Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

I said, “Is there anyone you’d like us to call for support?”

“The church folk are good, I’ll ask them what they think.”

We walked to the door.

She said, “Will I get into trouble if I cash Hal’s check? I mean if you don’t know for sure? I’ll probably get something anyway. Widow’s benefits. I think.”

“You’d best check with social services on that, ma’am.”

“I don’t want to do anything illegal but I could sure use both checks.”

“You won’t get into trouble because of us, ma’am.”

“That’s good. I need what I can get, it’s going to be different, now.” She blinked back tears. “What am I going to do without him?”

Milo stashed the evidence bags in the trunk of the unmarked, got behind the wheel, and studied the little gray house.

“At the risk of venturing into your territory,” he said, “Braun sounds a little nuts.”

I said, “I’m feeling more literary: How about quixotic?”

“Tilting at windmills?”

“And someone tilted back.”

“Idiot looks for trouble, there’s an army of people he could’ve pissed off. And the crime scene’s potentially anywhere he could drive. At least I’ve got a vehicle to BOLO, if it shows up maybe the location will say something.”

He got on the radio, put in the alert, hung up. “Nothing we heard from either Mary explains how he ended up on ol’ Chet’s parquet.”

“Mary Two said the adventures were infrequent. The Santa Barbara trip took place shortly before he ended up in L.A. Maybe it was part of the same adventure.”

“What, saving the whales and Ahab got irate?”

I laughed. “That does raise a question: Why drive forty miles for sand and surf when he lived in a beach town?”

“Maybe he liked high-priced sand better.” He turned the ignition key. “God, I hope you’re wrong about that. How am I gonna get a handle on something that started a hundred miles away?”

“Be good to know if the Corvins have any Santa Barbara connections.”

“Sure, I’ll ask... saving snakes, wanting to be covert. Sir Lance-a-little.”

A man stepped out of the beige cottage two doors south.

Tall, Hispanic, wearing a powder-blue golf shirt, white slacks, and polished brown loafers. A deeply seamed bronze face was topped by thick white hair. A snowy mustache sprouted from beneath a strong nose.

Older man, easily seventy but solidly built with ramrod posture.

Pretending he was examining a bed of geraniums rather than checking us out.

I said, “We interest the neighbor.”

Milo swiveled. The movement caught the man’s eyes. He folded his arms across his chest and stared, as if inviting confrontation. When none occurred, he plucked a dead flower from the bed and went back inside.

“Beggars, choosers,” said Milo and got out of the car.

The beige cottage’s paint was fresh; same for the semisweet chocolate trim. A fake-grass lawn gleamed emerald. No Soliciting sign. No bell. Before Milo’s fist landed on the lacquered red door, it opened.

The white-haired man said, “Here I was thinking you were lazy. You’re obviously on the job. What happened with Braun?”

Milo showed his badge.

The man squinted. “L.A.?” He eyed the unmarked. “Back when I was on the job we used wheels like that. You have A.C. in that thing? We didn’t.”

“Theoretically,” said Milo. “If you can spare a minute, sir—”

“Prieto, Enrique, everyone calls me Henry. Worked Oxnard patrol fifteen years, then Robbery, when I reached mandatory I went private and rousted bums around the harbor.”

“Know Frank Gonzales?”

“Francisco,” said Henry Prieto. “Loved food, always needed to watch his weight.”

“Yeah, he’s a gourmet.”

Prieto patted his own flat stomach, took a long look at Milo’s convexity. “How do you know Frank?”

“Worked a homicide case with him.”

“Homicide. You still that?”

“Still.”

Henry Prieto glanced at the Braun house. “You’re saying one of them got killed? Just saw her wheeling her chair up and down her driveway this morning so it has to be him.”

“Could be.”

“Could be?”

“We’ve got a body needs identifying.”

“What’s the holdup?” said Prieto.

“It’s in bad shape.”

“Decomp? Hated those. Once I saw a tarp at the harbor, inside was a drunk, the wharf rats had enjoyed him for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and another breakfast. You went to ask her questions, see if you could get an I.D.?”

“Yup. What can you tell us about the two of them?”

“Couple of waiters. Waiting around for the monthly check. Her I don’t mind, she’s been sick for a long time.” The mustache angled down. “Him? A little limp stops you from getting a job? All he does is loaf around all day, come to think about it, haven’t seen him in a while, must be... what, a week? Two? Where in L.A. did he show up? Watts, East L.A.?”

“Westside,” said Milo.

“That’s a switch.”

“What else can you tell us about them, Mr. Prieto?”

“Don’t count on her being a suspect. Don’t want to mess with your business, always hated when people did that to me. But I don’t see her as doing anything bad. She’s not too bright but she’s a sweet girl, always was. I knew her parents. Salt of the earth. Gustavo worked park maintenance for forty years, Dorothy cleaned offices. The older girl, Sophie, she had no looks but she was the smart one, went to college, works as a paralegal or something. Mary Jo was the looker but not much brain-wise. Maybe it was getting sick so young. Maybe that’s why she settled for him. ”

“You don’t like Mr. Braun.”

“I don’t like idlers and loafers,” said Henry Prieto. “This country, it’s going down the tubes, people who work subsidizing loafers. What’s a limp? Nothing says you have to play defensive tackle. Do something, right?”

“You bet.”

“On top of being a loafer, he’s a weirdo. Always smiling, even when there’s no call for it. Like he’s buttering you up for something. My world, you earn your friendship, you don’t step into it like a pair of slippers. What happened to him in West L.A.?”

“Someone shot him.”

“Someone. You don’t know who.”

“We’re just starting out, Mr. Prieto. Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”

“Helpful... the only thing maybe out of the usual is a black Camaro that came by to see him a couple of weeks ago. Day or two before he took that duffel of his and loaded it up in his Jeep. One individual, the driver. Eighteen to twentyish, parked right where you are. Seven a.m., I’d just brought in the paper, was waiting for my coffee to perk, I hear an engine rev, look out and see it. Minute later, Braun comes out of his house and the driver gets out and they have a talk. The driver gets back into the Camaro and leaves. Couple of days later, Braun loads his duffel in his Jeep again and does the same. Made me wonder about a dope deal or something else shady.”

“Braun ever give you reason to wonder about that?”

“Someone doesn’t have a job, I wonder,” said Henry Prieto. “So the Camaro made me wonder. I never saw Braun before with anyone except Mary Jo and some church do-gooders who deliver free food. The two of them just yakked but the kid was a hippie-type so I paid attention. Nothing got bought or sold or paid for.” Disappointed.

Milo took out his pad. “Anything else you can say about the hippie?”

Henry Prieto looked at the ruled sheets. “Same pad we used... average height, skinny, long hair, dirty-blond, one of those fuzzy things here.” Touching his chin. “Someone who can’t grow a decent beard, shouldn’t.”