“They both died,” said Briggs. “He talked about it once, some kind of accident. Then he said don’t bring it up again, just wanted you to know. ’Cause I’d asked. Right after I’d moved in. Shooting the bull, you know? I’m telling him about my family, trying to be polite, ask about his. That’s when he told me.”
“Any sibs?”
“I have four, he had none. He liked that, said he got all the attention. I told him brothers were cool, sisters could be also. I hope you analyze pretty soon. There’s bad energy floating around since you told me. Like I’m out in the water waiting for a wave, see this red tide floating toward me.”
I said, “You and Ricky both surf?”
“Nah, just me. His only sport was chicks.”
Milo said, “Where’s Ricky’s BMW?”
“We’ve got two spaces and his has been empty since Friday. Like I said I figured he’d hooked up with a hot one.”
Briggs knuckled an eye and sucked in breath. “Guess he didn’t. Once you guys leave, I’m getting out of here, too. Take a run. A walk, something.”
Milo said, “The girls Ricky brought home. Remember any names?”
“Can’t remember what I never knew, sir.”
I said, “Did he have a type?”
“What do you mean?”
“Tall, short, blond, brunette.”
“All I know was what Ricky said. White, black, Mexican, Chinese. Whichever fish were biting.”
Chapter 6
When we returned to the car, noon had passed. “Next closest is Mr. Roget. I’ll try his number.”
No answer, no voicemail. Milo started up the engine. “Damn. If he lives alone, I’ll need a victim’s warrant.”
He drove east on Arizona.
I said, “If there’s no one to talk to, maybe Leon Creech can help.”
“Why him?”
“They’re both older guys who drove livery independently.”
We’d met Creech last year, the driver of a hundred-year-old victim as well as her murderers. Informative, courtly, professional.
“Leon, there’s a gent for you,” said Milo.
“It’s worth a try.”
“Sure, why not, but first let’s see if Solomon Roget lives with someone I can traumatize.”
He didn’t.
No answer at Roget’s first-floor flat in a well-kept Spanish duplex on Hi-Point north of Olympic. A single vehicle sat far up a driveway that had been swept clean recently, under a gray canvas cover. Generous vacant space behind it. Enough for Roget’s limo.
Milo lifted a canvas corner. Black Cadillac.
“Wait here for a second.” He walked around the left side of the building, disappeared for a few seconds, returned. “No one in the backyard, no answer at the service door. I’ll push paper once we’re through spreading gloom.”
As he turned to leave, the door to the second-floor unit opened. A young, sweat-suited blond woman with a left-arm sleeve tattoo stepped out to the landing. In her arms was a swaddled baby. Long, stringy hair, droopy fatigued eyes.
“Hi,” said Milo.
“What’s going on?”
“Police.”
“For him?” said the woman. “Oh, shit, don’t tell me he’s a bad guy or something. We just moved in.”
“You’re talking about Mr. Roget.”
“Don’t know his name, just that he gets to keep two cars in the driveway ’cause the landlord likes him so we have to pay for a night permit.” She pointed to a dusty red minivan across the street.
“Tough deal,” said Milo. “Mr. Roget live with anyone?”
The woman’s eyes rounded. “He is a bad guy?”
“Not at all,” said Milo. “Does he live alone?”
“Why?”
“Something bad happened to him.”
“Oh.” Unimpressed.
“Anybody live with him?”
She shrugged. The baby bounced. “Never saw anyone.”
“How long have you been living here?”
“A month,” she said. “It’s not fair. The parking thing.”
“Big problem for you,” said Milo.
“I mean, is that legal?”
“Don’t see why not.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open. Milo headed for the car, muttering: “Milk of human kindness.”
When she thought we weren’t looking, she flipped us off. Or maybe she didn’t care.
No answer at Leon Creech’s house, either.
Milo pulled out his cell. “Happen to remember the street?”
I said, “Wooster.”
He stared at me. “I was kidding. You remember everything that goes into that brain of yours?”
“I try to filter.”
“Not even gonna ask. Let’s cruise by.”
Creech’s mint-grin stucco traditional was one of the few single dwellings on a block of duplexes and apartment buildings. He owned the property, a traditionalist holding out.
We spotted him from a hundred yards away, dusting off his navy-blue Town Car. Tall, stooped, a human crane, filmy white hair flying away as he worked. Dressed for something important in an olive-green cardigan over a pink golf shirt, immaculate seersucker pants, white New Balance running shoes.
Concentrating on the car, stepping back to check his reflection in the paint.
We parked and crossed the street. Milo said, “Mr. Creech.”
“Lieutenant! Long time.”
“How’s everything been going?”
“Passed my driving test with flying colors.” Creech gave a thumbs-up. “When I see you it reminds me I served, too. Brings back my MP days in Seoul.”
Same thing he’d mentioned the first time we interviewed him.
“And, Doctor, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good. So what’s up? Another idjit doing something criminal? Not at that dump, the Aventura, they closed it down, got cranes digging up everything.”
“Nope, somewhere else, sir. Do you know a livery driver named Solomon Roget?”
“Solly? What’s up—” Creech’s lips quivered. His long face lost definition. “Oh, no.”
“Afraid so, Mr. Creech.”
“Solly?” said Creech. He touched his chest. “Oh, my my. Solly and I go way back, he was driving when I was still working for the school district. Solly Roget? Really? Haitian, salt of the earth, couldn’t find a nicer guy. When? Where?”
“Yesterday, a house in Bel Air.”
“Bel Air? Like a Manson thing? Where in Bel Air? I used to drive there. Mrs. Meldock, Mrs. Davis, Mrs. Robertson, I was the guy for the ladies who lunched.”
Milo said, “Off Benedict Canyon.”
“Not that big one, looks like an office building, you have to take off your shoes even in the motor court — the agent... Mort Medvedev?”
“No, sir.”
“Where, then?”
“Sorry, can’t give out details just yet, Mr. Creech. When’s the last time you saw Mr. Roget?”
“The last time.” Creech tapped his lower lip. “The last time would have to be... couple of years ago? Yeah, two summers ago, some violinist. At the Bowl. We were both doing a drive-and-wait, got put in parking spots right next to each other.”
“In your Town Cars.”
“What else?”
“Yesterday, Mr. Roget was driving a white stretch—”
“That monstrosity? Oh, boy.” Creech’s palm slapped his own cheek lightly. “Piece of garbage, you can’t get axle stability in something that big. Unless you build it like a semi and then it’s too stiff for livery. No resale value, Solly picked it up cheap a long time ago. I told him don’t go there, my friend, the kind of people want to ride something like that you don’t want to know. Guess I was right. Who were the customers? They the ones who did it?”
Milo said, “Doesn’t look like they were.”