“Two straight to the heart?”
“The bad guy likes patterns.”
“I guess.”
“So what, you like her as the main target or not?”
“Don’t know.”
His exhalation came through the phone as a wheezy gush. “Two victims and no clue which one to focus on. Guess now it’s officially different, amigo, so you no longer need to worry about me doling out alms. Anything else?”
“Not for now.”
“Long as we’re chatting, I’ll catch you up,” he said. “Zilch from the canvass, tried every Italian number in Giovanni’s phone and got a whole bunch of Italian voicemail. Hopefully someone’ll understand a message in English. What does intrigue me is no callback yet from Douglass March.”
“How much detail did you give him?”
“Just that I need to talk to him. You get that outta the clear blue, you don’t respond? Or at least check it out?”
A beat. “Hopefully he hasn’t ducked out.”
I was putting the phone down when Robin came into the bedroom.
“Three guesses,” she said. “Milo, Milo, or Milo. Anything interesting?”
“Unfortunately not.”
“You called him.”
“Just checking in.”
“At ten p.m.,” she said. “In pajamas.”
“How’s the guitar?”
“Point made,” she said. “How is it? It’s talking to me in a much friendlier voice. I tucked it in, kissed it, said nighty-night.”
She slid in beside me, laid her head on my chest. “Pleasant dreams to you, too, my fellow compulsive.”
Chapter 9
I woke up early on Monday, took a brief run while trying to ignore the lingering buzz in my ribs. Had coffee and a couple of scrambled eggs and spent the next four hours writing reports and talking to judges.
Two active custody cases had finally been put to rest, same for the evaluation and treatment of a bright, gentle five-year-old boy who’d been injured in a freeway pileup that had broken his mother’s legs. The damage to him had been less severe: soft tissue bruising. Which I could easily relate to. His body had healed quickly, not unusual for kids. Emotional injury had endured.
Once I sign off on custody recommendations, I rarely see the kids they affect. No matter how careful and fair I try to be, someone’s bound to be resentful and it’s best to fade out and permit a new beginning. Injury cases, on the other hand, often do become treatment cases because of my training in pediatric trauma. The freeway disaster had led to three and a half months of rapport-building and intervention aimed at restoring security and mastery.
Addressing and sealing three legal-sized envelopes brought satisfaction. I was waiting by the gate when the courier service came to pick them up. A driver who’d been here before. Per usual, I had a can of Perrier ready for him.
“How’s it going, Frank?”
“It’s going.” He took the can. “Not necessary, Doc, but thanks, you rock. So... these to the court, this one to a lawyer on Seventh. Keep working, Doc. Helps me to do the same.”
As he drove off, my phone buzzed.
Milo said, “Finally heard from ol’ Dougie. He’s on his way back, should be here by five, said meet him at his place.”
I said, “How’d he react when you filled him in?”
“He didn’t because I didn’t. There was no conversation, just him informing me of his plans. When I redialed I got Ms. Robot. Speaking of which, his voice was kinda flat.”
I said, “Maybe she’s actually his assistant.”
He laughed. “We go to his office and it’s all automatons in hipster clothing? Which actually sounds like Silicon Valley. Anyway, back to his demeanor. Totally matter-of-fact, no curiosity when the police call. Bizarre. Can you make it at five?”
“Sure.”
“Convenient, huh? You living so close. Gonna try to jog it this time?”
“Got that out of the way this morning.”
“Did you,” he said. “My aerobic challenge was waking up.”
At three p.m., he called again. “Turns out Mr. March caught a direct flight from Memphis and plans to be home in forty minutes. Allegiant Air, I looked it up, discount outfit, hundred and fifty bucks. That house, you’d think he owned his own jet or at least chartered. Guy’s full of surprises. Either the worst kind of suspect or the best. Can you make it in forty?”
“No prob.”
He hummed the first few bars of “Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here.” “Glad we’re doing our thing again.”
Click.
I arrived on time at the March estate. Milo had beat me to it and was parked in the same spot.
This time the gate opened after a single ring. No inquiries from within.
When we reached the front door, it was shut, requiring another button-push.
Several moments passed before Irma Ruiz opened it. Looking no less uncomfortable than she had yesterday.
Behind her, Adelita Santiago, likewise.
No one else in sight.
Irma said, “Please come,” and led us around the left side of the double staircase into a second circular reception area. Black marble checked with white, smaller than the grand hall but still generous at twenty or so feet in diameter.
In lieu of more portraits, Gothic niches showcased vases and urns. Beyond the space was a domed, window-backed room paneled in nearly black walnut inlaid with brass. Bookshelves on the side walls, most of them empty. The same kind of overstuffed furniture as in front, arranged in three groupings. One fireplace with a black granite surround.
Beyond the glass a columned patio larger than some apartments looked down on several acres of green grass. A sprinkle of trees: mature olives, a favorite of landscapers because their root balls are small and they transplant easily. A pair of fifty-foot pines was sited too precisely to be Mother Nature at work. A cobalt-tiled Olympic-sized pool featured a swim-up bar at the deep end. Meagin March hadn’t run to Gio Aggiunta’s place for the water.
Much of the property’s back border was taken up by a two-story mini-me of the main house. Accessed by a motor court at the end of the left-hand drive. Rooms on the second floor, six-car garage on ground level.
Irma stopped and said, “They here.”
A man sitting near the fireplace sat up and made himself visible. Staring at us for a second, he stood and came forward.
In the flesh, Douglass March looked even younger. Mid- to late twenties, five-six, a hundred thirty. His mouth was narrow, the lips plump and dark and set in a lemon-sucking pout. Smallish hazel eyes were blurred by the lenses of black-framed specs.
March’s hair, lank and colored a strange beige, had grown out since he’d posed for the photo, now trailed an inch below his shoulders. The front flap swooped across one cheek, nearly concealing one eye. He wore a wrinkled white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, skinny blue jeans that bagged on skinny legs, and white Reeboks grimed gray in spots.
Easily taken for a struggling grad student.
Milo said, “Lieutenant Sturgis.” He held out his hand.
March nodded but kept his hands at his side. “Doug.” Surprisingly deep voice.
Milo withdrew and looked at me. “This is Alex Delaware.”
Doug March didn’t follow his gaze. “We can sit down.” As if he’d been debating it.
He led us back to the fireplace. Warm day but a fire raged. Curious. Then I noticed the oddities: silent, not a hint of crackle; no logs or gas jets or any other type of fuel. Pale licks of blue-tipped flames peaked uniformly.
Some kind of holographic gizmo.
March returned to a corpulent brocade armchair. He had the kind of bony body that seems to diminish when it settles, as if inadequately supported by musculature. Crossing his legs had the effect of compressing him further.