Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“What’s a good time for Chelsea?”

“Alex,” he said, “it’s not like she needs a personal secretary. Do it any day — today, if you want. After school — she’s back around three, make it four to play safe. I won’t be there, hitting the road, actually on my way to the airport. That won’t matter, she never talks to me anyway.”

A hint of sadness. The faintest glimmer that he might have some depth?

Then he said, “I’m glad we’re doing this. Now I can put her out of my head.”

Milo said, “Go for it, you might learn something I can use. But he may not pay you, ol’ Chet has a tendency to fudge his financial obligations.”

“You found some dirt.”

“I convinced a guy at the bank that handles his mortgages to talk to me off the record. Same with the finance company that holds the title to his cars. He doesn’t default, he just takes his sweet time, stretching it out until just before default. Notices get sent, calls get made, at the last minute he pays up but ignores the late fees and the penalties and the whole thing starts again. Finance people can’t do anything because technically he’s satisfied his obligation.”

I said, “He plays everyone.”

“Like a bad harmonica.”

“Any indication of financial problems?”

“That’s the thing, not apparently. He’s well compensated and Felice’s school district job is a nice second income. Between them they pull in close to four fifty K. Mortgage and car payments are a little over five grand a month, which isn’t bathwater, but with that income it’s not a hardship. Maybe he’s got a bad, expensive habit but so far I can’t find it.”

“So it’s a game. He manipulated me, too.”

“Only as much as you let him, amigo.”

“True,” I said. “I figured another look at Chelsea wouldn’t hurt. Revisiting the house, now that the initial shock’s worn off.”

“What do you think’s going on with the kid?”

“Could be a sleep disorder, we’ll see.”

He laughed. “The old reserving-judgment routine. Corvin’s right about one thing, she is different.”

Evada Lane at four fifteen p.m. was just another dead end. Like most so-called Westside neighborhoods, no pedestrians, not even a stray dog. That left easy pickings for a flock of ravens. The birds had found something in the middle of the street and I had to swerve around them.

Felice Corvin’s Lexus sat in the driveway. She answered the door wearing a blue blouse, gray slacks, gray shoes. Staring at me as she wiped her glasses with a square of microfiber.

“Dr. Delaware?”

“Hi. I’m here to see Chelsea.”

“You’re what ?”

“Your husband asked me to evaluate her—”

“He what ?”

I said, “Obviously, you didn’t know.”

“What exactly did he want you to evaluate?”

“He said last night Chelsea got up and left the house—”

“Unbelievable,” said Felice Corvin. “Chelsea’s a fitful sleeper, she always has been.”

“Does she usually leave the house?”

“Let me tell you, Doctor, if Chet was here more, he’d know about her sleep patterns and wouldn’t be wasting your time.”

“Sorry for the misunderstanding.”

“Sorry you made a trip for nothing.” She began to close the door, stopped midway. “Next time speak to me first. Not that there’ll be a next time. We’re coping just fine.”

“Good to hear.”

“Maybe not to you,” she snapped.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, that was uncalled for. All I meant was mental health people expect problems. I apologize, Doctor.”

“No problem.”

I turned to leave.

“Dr. Delaware, if there’s a bill for your time, I can write you a check right now.”

“No charge.”

“Well, that’s kind of you and, again, sorry. Any news on the poor man?”

“Not yet.”

“Too bad — Doctor, may I ask why you came here for an evaluation rather than make an office appointment?”

“I thought Chelsea might be more comfortable at her home base.”

“Yes... I suppose I can see that.” Icy smile. “Well, it’s not necessary to see her here or anywhere else. We’re doing fine.”

The ravens had migrated to a nearby lawn and jeered as I passed. One of them held something rosy and organic in its beak. The largest member of the gang exerting privilege.

I drove away thinking about what had just happened. Rotten communication fit my view of the Corvins as a quartet of strangers living under the same roof. It also varied from what I usually saw when parents disagreed: mothers seeking help, fathers convinced there’s no problem.

There are sensitive dads but Chet Corvin seemed anything but.

I’m putting her out of my head.

Did his call have nothing to do with helping Chelsea? Had he used her — and me — to humiliate his wife?

Chuckling as he drove to the airport?

Children with issues often become marital weapons. When I teach grad students, I call them “blame-guns.” Had Chelsea long been her father’s heavy artillery?

Chet Corvin would know which of his wife’s buttons to push. How better to tag her as a deficient mother than by calling in a psychologist behind her back?

Felice’s reaction suggested she’d gotten the message.

Speak to me first.

I supposed I could be selling Corvin short and in his own crude way he was concerned about his daughter. But then why not simply inform Felice? And why insist on me and not another psychologist?

Because another psychologist wasn’t a police surrogate and this was all about Corvin thumbing his nose at law enforcement?

A control freak who booked his own travel and jerked creditors around just for the fun of it.

Or did this latest manipulation go beyond that? Was he somehow involved in the murder of the handless man?

Why would Corvin soil his own nest?

On the other hand, if he cared little for family life, why not ?

As I left the Palisades and crossed into Brentwood, I thought of his other traits: a grandiose, attention-seeking braggart, callous enough to unload gory details on his secretary when they clearly sickened her.

Shallow and cruel enough to describe his daughter as a problem to be disposed of.

Put it all together and you had a tidy description of a high-functioning psychopath. And psychopaths, particularly sadists, often enjoy the aftermath of a crime more than the act.

It’s why arsonists show up at four-alarm blazes. Why kidnappers join search parties and child-murderers place teddy bears at memorials.

Was Chet Corvin having a grand time reminiscing about a man with a ravaged head and no hands?

I’d viewed him as the likely target because his personal space had been violated. What if that’s exactly what he’d wanted — talk about a bluff, heh heh heh. Alan. Er, Alex. Sure, there’d be gore on the hardwood but that could be remedied. A fact Corvin had emphasized early on: I’m assuming you’ll do a thorough cleanup.

Add to that Felice’s reaction at seeing the body — freaking the bitch out — and the temporary mess would be outweighed by the big thrill.

And if the brats got a little traumatized, all the better.

Corvin being involved in the murder solved the problem of access: All he needed to do was slip a house key to a sidekick. Ditto the security code, just in case stupid Felice did remember to set the alarm. Alternatively, he could’ve simply switched the system off after the rest of the family exited the house.

He’d made a point of letting us know that Sunday dinner had been his show. Moving the venue from the usual nearby pizza joint to a restaurant clear across town.