Milo said, “Maybe you can help us, Vivian. It’s not really Ms. Halversen we’re interested in. It’s a young man who drives a black Camaro that used to be hers.”
“Cory.”
“You know him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that spelled C-O-R-Y or with an e?”
“Don’t know, sir.”
“Last name?”
Weak smile. “Sorry, sir.”
“How do you know Cory?”
“He’s a friend of ma’am.”
“A friend.”
“From working for her, sir.”
“What kind of work?”
“Yardwork, sir. Cleanup. He also visited, sir.”
“Back when ma’am could still talk.”
“Also after, sir.”
“When’s the last time he was here?”
Vivian’s index finger stroked cupid lips. “Maybe six months, sir? I don’t know, really, sir.”
“Was he here to work or to visit?”
“Both, sir.”
“Any idea why he stopped coming by?”
“Joining the army, sir.”
“A half year ago.”
“Maybe a little more, sir. Or less. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”
I said, “You’re doing great. So Cory came to tell Edda he was joining the army.”
“Yes, sir. She did that, sir.” Pointing to the still-waving arm.
Milo said, “Does she understand anything?”
“Food,” said Vivian. “She eats three times a day, also snacks. Her blood pressure is good, sir.”
Edda Halversen’s arm lowered. The smile endured.
I said, “Vivian, how was Cory paid for his work?”
“Cash, sir.”
“Who handles Ms. Halversen’s finances — paying her bills.”
“The bank, sir. They pay me, too.”
“Which bank?”
“First Coastal.”
“Are they around here?”
“Fourteen hundred State Street, sir.”
Milo wrote it down.
I said, “How did Cory come to drive Edda’s car?”
“It was her son’s car,” said Vivian. “Stuart. He died, sir.”
“Sorry to hear that. When?”
“Before I knew ma’am, sir.”
“Any idea how Stuart died?”
“She told me cancer, sir.”
Milo said, “The car was Stuart’s and Edda sold it to Cory.”
“No, sir, she gave it to him. He was so happy.” She smiled, as if to demonstrate.
“When?”
“After the first stroke, sir.”
“So a couple of years ago.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She gave him the car because...”
“She didn’t drive anymore, sir.”
“Still, that’s a nice gift.”
“Cory helped her.”
“Nice boy.”
“Very nice, sir.”
I said, “Does he live around here?”
The question seemed to genuinely perplex her. “He rode a bicycle, sir.”
“Before he got the car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have no idea where he lives.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“Anything else you can tell us about him?”
Another finger tap, this time covering both lips. “He was always nice.” Her wristwatch beeped. “Time for peach yogurt. Okay, sirs?”
“Of course,” said Milo.
She left and returned with a carton and a spoon.
I said, “Is there anything else you can tell us about Cory?”
“He plays that.” Pointing to the piano. “Very good, sir.”
I walked over and pointed to the sheet music. “Did he play this piece?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Very good. Stuart played trumpet, ma’am said.”
“Professionally?”
“No, sir. Ma’am said he was a rooter man.”
“A plumber?”
“A rooter man, sir. The drains. Ma’am’s husband, too, sir.”
“Rooter men — any pictures of Cory, here?”
“No, sir.” She gave a start. “Oh, sorry, yes, sir.” She looked at the yogurt.
I said, “I’ll feed her.”
Her stare was skeptical.
“I promise to do a good job. Could you please get that photo?”
I spooned peach-flavored crème between Edda Halversen’s lips. She licked them between each swallow. By the third time, her hand was clutching my wrist. Cold, thin, fingers digging in. Strong grip.
Vivian returned with a small color shot. Edda Halversen looking exactly as she did now, in her wheelchair, behind her a wall of shrubbery. Between her and the vegetation stood a young man in a black T-shirt. He’d smiled for the camera but the downward cast of his eyes — focusing on the diminished woman before him — clouded the effort.
Skinny, long-haired, zits. Two years ago, I’d have taken him for seventeen. So maybe closer to nineteen than early twenties. But otherwise, Henry Prieto’s description couldn’t be improved upon.
I handed the photo to Milo.
“Who took the picture, Vivian?”
“My friend Helen. She’s at night, sir.”
“Just the two of you taking care of ma’am.”
“Two weekends a month Vera comes.”
“Who visits ma’am?”
Head shake. “No one, sir.”
“No friends or relatives?”
“Stuart was her only child,” she said, pouting. She took the yogurt from me and I unpeeled Edda Halversen’s talon from my wrist.
Vivian said, “Very sad.” Flash of white teeth, sway of long hair. “But we try to be happy. Right, ma’am?”
Outside, Milo reexamined the photo. “Cory no-name. She never asked why we were curious about him.”
“Probably intimidated by authority,” I said.
“Or,” he said, “she’s covering something.”
“Or,” I said, “he really is a nice kid and she can’t imagine him being in trouble.”
“Spare me nice.”
A text jingled. Petra returning his of last night. She was home with a rotten cold, Raul would recheck the CCTV for the other cars.
He lowered the phone to his pocket. Before it got there, it began playing Saint-Saëns. Some site had cached French romantic music for the working detective?
Sean Binchy said, “Just went over to the storage facility, Loot. They specialize in fancy antiques and art and neither Weyland rents a unit, sorry. What I’m really sorry about is the captain’s shifting me to some cold armed-robbery assaults. Five unsolved up and down Pico.”
“Go for it, kid.”
“Boring, Loot. Captain says this is the wave of the future, low crime rate, time to open up the worm cans.”
“Gotta have a sit-down with the bad guys, Sean. Tell ’em to get their felonious asses in gear.”
We did door-knocks at Edda Halversen’s neighbors. Most weren’t home; a few recalled seeing the blond boy in the photo mowing the lawn but no one knew his name or where he lived.
As we headed back to the unmarked, Milo said, “Not that nice of a kid. Long hair says he’s not in the army, so he lied to Edda.”
I said, “Or he tried to enlist and got rejected. Or got in and was discharged.”
“You’re everyone’s defense attorney today? I woke up at three in the morning thinking about Weyland being my bad guy all of a sudden. I can’t get it to settle as a solo deal, Alex. We’re looking at a helluva game of musical cars. The night of Braun’s murder, he uses his truck to ditch evidence and trades for the Taurus, which he stashed in parts unknown. The night of Chet’s murder, he stashes whatever he’s driven to Hollywood, walks to the Sahara, pops Chet, abducts Donna or whoever the woman is, and drives away in Chet’s wheels. That’s not enough, he drives to Arrowhead in the Rover, gets surprised by Brassing and pops him, does the torch deal and walks back to the A-frame. There’s no garage there, so what’s he driving now?”
I said, “Two drivers could explain it.”