Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

In contrast with the ecstatic faces of fans who’d avoided masks, the object of their idolatry looked as if he’d just passed a kidney stone.

Painfully shy? Social contact as torture? That could explain Bitt’s lifestyle, maybe even his refusal to cooperate with Milo. On the other hand, he had spent decades creating twisted images and dialogue and expressed no curiosity about a crime next door.

Because he already knows?

Milo logged off. “Not even a misdemeanor. Uncooperative bastard.”

I showed him the pictures. He scrolled through quickly. “Depressed-looking mope. That fit with what happened over there?” Eyeing the Corvin house.

“You know what I’m going to say, Big Guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, insufficient data to diagnose.” He called Binchy, put the phone on speaker.

“Hey, Loot, wrapping up. Only thing I got is a lady two blocks away who saw a truck driving by around eight, eight thirty p.m. She was burgled last year, claims she has her eyes peeled now, but that’s probably not true because she couldn’t be pinned down on the time, the make, or the model. She did say it was moving ‘suspiciously slow.’ Like casing the neighborhood. She meant to call it in but forgot.”

“Eyes peeled but it slips her mind?” said Milo.

“She’s around ninety and wanted to know if the department keeps a file on paranormal phenomena and when I said not to my knowledge she gave me a look like I was hiding something. Then she said her street was a target for ‘extraterrestials’ because the closer to the ocean, the easier it is for their ships to land.”

I said, “Pity the poor folk of Malibu.”

Binchy said, “That the doc?”

“Hi, Sean.”

Milo said, “Perfect witness, huh? Now you’re gonna tell me she wears Coke-bottle glasses.”

“Actually, Loot...”

“Great. Guess what, Sean, eight p.m. matches the one vehicle that looks interesting.”

“Wow,” said Binchy. “It also fits with her street not being a dead end like most of the others. Take it north four blocks and you’re back on Sunset, so it would be a good entry and exit route.”

Milo said, “If you’re landing a spaceship, who cares? She’s definite about seeing a truck?”

“So she says.”

“The weird neighbor drives an old Ram and he just refused to open his door and talk to me. I’m gonna send you a picture and see if it jogs Ms. E.T.’s memory.”

He phone-snapped Bitt’s Ram, sent the image, and paced the sidewalk.

Binchy called back. “She says maybe. Honestly, Loot, I don’t think she has any idea.”

“Honesty is a cruel mistress, Sean.”

I drove home, walked out to Robin’s studio, told her about Bitt’s refusal to talk.

She said, “I’m not surprised. Wouldn’t expect him to be social.”

“Do you know anyone who had a personal relationship with him?”

“Sorry, no.” She wiped sawdust from her hands. Unscrewing a jar of jerky, she gave Blanche a stick, filled two cups with coffee and handed me one.

Two sips and her brown eyes got huge. “Maybe I do know someone, baby. Remember when I made that Danelectro copy for Iggy Smirch? I think he might’ve used Bitt’s art for at least one album cover.”

I said, “Albums, there’s a quaint concept.”

She played with her iPad. “Here we go, Karl Marx’s Toilet. This is pretty representative of Bitt’s art when he wasn’t doing Mr. Backwards.”

Black-and-white cityscape. A solitary figure walking a dingy alley shaded by skyscrapers. Strange oily sheen on the buildings. A closer look revealed them to be monumental piles of viscera.

“Gross but he’s talented, no? Let me try to reach Iggy.” She crossed to her desk in the corner, rolled her pre-computer manual Rolodex, shook her head. “Sorry, hon, it’s been eons. I’m not even sure he’s alive.”

She worked her phone. “Google says he is... seventy-four years old... hasn’t recorded in years — let me make a few calls.”

She tried musicians, agents, managers, creating a telephonic chain that finally led her to a possible home number for Isaac “Iggy Smirch” Birnbaum.

The last link was a retired A&R man living in Scottsdale. “Ig? He’s right there by you, Sherman Oaks. Tell him he still owes me for lunch.”

The former icon picked up.

“Iggy, this is Robin Castagna.”

“Who?”

“You probably don’t remember me, I built you a—”

“ Who are you?”

“A luthier. I built you a Danelectro replica with four pickups—”

“Oh, yeah, sure, that one... oh, yeah, the cutie with the power tools. Yeah, yeah, that was a great ax... that’s you? The little curvy one with the magic hands? You feel like building me something else?”

“Sure.”

“Nope,” said Iggy Smirch. “I don’t play any axes anymore anywhere for anyone and I don’t want anything built, too much shit’s piled up. But I do remember you because you were a real... pretty lady.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. So to what do I owe?”

She began explaining.

He broke in. “You hooked up with a cop-shrink — was he with you when we met?”

“He was.”

“Oh, yeah, you had that place in the Glen. I remember wondering how you could afford it. So, what, you still there?”

“We are.”

“You and a shrink,” he said. “Happy situation?”

“It is.”

“Robin...”

“Castagna.”

“Robin Castagna, go now — listen, didn’t mean to diss the Dano, my not playing it. I dug it, I gigged with it for years, then I gave it to one of my granddaughters, she’s a shredder, thinks I suck and Steve Vai rules and those pickups you stuck on it can do some interesting things when they’re stressed out... a shrink, huh? The Glen. Talk about karma, I happen to be in close proximity to you, just gave a lecture at the U. Art as Constructive Falsehood, some dingbat professor thinking she’s cutting-edge, the students look like they’re still in diapers. I told them to ignore any bullshit she slings, fuck art and music, go get normal jobs, be responsible citizens. Dingbat gets all pizza-eyed, the kids look like they suddenly need diapers.”

Robin said, “Sage advice, Ig.”

“So,” he said. “You want to talk about Bitt. He’s a human crap-hole. You’re still into him, huh? Not the crap-hole, the shrink. It’s for him you’re asking.”

“True love, Ig.”

“That’s the way I felt about the fifth wife but five wasn’t the charm, either.”

“Can I put Alex on the phone?”

“Alex. He’s got a name — nah, stay put, I’ll come over. It’s on my way home and I’m already walking to the parking lot. Only reason I did the speech in the first place is they gave me free parking. Back when I was a student I couldn’t catch a break.”

“You went to the U.?”

“Don’t sound so shocked. B.A. in chemistry, cum laude. That’s how I started, working my way playing loud garbage to make tuition and rent, who knew it would turn into a longtime gig? Refresh me on your address.”

Fourteen minutes later, a black Ferrari F430 coupe roared to a stop in front of the house. It took the driver a while to extricate himself from the low-slung speedster, and when he finally succeeded he was wincing.

Back in his icon days, Iggy Smirch’s stage outfit had consisted of black leather pants, red platform shoes, and a bare chest, the better to showcase a no-fat torso.

The pants and shoes were still in place but his chest had pigeoned and was cloaked by a black V-necked sweater.

Small man, but for the thoracic bulge, still spare, with a full thatch of dyed-black hair crowning an oversized head. Fat’s a great wrinkle filler and even in youth, Iggy’s face had been bony and seamed. Now it was a crumpled paper bag, brown eyes reduced to a couple of grease stains on the sun-browned surface.