Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

Biro said, “You viewing the wife as a potential suspect? Seeing as he was messing with another woman?”

“Nothing points to that, Raul, but nothing says no.”

“We get lucky, another domestic murder for hire. Not that it would account for your body in the den.”

Milo said, “Alex has always said that pointed to Chet as the likely target.”

Petra said, “Obviously, Alex was right. And if Braun was connected to Chet in some way that made her beaucoup mad, she could’ve hired a professional to do both of them.”

Biro said, “Dump a corpse in hub’s private space, there’s a big middle finger for you.”

Milo said, “You see that, Alex?”

I said, “I can’t see Felice traumatizing the kids.”

“Fair enough,” said Petra. “But if she’s got money separate from his, let’s try to find out if she’s spending it unusually, as in unspecified cash payments going out.”

Milo said, “There is a decent chance of separate accounts. These people have been separate for a long time.”

As we walked away from the motel, I noticed a young man standing near the office door picking a cuticle at warp speed. A boy, really, eighteen, nineteen. When our eyes met, he looked away.

“The clerk?” I said.

“That’s him. Keith Singh.”

“You mind?”

“Go for it.”

As we approached Singh, he startled and turned to go back inside.

I said, “A second, Keith?”

He stopped, rotated. Kicked one ankle with the other. “Yes, sir.” Lanky, Indian, with shoulder-length black hair, wearing a yellow Lion King T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. If he was able to grow a beard it didn’t show. But his eyes looked old, bottomed by dark crescents, managing to be weary and wary at the same time.

I said, “Tough night.”

“Total disaster, sir. My parents didn’t want me working here, now they’ll insist. One of my dad’s friends owns the place, but Dad says Waris — Dr. Waris Singh, he’s a dentist but he’s mostly into real estate — isn’t careful.”

“About security?”

“In general,” he said. “My parents are more religious than him. They think he could be a bad influence.” His eyes dropped. “I’ll have to quit. Which is crap, I still have tuition.”

“Where do you go to school?”

“The U. I’m out of state so the tuition’s crazy.”

“Sure is.”

“I was a late admission, all the work-study jobs were taken. I have to find another one but the only other sure thing is a restaurant Waris owns. But that place is all the way in Pasadena and it’s crazy busy. Here I can get a lot of studying done.”

The gurney was wheeled out of the motel. Keith Singh’s eyes saucered.

I said, “What’s your major?”

“Econ.” His eyes drifted to the yellow tape, moving in the night breeze like a harp string lightly plucked. “It’s crazy, sir, I didn’t hear anything.”

I said, “You probably wouldn’t, too far away.”

“Exactly.”

“Have you remembered anything else about Mr. Corvin?”

“The guy?” he said. “Like what?”

“Did he say anything when he checked in?”

“He said a lot,” said Keith Singh, clapping his index finger and his thumb together. “Talking talking talking.”

“About what?”

“Random crap. How’s it going, young man, nice night. I kind of blocked it out. He saw my econ book, told me he took micro and macro in college. Told me it was too theoretical, he majored in accounting and business management, not econ, I should do the same thing if I wanted to make serious money.”

“He’s there ten seconds and is giving you advice.”

“I’m used to it,” he said. “Dad.”

“What else did Corvin have to say?”

“Nothing, sir — oh, yeah, he showed me the wine.”

“He brought the wine into the office.”

“Yeah,” said Keith Singh. “In a bag, said he just got it, it was expensive. Said it was worth it.” Keith Singh licked parched lips. “He winked when he said that. That it was worth it.”

“What do you think he was telling you, Keith?”

The kid colored, chestnut skin turning to mahogany. “What do you mean?”

“Sounds like he was trying to impress you.”

“Why would he do that, sir? More like bragging. Like he was used to that.”

“Did you see the woman he was with?”

“I didn’t see anyone, sir. I was here in the office, like I’m supposed to be, he gave his card and drove over. I didn’t look at him much. Waris told me that at the beginning. Don’t look at the customers, they want privacy.”

“Lots of hot dates show up here, huh?”

He frowned. “I mean, people... you know... I mean Waris doesn’t rent by the hour like some other places but his rates are cheap.” He shrugged.

I said, “A lot of customers choose not to spend the night.”

Keith Singh’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. “My parents thought it was a real bad idea. Waris convinced them but not really, you know?”

“They gave in.”

Another ride of the gullet elevator.

“My dad owes Waris money. Waris kind of pressured him.” A flap of black hair fell forward. He tucked it behind his ear. “I probably would’ve quit anyway.”

“Not happy with the job.”

“It’s gross, you know?”

Milo said, “No-tell motel.”

The boy blinked. He’d never heard the phrase. “All I want to do is study, it’s hard enough. My parents wanted me to stay in Tucson, go to Arizona, live at home. I thought I’d have to but last minute I got into the U. from the waiting list and it’s way higher-rated so I wanted to. I have a cousin, a CPA in Boston, he told them where you go makes a difference so they finally allowed me.”

I said, “Good luck with your studies. Is there anything else you can tell us about Mr. Corvin?”

“Just what I said to you.” Looking at Milo. “He used a platinum — not like some people, they’re, you know... looking all over the place, embarrassed, using cash. He was just the opposite. Kind of full of himself, you know? Like he wasn’t expecting anything bad to happen.”

I said, “People usually don’t.”

“Oh, man,” said Keith Singh. “I’m probably going to quit tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have to go back to Tucson.”

— Milo and I continued to the Seville.

I said, “Chet bringing the wine in, still bagged, could mean he’d just bought it.”

“I’ll tell Petra and Raul to check out nearby liquor stores, maybe someone’s memory will be jogged.”

He loosened his tie. “I’m figuring to catch Felice and the kids before they leave for school, say seven a.m. You up for rise and shine? You’re not, I understand.”

I said, “I’ll be there. If you want, I can tell the kids. To make sure it’s done right and you’ll have more time to gauge Felice’s reaction.”

“That would be great.”

At the Seville, he said, “All these years I still hate death knocks. And kids? Thanks. See you bright and early. In my case, just early.”

I parked in front of the Corvin Colonial at six fifty-six a.m. Milo’s unmarked sat in front of Trevor Bitt’s Tudor. The black Ram was there.

A bit of activity on the street: a couple of gardener’s trucks pulling up but waiting before unleashing mowers and air guns, neighbors leaving for work or taking in newspapers, a few of them looking at us, most pretending not to.

Felice Corvin came to the door dressed in a hip-length tweed jacket, a black blouse, and gray slacks. Hair combed, makeup impeccable, mug of coffee in her hand. No sign of the kids. She said, “This is a surprise.”

Milo said, “Can we come in?”