Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

He smoothed his own ample lip hair. “You got that down?”

Milo’s pen lifted. “Yes, sir.”

“Next, clothing: black T-shirt, white writing on it, I couldn’t read what. Blue jeans, white sneakers. No visible tattoos or distinguishing marks but they put them everywhere nowadays. Eyeglasses. Not a tough-looking type, maybe a student or some other kind of wastrel.”

“With a Camaro—”

“If you know how to work the system, you can have a Mercedes,” said Prieto. “The car was third generation — ’82 to ’92. I owned a ’70 and one of my sons customized a ’78 that he took to the track until the brakes boiled. Nothing custom on this one, regular wheels, no stripes or decals or bumper stickers.”

Prieto clacked his dentures. “Too far to see the tags.”

Milo said, “Did the conversation seem friendly?”

“Not friendly, not unfriendly. Lieutenant — why’s a man of your rank doing real police work?”

“Lucky situation.”

“Every lieutenant I knew was a desk-jockey. Anyway, not friendly, not unfriendly — neutral. A couple of minutes of neutral yakking. Maybe Braun has a wastrel son I didn’t know about. Right age, no?”

Milo nodded.

Prieto said, “I don’t need to teach you your business but that’s a lead, right? Someone gets killed, look at the family.”

“You bet. Anything else you can tell us about Braun?”

“No, it’s not like I was interested in him. I just know what I see when I see it.”

Milo headed back toward the freeway, on-ramped to the 101 South.

I said, “No lunch at the harbor?”

“All of a sudden you develop an appetite?”

“Just looking after your welfare.”

“Touched,” he said. “Nah, too much to think about. What do you think about Camaro Boy? Probably nothing but it’s the only contact for Braun we know about. Too bad it’s wasn’t a Ferrari or something else on a short list.”

I said, “Prieto’s point about a son was interesting but eighteen to twenty would also make the driver right for Chelsea Corvin’s boyfriend.”

“She’s got a secret lover?”

“Maybe not so secret that her folks aren’t up in arms. And we know where that can lead.”

“Romeo-and-Juliet situation,” he said. “We talked about that and you said the crime was too organized for that.”

“Facts come in, I’m willing to change my mind. We know Braun liked seeing himself as a rescuing hero. What if that led to working for one of those deprogramming outfits? The kind parents turn to when they’re trying to save kids from drugs and cults and bad influences. Or he did it on his own, operating as a lone warrior. Either way it could explain adventures he didn’t tell his wife about.”

He tapped the steering wheel. “Limping Lancelot augments his welfare checks. You see Chet and Felice going for someone like that?”

“Desperation loosens standards.”

“Hmm.” A couple of miles later: “If Braun was hired to pry Romeo and Juliet apart, why wasn’t the conversation Prieto saw hostile?”

“Maybe a deal was cut,” I said. “The boyfriend got paid to stay away. But then something went wrong — a change of heart on Romeo’s part. Or Chelsea found out and freaked out and Romeo decided to redeem himself by dispatching the enemy. If so, the Corvins know more than they’re letting on and want to keep it that way for Chelsea’s sake. Meanwhile, she sneaks out of the house in the middle of the night.”

“Trysting with Romeo.” He chewed his cheek. “Young love gone mega-bad. It’s a theory.”

I said, “It fits your first impression. Something about this family.”

No reply until we neared the 405 turnoff. “You think Chet trying to get you involved with Chelsea was a backhanded way of dealing with the romance? Roping in someone with police connections?”

“Maybe. Meanwhile he’s driving to the airport.”

“Lighting a fuse and running from the scene,” he said. “For now, keep your distance from all of them, okay? I’m gonna drop you off and head to the crime lab. If there’s still time, I’ll pay the Corvins a visit, mention Braun’s name, see how they react.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Not much of one but better than a few hours ago,” he said.

Over take-out Indian, I recapped with Robin as Blanche snored by our feet.

She said, “Poor Mr. Braun. He sounds kind of desperate — wanting to make his mark or just hungry for attention. Someone like that might have a website or some interesting social media.”

“We checked, nothing.”

“If he considers himself some kind of secret agent, maybe he uses a pseudonym.”

“You’re a very smaaht lady.”

“Who’s that, Cagney?”

“I was thinking Bogie but Cagney will do.”

She smiled. “Go look, I’ll get dessert ready.”

I ran a search on deprogrammers, found setups ranging from corporate slicksters charging big bucks for unkinking wayward rich kids to nonprofit religious groups fueled by their view of morality. A few lone wolves, mostly born-again sobers, none of them Braun.

Nothing covert about the identities of most of these “operatives.” Quite the opposite: names, addresses, email and sometimes actual. Lots of headshots falling into two categories: grimly tough and beatifically smiling.

No one resembled the moon-faced man in pleated jeans who went off on self-described quests.

I returned to the kitchen.

Robin read my face. “Oh, well, have some orange slices. I goosed them up with whipped cream, no sense being too virtuous.”

Milo phoned at seven the following morning. The coffeepot was bubbling, Robin was bathing, Blanche curled in my lap gnawing a chew-stick.

“Early riser,” I said.

“More like no-sleeper. By the time I got out of the office last night, the blood was back in my alimentary canal so I stopped for dinner at the Pantry. I won’t go into details but I will tell you pork chops are an excellent side for T-bone.”

I thought: Same for Lipitor. “Sounds like a repast.”

“The mind doesn’t function until the body’s happy, amigo. Around ten, I get a call from Reed: Braun’s Jeep turned up in Playa Del Rey — more like pieces of it, parked in an alley, taken apart by the local locusts then torched. I drive over there, pressure the techies for a quick print wipe, they find partials on the sill of the driver’s door. No AFIS match, best guess is Braun’s but I’d need his damn hands to verify. By now it’s pushing one a.m. Here’s where it gets interesting.”

“You drove to the Corvins and got surprised by something.”

Silence. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I’m wrong?”

“You buzzkilled my punch line. Where you hiding the damned tarot deck?”

“Dog ate it.”

“Not your dog, she’s a gour -mette. Yes, O Oracle of Delphi, I drove to the Corvins to bleed off some energy and on the off chance that I’d missed something the other buncha times. I parked around the block and walked, avoided the CC cameras. It’s a ghost town at that hour, most of the houses are dark. As I get near the cul-de-sac, I see someone stepping out of the shadows and heading to the Corvins’. Thank God for rubber soles, I manage to catch a glimpse before they duck around the side of the house where that dinky gate is.”

“Same path the killer took.”

“But this was no intruder, amigo. This was Chelsea doing her night-moves thing. Not with Chin-Fuzz or anyone else. By herself, just like her daddy described. Normally I’d say big deal, the girl’s odd, she has a sleep disorder, whatever. But just as she slipped out of view one of the house lights went off. Next door at Trevor Bitt’s. Can I prove she was actually in there with him? A few seconds before, I might’ve. But it’s provocative, no?”