Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“Extremely,” I said. “Chelsea and a much older man would be way more problematic for her parents than a peer they don’t approve of. If they haven’t taken action, they don’t know.”

“Agreed, but maybe Chet suspects something and he called you hoping you’d tell me and I’d do some snooping.” He laughed. “Which just happened. I know it doesn’t explain Braun. And it leaves the deprogramming theory in the dirt, unless I can establish a link between Braun and Bitt. But still.”

“Braun doesn’t seem to be linked anywhere.” I told him about the futile Web search. “But if he knows Bitt based on a shared sexual interest, he could be using deep cover.”

“Coupla dirty old men with a thing for teenage girls,” he said. “Oh, man.”

“Vulnerable teenage girls.”

“That’s Chelsea, all right. So who’s Chin-Fuzz? The prey is both boys and girls? Or like Prieto said, he’s just Braun’s kid stopping by to see Dad before he packs out on an adventure.”

“Or he’s irrelevant,” I said. “Someone selling a car Braun was thinking of buying.”

“Either way, I’m back to focusing on Bitt. His messing with Chelsea would explain why he won’t give me the time of day. I called a couple of judges about grounds for a warrant, got the answers I expected. Any suggestions?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Then I’ll go with the original plan: drop Braun’s name with Chet and Felice, see how they react. Say tonight, six-ish. You up for it?”

“Can I bring the tarot deck?”

“Nah, leave it at home with the crystal ball and the turban,” he said. “We’ll stick with the usual: I provide the official presence and the personal security, you handle the tact and sensitivity.”

At six thirty p.m. I pulled up behind Milo’s unmarked, parked at the mouth of Evada Lane. As we neared the Corvin house, he stopped and pointed. “That’s where I saw her.”

Narrow patch of grass and concrete fronting Trevor Bitt’s keep-away gate.

I said, “In the dark, a nice niche. If she wasn’t inside, she could have been sneaking a smoke or a drink.”

He trotted over, returned. “No bottles or cans or butts, tobacco or otherwise. Also, I didn’t spot anything in her hands and if she wasn’t inside Bitt’s place, why did his light go off right after she left?”

Without waiting for an answer, he swiveled toward the Corvins’ driveway. “Both cars. Chet’s back home.”

I said, “Nothing like family time.”

Felice Corvin came to the door wearing green velvet sweats, hair bunched up and clipped, face scrubbed of makeup, a can of Coke Zero in her left hand.

Well-shaped eyebrows rose. “Yes?”

Milo said, “Evening, Ms. Corvin. If you’ve got time, could we come in for some follow-up?”

She eyed me. “Does that mean police work or psychotherapy?”

“The former, ma’am.”

A beat. “We just finished supper, okay if it’s brief.”

Fancy name for take-out KFC at the kitchen table. No sign of Brett or Chet. Chelsea stood at the sink with the water running, washing a drinking glass that looked clean.

The walk from the front door had taken us through neat, clean, perfectly composed space. No hint of the horror the family had been through ten days ago. Next to a toaster oven, a Sonos speaker streamed music. Indie folk-rock; electronically tweaked but still whiny vocals coping with two minor chords.

Felice cleared away the paper cartons and stashed the ketchup packets in a drawer.

Chelsea kept washing the same glass. She hadn’t turned to look at us.

Milo sat at the table without being invited. When I did the same, Felice’s eyebrows climbed again. “Would you like something to drink?”

Milo said, “No, thanks.”

“I’m having tea. You’re sure?”

“Okay, then, appreciate it.”

She got busy with bags of Earl Grey and mugs silkscreened with national park scenes, turned to her daughter and spoke softly. “That won’t get any cleaner, honey, and I need the instant-hot.”

Chelsea didn’t move. A gentle nudge inched her away from the spigot. Her hands dripped but she didn’t dry them. Placing the glass on the counter, she backed away, bumping into a butcher-block table and turning abruptly.

Doughy face, raisin eyes, stringy hair. Expression hard to read but nothing happy about it.

Milo and I smiled at her. We might as well have been baring fangs.

She hurried out.

Felice watched her for a second, then brought tea to the table, smiling tightly.

Milo said, “How’s everything going?”

“Lieutenant, that does sound like therapy.”

He smiled.

“Sorry,” she said. “Hellish day at work, city bureaucracy, then crazy traffic. In answer to your I’ll-assume-courteous question, everything’s fine, thank you for asking.”

“Chet upstairs?”

“Chet’s out of town. Portland. I believe.” The last two words and a half sneer said it all: I don’t ask, he doesn’t tell, neither of us gives a damn.

“His car—”

“A driver took him to the airport. Sometimes he does that when he’s on a tight schedule and has to work in transit.”

“Ah,” said Milo.

“A busy man, Chet.” Making it sound like an insult. “So how’re things going in your world, Lieutenant? Yours, as well, Doctor.”

Her vocal pitch had climbed, talking about her husband. Now she strained for buoyancy, sounded doubly tense.

Milo said, “We may have identified the victim.”

“May have?” she said.

“I’m sure you remember the state of the body.”

“Oh. Of course. Who is he?”

“A man named Hargis Braun.”

No response.

Milo said, “He went by Hal.”

Continued silence. Then the third eyebrow arch of the evening. “Oh, you’re asking if I know him. I don’t. Never heard of him. Who is he?”

Milo showed her Braun’s DMV photo. She had the courtesy to actually study it. “Nope. Is he from around here?”

“Ventura County.”

“Then what was he doing here?”

“Good question, ma’am. Does your family have any ties up there?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I was in Goleta for a conference last year but I never met that man.”

“What about Chet?”

“Chet handles the West Coast,” she said. “So I can see him having business up there. You think this could be related to Chet’s business?”

Milo said, “I wish we were at the point where I could think anything, Ms. Corvin.”

“Would you like me to call Chet and ask him?”

“That would be great.”

She took a cellphone out of a sweatpant pocket, speed-dialed, clicked off. “Straight to voicemail.”

“No prob, I’ve got his number.”

She stirred her tea, looked at the photo. “Sorry, wish I could help you.” She smiled. “Actually, I probably don’t want to be helpful if it means I have to keep thinking about what happened. But he is an absolute stranger to me. Could he be some kind of tradesman — a plumber, a handyman, who worked around the neighborhood and somehow got... sorry, that’s silly. It explains nothing.”

“He didn’t do much, ma’am. On disability.”

“And somehow he ended up in my house.” She shook her head. “Crazy. It gets crazier as time passes. And your showing up with his name and his picture kind of brings me back to it.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay, you’re doing your job.”

“Could we show the photo to Chelsea and Brett?”

“Absolutely not. They’re children and why in the world would they know this person?”

“I’m sure you’re right but like you said, doing the job.”

Felice Corvin turned to me, frowning. “You think it’s psychologically okay to suck the kids back in?”