Milo handed her the card. She studied it. “Rectangle. I’m gonna draw rectangles.”
Chapter 41
Milo looked relieved to step outside. The sun was gone, mustard rooftops deepened to smoky brown. Backyard chatter updrafted from somewhere. Someone was grilling meat.
I said, “Who texted you?”
“Sean took it upon himself to recheck Chelsea’s social media. Still nothing.”
I said, “With a secret boyfriend, she’d have reason to avoid social media. But when I brought up the Camaro she didn’t blink and this isn’t a glib girl.”
Reaching into his pocket, he unfolded the page of diamonds. “Why does she do this?”
“No idea.”
“Take a guess.”
“Maybe striving for order? Or it’s all she can do.”
He took another look before refolding the paper and slipping it back into his pocket. “I’ve seen worse in galleries.”
I said, “Put it in your investment portfolio, one day she might be famous.”
“A truck,” he said. “One of the Weylands, there goes another lead.”
“Has to be Donna. When we were with Paul, the Taurus was in the driveway.”
“Makes sense, they’re splitsville. She packed her stuff in the bed and left.”
“He told us she was visiting her mother, I can see him not wanting to get into his marital problems. But at the time, I got a clear sense she’d been away for a while, not a few hours.”
He rubbed his face. “Where are you going with this?”
“Probably nowhere,” I said. “But it might not hurt to take a closer look at the neighbors on the other side.”
“What, Donna didn’t take the truck, Paul did? Then he stashed it somewhere, swapped for the Taurus, and got back in time to play benevolent neighbor? Why?”
“Like I said, it’s likely nothing. On the other hand, a pickup would be great for transporting a body, the return trip perfect for ditching a shotgun and a bloody tarp. If you knew the cops would be at your house, you’d want to be careful.”
He rubbed his face. “Weyland’s a homicidal maniac? You’re giving me mental whiplash, amigo.”
“We’ve been focusing on Bitt because everyone pointed us in his direction. Including Weyland.”
“That’s because everyone knows Bitt’s weird.”
“Sure. But step away from that and the same factors making Bitt a suspect could be applied to Weyland. He could know the Corvins didn’t set their alarm, he’d be familiar with the layout of the Corvin house. In fact, he’d have an easier time than Bitt transporting a body to the Corvins because his property abuts their garden gate.”
Both of us turned toward the pseudo-hacienda. Empty driveway, lights off.
Milo said, “Paul the mild-mannered blood-fiend?”
“Like I said, probably—”
“Nothing, yeah, yeah. What would be Weyland’s motive and how does Braun figure in?”
“I’ve got no explanation for Braun,” I said. “But the motive could be classic: jealousy. What if Donna left Paul because she was one of Chet Corvin’s on-the-sides? On top of that, Chet was derisive toward Weyland. Even when Weyland had taken his, he lorded his finances over the guy — you rent, I own. Sexual jealousy plus long-simmering resentment? We could be talking a combustible mixture.”
“Chet and Donna,” he said. “If she’s screwing Chet, you’re right, she’s only one of his honeys. That picture we found isn’t the brunette he bought the necklace for and shacked up with in the Arrowhead love nest. Which still hasn’t been processed by San Berdoo, some twit named Livingston seems to enjoy shining me on.”
I said, “Hair color’s easy to change and pounds can be taken off. Interviewing Donna could clear it up but in all this time we’ve never laid eyes on her. What if she was scared of Paul and was hiding out at the Arrowhead house, moving to hotels with Chet for security? Maybe the two of them decided to make the break and run off together, beginning with a bon-voyage at the Sahara kicked up with wine, lingerie, and dirty movies? What if Weyland stalked Donna to the motel, got in with a ruse, executed Chet, and abducted her at gunpoint.”
“In Chet’s Rover? Weyland’s already got two vehicles that he supposedly shuffles like cards. Why add a third?”
“If he used his own wheels and someone copied the plates, he’d be toast. There could also be symbolic value to using the Rover: I’m retrieving what’s mine and taking your fancy wheels.”
“So where’s the Rover now?”
“If he stashed the truck or the Taurus a few minutes away, he could’ve driven over and swapped it. My guess would be a dark side street, so he could transfer his captive without being spotted. If he left the Rover unlocked with the keys in the ignition, how long would it last in East Hollywood?”
“On its way to El Salvador.” Jamming his hands in his pockets, he walked away from me, paced thirty steps, walked past me and did another twenty.
He returned and looked up and down the block. “Oh, man, the way your gray cells pop.”
I said, “Chet and Donna isn’t that far-fetched. Take away online hookups and how do affairs begin? At work or between friends and neighbors. Not that I’ve got evidence but—”
“Neither do I after twenty-two days but who’s counting. Shit.”
He beelined to the Weyland house where he stopped in the driveway and glanced at the Corvins’ garden gate. I caught up as he continued to the Weylands’ front courtyard.
No mail piled up at the door. The view through the front windows was unfettered and unremarkable. The same bland space the Corvins had used for sanctuary while a corpse moldered next door.
Milo said, “Hopefully ol’ Paul’s doing his school district thing and I can pay him a visit soon. Meanwhile, let’s learn more about him and his missing missus.”
We sat in the unmarked, where he scanned the recovered-vehicle list. Still nothing on Chet Corvin’s Range Rover. Pass-coding onto DMV revealed no registrations under Paul Weyland’s name but Donna Weyland was the owner of a four-year-old silver Taurus and a three-year-old gray Ford Ranger pickup.
Milo copied down the VINs and the tags, moved on to the criminal databases.
Both Weylands appeared to be solid citizens.
I said, “Okay, so it’s an air sandwich. Though I do find it interesting that the cars are in her name. Maybe he has credit problems. If she controls the money, there’s another layer of resentment.”
He tapped the steering wheel. “You know I take what you come up with seriously but there’s a problem with the stash-the-evidence theory. Weyland couldn’t go too far because he had to be back in time to play Mr. Helpful with the Corvins. Making it to PCH and back might be possible but finding a rural dump spot in Malibu would be a serious drive, no way.”
I thought about that. “Are there any storage units nearby? In the best of all worlds, one with ample tenant parking and CCTV.”
He said, “I’ll have Sean check but first I need to keep Petra in the loop.”
He tried her numbers, got no answer. The same for Raul Biro. Both Hollywood D’s were sent a long text, catching them up, and asking them to reexamine video footage for evidence of either Weyland vehicle on the night of Chet Corvin’s murder.
No return texts. “Can’t begrudge them private lives,” he said, sounding as if he might one day believe that.
Sean Binchy was still at the station, a man without any apparent circadian rhythms and cheerful as always. Milo asked him to look for storage units near the Corvin house.
“Got it, Loot.”
“Also, put BOLOs out on the Weylands’ vehicles, here’s the info.”
Binchy copied. “Something come up on them?”