“But walkable if you’re in shape.”
“Your guy Weyland a fitness type?”
“Don’t know.”
“You like him for Brassing because...”
“I’ve got zero evidence, Al, but his truck was seen driving away from the scene of my first murder, his wife could’ve been fooling with my second victim and she hasn’t been seen in a while. It’s possible she was hiding out in the A-frame when she wasn’t meeting up with Corvin in those hotels. We’re wondering if Weyland found out but waited to make his move until she shacked up with Corvin in Hollywood. Probably because a hit at a motel with direct door access to each room was a helluva lot easier than prowling the halls at some Hilton or making noise up in Arrowhead.”
Ahearn said, “He offs the competition, takes his lady back. But why would he return here and off Brassing?”
Milo said, “Good question. All I’ve got are questions.”
“Know about that, Milo.”
I held up a finger.
“Hold on for a sec, Al.” Milo listened to me and returned to Ahearn. “If sexual jealousy’s the main motive, returning to the A-frame could be symbolic, Al. He wants to have his way with her in the same place she cheated on him.”
“Symbolic... who was that?”
“Consulting psychologist.”
“You got one of those? Man, we’ve been trying to get funding for two years, all we have are counselors for when officers get PTSD. I’d ask you if it’s worth it but he’s sitting right there.”
Milo smiled. “It’s worth it.”
“Good to know,” said Ahearn. “Okay, what about the kid in the Camaro?”
“Still a total blank, Al, but he’s linked to my first victim and Brassing saw him in your neck of the woods.”
“And now Brassing’s dead. Maybe the kid’s the bad guy.”
“He’s involved somehow,” said Milo. “The plan before I heard about Brassing was to head up tomorrow to Santa Barbara, talk to the woman who last registered the car.”
“No reason to change that, we’ll take care of here,” said Ahearn. “Let me know what you learn and I’ll do the same. First thing tomorrow, one of my D’s will talk to Brassing’s wife and find out who his dentist is. If he didn’t take care of his teeth, we’ll go the DNA route but there’s about a month turnaround. I’ll also schedule drive-bys of the A-frame and have my guys looking out for both of Weyland’s cars and the Camaro. And the place will get processed.”
“Appreciate it but be careful,” said Milo. “For all we know, Weyland’s holed up there with her. The way the street’s laid out, it’s hard to conceal approach.”
“Know it well, used to patrol there,” said Ahearn. “Yeah, good advice. Okay, good talking to you and sorry for the delay.”
“No need to apologize,” said Milo. “Livingston says you’re swamped.”
“Roger,” said Ahearn. “He’s always swamped. Don’t ask.”
We got out of the unmarked and walked to the Seville.
“Poor Brassing,” he said. “First I nearly shoot him, then someone does. What’s your take on the Camaro kid, now? Aiding and abetting Weyland or a baby-faced contract killer?”
I shook my head.
He said, “That’s also my level of insight. You up for a nice coastal drive tomorrow?”
Before I could answer, his cell played Debussy. He looked at the screen, clicked on. “What’s up, Sean?”
“A whole bunch of storage places in Santa Monica and West L.A., Loot, but only one in the Palisades and it’s small. Off Sunset, north of that village shopping area. Google says it’s fifteen minutes from the Corvins in moderate traffic.”
“On a Sunday night a hop and a jump. Go over and talk to them.”
“Can’t, right now, it’s one of those DIY setups at night. Let yourself in with a card key, no staff. I can do a drive-by, see if they have cameras and let you know. Or wait until tomorrow when someone’ll be there.”
“Go home and get some rest, kid.”
“I’m not tired, Loot.”
“Let’s keep it that way.”
Chapter 43
L.A. to Santa Barbara can be a gorgeous ninety-mile cruise along the Pacific or a gray-air freeway slog for two-thirds of the distance finally graced by glimpses of water on the northern outskirts of Ventura. The last time Milo and I had made the trip was all business, the worst kind.
He picked me up at nine thirty, said, “I lied about scenic,” sped north on the Glen, crossed Mulholland, and dipped into the Valley before picking up the freeway at Van Nuys and Riverside.
Chrome soup until we got past Canoga Park and the traffic demons stopped snarling. At eleven forty-five, we were exiting at the odd, left-hand Cabrillo exit, turning right on State Street, and GPS’ing toward the top end of the shopping district.
Edda Halversen’s street was a western offshoot filled mostly with small prewar houses, some cute, others tatty, plus a few unseemly, obese, newer additions.
The district had begun as solid working-class, housing the people who serviced the mansions of Montecito. Now, except for retirees who’d managed to hold on due to Proposition 13 tax relief, out of reach of anyone with a blue collar.
The house we were looking for was a mint-green wood-sided bungalow. A full-length porch trimmed with lattice and millwork was painted white. Birds-of-paradise and yucca filled a skinny, trench-like bed of dirt paralleling the front. A brown Kia in the driveway bore a Waikiki, It’s A Kik! bumper sticker. The tags were current, the rear seat covered by a knitted afghan.
A metal ramp was propped atop a four-step, concrete stairway. Not enough room on either side to use the steps. Milo and I made the climb.
A screen door framed with the same white gimcrack was unlocked. The solid door behind it was paneled and equipped with a brass knocker shaped like a sperm whale.
Milo said, “Thar she blows,” lifted and lowered.
A pretty young Filipina in pink sweats opened the door. A sheet of black hair hung past her waist. Milo’s badge furrowed her forehead.
He said, “Nothing’s wrong. We’re here to talk to Ms. Halversen?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. But she stepped aside.
The front room was as tiny and dim as EmJay Braun’s. The air was filled with rose-based perfume and crowded by tables and stands hosting porcelain, ruby glass, and miniature teacups on miniature lace doilies. An upright oak piano sat along the right-hand wall. Sheet music on the rack. Porgy and Bess.
Unlike the Braun house, no wide swaths set aside for handicapped access, but space at the rear provided room for a white-haired woman in a wheelchair. She was covered to the waist by a pink quilt, legs propped on rests. A jade-colored sateen robe was buttoned to the neck. Baby-blue polish on her nails. The snowy hair was earlobe-length, combed, waved, clasped on one side with a Bakelite barrette.
She smiled at us.
Milo smiled back and showed her his card. Her eyes were an interesting mix of brown with blue rims. No change in focus as they stared straight ahead.
The young woman said, “She can’t hear or talk, sirs.”
I said, “Stroke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Recently?”
“This one, a year ago, sir.”
I said, “Not the first.”
“The first was two years ago, sir. She needed a walker but was okay.”
“You’ve been with her all that time, Miss...?”
“Vivian. Yes, sir.”
Milo backed away, frowning.
Vivian’s black eyes shot to him, then me. Curious but too frightened or discreet to pursue it.
Edda Halversen began waving her left hand. The smile had never left her face.
Vivian said, “She does that.”