“For CSI stuff?”
“That kind of thing.”
“Got it.” Brassing read the card. “Homicide. Can’t believe that actually happened.”
Chapter 26
Milo and I stood outside as Brassing drove away in an old Ford van.
He said, “Braun, Bitt, Chet, Chet’s girlfriend, and now the Camaro kid at Braun’s house and here. So he’s definitely involved and there’s definitely a link between Chet and Braun. The whole chocolate thing... I was starting to think the case was coming together but it’s feeling like a magician’s gag. Poof, nothing materializes — are you seeing something I’m not?”
I said, “Wish I was.”
“Brutal honesty,” he said. “So what now?”
“I’d resume the surveillance on Bitt and call Henry Prieto to let him know he was onto something with the Camaro. He still thinks of himself as a cop, will eagle-eye. Who handles law enforcement here?”
“San Bernardino sheriff, Twin Peaks station.”
“Would they do a forensic workup of the house?”
“With no obvious crime? Hard to say.”
“Long as we’re here,” I said, “we could check the places where Corvin spent money. Could give us something on the girlfriend.”
“He’s got a love nest here, why would he use a hotel in San Berdoo?”
“Moving around to be less conspicuous, creature comforts, or just plain novelty. The company was paying for everything, so why not take advantage. On the way, we can stop in Arrowhead Village and ask around.”
He shot a cuff and looked at his Timex. “It’s pushing four, we’ll be coming back late.”
“Less traffic.”
He slapped my back. “Unbridled optimism. Patent it and you’ll own your own jet.”
We sat in the Dodge and examined Chet Corvin’s recent San Bernardino expenditures.
Six stays in three hotels, all tagged as “Inns.” Three restaurant tabs at two Italian and one Mexican restaurant. Everything close to the freeway, in the inland city’s business core.
A call to the Twin Peaks sheriff’s station produced bafflement when Milo admitted the house wasn’t a likely crime scene. He got shunted up the brass rod, ended with a captain named Bacerra who resisted but finally agreed to “limited cooperation”: Once permission to enter was granted in writing by the current owner and non-intrusive access could be guaranteed, the A-frame would “eventually” be processed for prints, fibers, and “obvious” body fluids. Meaning a visual inspection but no dogs or alternative light source unless something “probative” came up.
Milo said, “Thanks,” trying to mean it. “I can get you a key for access and there’s also a caretaker. In terms of written consent, would a fax work?”
“Probably,” said Bacerra. “It’s going to take time, anyway. We’re swamped with real stuff.”
In Arrowhead Village, forty or so trendy-leaning businesses were backdropped by the lake. Emphasis on clothing and personal appearance — beauty salons, a Pilates studio, a gym.
We walked from store to store, showing pictures of Chet Corvin, Hal Braun, and Trevor Bitt, eliciting head shakes. Several merchants said, “Some of the weekenders never come in.”
The losing streak was broken at one of the last shops, Snowbird Jewelers. Just over a month ago, Chet Corvin had purchased a silver filigree necklace set with amethysts for $612.43, paying with cash. The proprietor, an older Iranian man in a white shirt and tie, remembered Corvin because he was “very enthusiastic.”
Milo said, “About what, sir?”
The man adjusted his eyeglasses. “Buying it. Winking all the time.” He demonstrated, the result more comical than lascivious.
“Did he come in alone?”
“He did,” said the man. “It was a surprise. You’re saying not for the wife, eh? I figured.”
“Why’s that?”
“The winking. Wives get presents, they don’t get winking.”
We got back in the car and began the descent of Highway 18. Covering the shopping center had taken time and the sky was fighting to stay lit, bashful lemon-colored sun hiding behind cotton-puff clouds. Below the firmament, the forest had turned black. As dusk set in, the road curves grew challenging.
Milo took a turn without braking. The Dodge squealed in protest. He slowed down.
Two mile markers later, he said, “Six-hundred-dollar necklace. So he was in love or lust or whatever guys like him are in. Let’s check out the local hostelries.”
Chapter 27
Nothing inn-like about the Hampton Inn by Hilton, just a four-story beige rectangle logo’d in tomato red.
The cheerful young woman at the desk lost her cheer when Milo showed her his badge along with Chet Corvin’s photo.
Samantha.
“Um, I don’t think I can talk about guests.”
“This guest is deceased.” He’d gentled his tone. That made it sound worse, which was probably his intention.
Samantha shrank back. “Dead?”
Milo said, “Murdered. So if you could help us, we’d really appreciate it.”
“Um... hold on.” Backing away, she opened a rear door and slipped through. Nothing happened for several minutes. The lobby was empty, no one checking in or out. Soft rock streamed from above.
A grave-looking woman in her midthirties emerged from the back. “How can I help you, Officers?”
Briana.
Milo repeated what he’d told Samantha.
She said, “I’d have to check with Legal Affairs to verify that we can divulge that and they’re gone for the day.”
Milo placed an arm on the counter and leaned in. “Appreciate your being careful, Briana, but we’re not asking for state secrets, just checking to see if anyone around here remembers Mr. Corvin.”
She looked away. Fiddled with her name tag. “Actually, I do. He’s been here a few times.”
“Three times, between five and eight weeks ago,” said Milo. “We have his credit card history.”
“Oh,” said Briana. “Well, I can’t tell you much more than that. I only remember him because he was kind of...” She sucked in breath. “I don’t want to... put anyone down. Certainly not a deceased person.”
“Of course not, Briana. But this was a particularly nasty cold-blooded murder, so anything you could tell us would be appreciated.”
Her eyes flicked upward. “One of those times, I checked him in. It’s not like I had a strong memory of it, but your picture reminded me.”
“He stood out.”
“Well,” said Briana. “More like he was... too friendly? I didn’t do anything special for him but he told me I was A-one, said he’d ask for me personally from now on.”
“Flirtatious?”
“He didn’t engage in inappropriate touch or use suggestive language and gestures.”
Someone who’d attended the corporate seminar.
I said, “But...”
“He acted as if we already knew each other. And now that I think about it, I guess he did use a suggestive gesture. Winking.”
“Did you find him creepy?”
“Not really, more like annoying. Too much of what my grandma calls being ‘forward.’ I feel kind of bad talking about him, now that he’s been...”
Milo said, “Did he stay here alone?”
“It was a single-occupancy reservation. All three times.” Her eyes shifted up again, then to the left.
Milo said, “That’s not exactly what I asked, Briana.”