Джонатан Келлерман: Night Moves

Jonas said, “No, Doctor. C.I. went looking for the I.D. and turned them out. They were empty. Same for the jacket pockets.”

Milo said, “No face, no hands, no I.D., pretty obvious what the goal was. Now the big question: How the hell did he end up here when the homeowners say they have no idea who he is?”

I said, “Where are the owners?”

“Nearby.” He stared at the body, scowled, and played with an earlobe. His big, pale, acne-pitted face tightened as he brushed black hair off a lumpy forehead. A speck of some kind of foodstuff from the interrupted dinner sat just above his upper lip, left of center. Off-white, maybe rubber chicken. Or cheese. Another time, I’d have pointed it out.

Inez Jonas looked at me again. “It’s a weird one, Lieutenant.”

“Ergo, a psychologist. Any first-impression insights, Alex?”

I said, “Who are the owners?”

My non-answer made Milo frown. “A family, the Corvins. They left for a family dinner at six fifteen, Sunday thing, they do it once, twice a month. Usually they stay local. This time, they took a drive all the way to La Cienega, Lawry’s, Restaurant Row. They get back just before nine, everyone goes upstairs except Dad who comes in here to record a show on his big-screen and finds this. Moments later, Mom comes down to ask him what’s taking so long and screams and that brings the kids down and now it’s a family affair.”

Inez Jonas said, “Talk about a welcome home.”

I said, “How many kids and what age?”

Milo said, “Coupla teenagers, or the young one’s a tweener. They did the smart thing and ran the hell out and knocked on the neighbor’s door. He’s the one who 911’d. If you’ve seen enough here, I’d like you to meet them.”

I said, “Let’s do it.”

Inez Jonas said, “Good luck, Lieutenant.” Her expression said, You’re going to need it.

Moe Reed was still posted in the doorway, working his phone. “Anything, L.T.?”

“Nah, go home, patrol can guard the scene.”

“You’re sure? I’ve got time.”

“Positive, Moses.” He told Reed about the scrap of plastic. “Could mean something or nothing.”

Reed said, “Too bad those bags are pretty much generic.”

“A bloody one isn’t, Moses. On your way out, have a bunch of those uniforms do a six-block search for the bag — for anything bloody. It’s unlikely someone who took the time to cut off hands and take I.D. would be careless enough to toss evidence out in the open, but we can’t assume.”

“I’ll canvass with them,” said Reed. “Didn’t notice any alleys or dumpsters on my way in, but there is that shopping area a few blocks west, got to be plenty of potential dump spots near there.”

“Excellent idea.”

Reed stripped off his paper suit. His on-call civilian threads were a gray Gold’s Gym T-shirt and white sweatpants. Bouncing on his heels a couple of times, he jogged out of the house.

“Ah, youth,” said Milo.

As we left the house, I said, “How many points of access?”

“If you don’t count windows, the front door, a service door from a laundry room off the kitchen, and those French doors. Everything was locked when the Corvins got home, but the laundry door looks pretty dinky.”

“Any security system?”

“An alarm, they’re pretty sure they didn’t set it.”

“Casual approach to personal safety,” I said.

“Nice neighborhood,” he said. “People get lulled. The system came with the house, sensors on the ground floor but not the second. Like bad guys can’t bring ladders. We looked for evidence of a ladder, any sort of disruption, couldn’t find any, and the second-story windows were all closed. I’m leaning toward the utility door as point of entry.”

“Someone familiar with the place? Knowing the lock was dinky?”

“That would explain it,” he said. “Yet another reason to play Meet the Family.” He scowled.

I said, “These people bother you.”

“So far, nothing says they’re dirty. But something about them, Alex — I’ll let you be the judge.”

“That one,” he said, pointing to the house right of the Corvins’. Just south of the cul-de-sac’s apex, an aspiring hacienda, fronted by a small walled courtyard.

A silver Ford Taurus was parked as far up the drive as possible, nosing a wrought-iron garden gate. The gate was padlocked, unlit, just black space between the curlicues.

That made me detour to take a look at the Corvins’ fence. White wood pickets, three feet high.

I said, “No lock. Symbolic.”

Milo went over to inspect, came back shaking his head. “Just reach over and unhook the latch. Can’t remember ever being around here for anything nasty, so I guess I can’t blame ’em.”

We entered the courtyard. Paved with river rock; charming. But up close the economy that had been taken with the house’s construction was obvious: flaking sprayed-stucco finish, cheap metal-framed windows, a molded door of some wood-like material trying to pass as carved.

The uniform standing sentry opened the door for Milo and studied me. She’d have to remain curious. As I had with the death house, I followed my friend inside.

This entry was floored with Mexican pavers cracked and chipped at the grout seams. Two steps dipped to a living room furnished with off-white seating and mismatched end tables. A wreath of dry flowers was the only thing on the wall. Sliding glass patio doors were ebony rectangles.

A large, florid man with gray hair slicked and combed straight back filled an armchair that faced the front door. Midfifties, navy polo shirt, khakis, brown deck shoes.

The sofa perpendicular to his chair contained a thin, strawberry-blond woman of the same vintage, pretty, freckled, with down-slanted, pouchy eyes that looked accustomed to stress. Her clothes narrowed her further: black cashmere crewneck and tailored slacks, black patent flats, black purse.

A foot to her left a boy around thirteen or fourteen hunched and picked a cuticle. Long-limbed and freckled with a rusty faux-hawk. His out-for-the-evening duds were a blue-and-white perforated Dodgers shirt, white board shorts, high-tops the color of canned green beans.

Positioned at the farthest end of the sofa was an older girl, maybe a high school senior, maybe a college freshman. Soft and chubby with a doughy face from which dark eyes popped like raisins in an unbaked muffin, she wore a curiously fusty floral blouse with puffed sleeves, skinny jeans, and hiking boots. Her hair was brown, shoulder-length, lank. Pudgy hands resting in her lap twitched every few seconds.

The big man bounded up, flashed a nanosecond grin, and said, “Hey, Lieutenant,” in a radio-announcer voice. “Anything yet on the situation? You’ll be cleaning up soon and letting us back in, right?”

Milo and I kept approaching.

“Soon?” said the man. “We need to get back.”

The women frowned and said, “Chet.”

“What?” The man turned to her, smile vanished. “They don’t mind questions. Right, Lieutenant? Informed citizens are an asset to law enforcement.” A glance at me. “New guy beefing up the team? Great idea, more the merrier, let’s clear up this insanity A-sap.”

He held out a hand. “Chet Corvin.”

“Alex Delaware.”

“Great to meet you, Alex.” His grip was fierce as he pumped my arm.

He said, “Might as well do the intros for Detective Alex here, right, Lieutenant? I’m Chet Corvin, the guy who pays the mortgage next door. The vision in black is my bride, Felice, next to her is Brett, our star first baseman.”

Wink at the boy; no response.

Chet Corvin glanced at the girl, as if in afterthought. “At the Siberia edge of the couch is daughter Chelsea.”