Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

She looked down, let go of my sleeve. “Oh, I’ve wrinkled your jacket, sorry.”

I smiled. “I’m sure it’ll recover.”

She smoothed down the fabric, anyway. “My little speech must’ve sounded pathetic.”

“No—”

“Whatever, Doctor. Thanks for your offer, hopefully I won’t need to take you up on it. And I do want Lieutenant Sturgis to catch whoever murdered my husband. I’m going to think of him that way. My husband. I’m going to think about him like he was in the beginning. Maybe I’ll feel. ”

True to her word, just after two p.m., Felice phoned Milo’s office and left the details of Chet’s cellphone and his credit card accounts. I was there and he put her on speaker.

“Thanks, Ms. Corvin.”

“Whatever helps, Lieutenant.”

“How’re the kids?”

“Brett’s taking it really hard. I haven’t seen him cry since he was in diapers — he and Chet had this macho thing going. He stopped but now he wants to be by himself and I respect that. I did manage to get some food in him. I’m telling myself it’s probably a healthy reaction. Getting in touch with his feelings — we’ll work it out. Hope the information will be useful.”

“Me, too, ma’am. How’s Chelsea?”

“Chelsea’s being Chelsea. The sad truth is, she and Chet were never close. Not that he — he was fine with her, he accepted her. She actually seems okay. At least as far as I can tell, she’s okay, thanks for asking.”

Milo clicked off. “Checked with Petra before we set out. Nothing from the canvass, Chet doesn’t seem to have bought the wine near the motel. Raul did find an image of a Range Rover heading east on Franklin a few minutes before Chet checked into the Sahara. No view of the tags, too dark to see who was inside, it tells us what we already know but no harm having a time line. In terms of the woman with him, still nothing.”

He looked at the credit info Felice had provided. “Already have one of these cards, Amex Platinum issued by Connecticut Surety for the business expenses of their West Coast regional manager. Got it from his secretary. She was appropriately shocked by the news, had no idea who the boss partied with or if he had a special place he bought wine. What else... no luck with GPS on the Rover. It’s equipped with a system but it’s non-operative. Corrosion, our car guys say it happens.”

I said, “A guy who travels all the time with no electronic guide because he failed to fix it. Maybe he sticks to the familiar. Like a woman he saw regularly whose address he didn’t want on record.”

“Good point. Okay, let’s learn more about our new victim.”

He phoned in subpoena requests, got eventual cooperation from the credit companies, resistance from the phone provider demanding a written application on “proprietary” forms supplied by its own legal department.

A patient tone of voice as he kept requesting supervisors didn’t help, nor did enough pleases and thank-yous to appease the Sycophant Gods. No hint he’d been giving the one-finger salute throughout most of the conversation.

He hung up, said, “Bastards. If Nguyen can’t facilitate, I’ll go over in person and fill out their damn forms. Enough info on Chet, something’s gotta break — hey, aren’t you proud of me? Still believing in happy endings?”

I said, “That’s just realism.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your solve rate. A whole lot more success than failure.”

He put his hands over his ears. “Positive thinking? Irish heresy!”

Worming up from his desk chair, he put on his jacket, knotted his tie. “Time for nutrition, let’s go dig po day- does out of the cold, hard sod.”

“No corned beef sandwich?”

“Hmm,” he said. “Triple decker, extra mayo, three greasy sides, and a nice frosty lager? You’re right, much better: something to feel seriously guilty about.”

Bert’s Deli, a few blocks from the station, was the obvious destination. Aromas streaming from a new Italian place thirty feet closer snagged him first.

The interior was hard black leather and perforated metal. Milo ordered without looking at the menu. The waiter said, “Sure, Lieutenant Sturgis. You, sir?”

When he left, I said, “You two play boccie together?”

“Better game,” he said. “I tip big, he pays his rent.”

Mushroom and sausage pizza, salad, baked ziti, iced tea, all for two. When I’m with him, I usually don’t eat much. This time I was hungry.

As I picked up my second slice of pizza, he said, “Look at you. Gastric juices stimulated by anything in particular?”

“No breakfast.”

“Huh... let me ask you something: Chelsea being numb about Chet is one thing but the way she made fun of her brother was pretty damn cruel. Is she more than just a dull kid? Actively hated Daddy for a reason?”

I said, “Chet abused her? There’s no evidence of it but I guess anything’s possible.”

“It’s not fun to think about, Alex, but it could explain Braun. What if Mr. Do-Gooder was covering up nasty tendencies. What if he and Chet bonded over them.”

“Chet pimped his own daughter out to Braun?” I pushed my food away.

He said, “Yeah, it’s gross, sorry, but I have to think of everything. Maybe it wasn’t that overt. Just photographs, covert videos. Those assholes love to share, right? What if Felice found out, went nuclear, and decided to take care of business. Phase One was luring hubby’s sicko buddy somewhere with promises of more nasty. Instead of that, Braun got a hired pro who de-faced and de-handed him and dumped what was left in hubby’s personal space. A message to Chet, just like you’ve been saying all along.”

I said, “If so, it didn’t get through to Chet. He didn’t seem the least bit scared.”

“That’s because he was a narcissist, shallow, a psychopath, whatever, couldn’t imagine anyone aggressing against him. Maybe he didn’t even realize it was Braun. Now, if that’s the case and I’m Felice, that would piss me off even more. So I set up Phase Two and take care of the problem once and for all. She’s got the money for a coupla serious contracts. Just told us so.”

“It’s a theory,” I said.

“But not much of one.”

“If you find evidence—”

“Talk about role reversal — lost your appetite?”

“Full.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Here’s a diet idea: the paleo-stress method. Make a hell of an infomercial.”

By five p.m., we were back in his office, checking our messages. Thin gruel for both of us.

He read and cursed and clicked off.

I said, “Waiting for something?”

“I asked Reed to check for life insurance. Nothing for Chet or Felice, though Chet’s company took out a policy on him that pays them if he attempts to ‘sever relations’ prematurely. Wonder if they’ll try to claim. That would be some court battle, huh? Casualty insurance company up against a life insurance company.”

I said, “Godzilla versus Rodan.”

“More like Hitler versus Stalin.”

At four fifty-five, Raul Biro called to say no video of the Rover had shown up anywhere but he had located the liquor store that had sold Corvin the wine.

“Fancy place, Sunset and La Cienega, transaction was at six thirteen p.m. Owner’s daughter was working the register, she didn’t have to find the receipt to remember him. He asked for something romantic. Same wink-wink deal he gave the motel clerk. She thought he was quote unquote ‘a little slimy.’ He also bought a sandwich, roast beef on rye, they get ’em from a deli on the Strip. Coroner bothers to open him up, they can confirm.”