Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

I said, “What happens then?”

“Chelsea turns eighteen, she’s a consenting adult, harder to make a case for anything. Meanwhile, I’m trying Bitt again. If his truck’s there, I’m pounding his damn door until he gets a migraine.”

I sat in my office and thought about Chet Corvin’s final hours.

Dominant, narcissistic. Breezily confident, until he’d found himself kneeling on the floor of a cheap motel.

The perils of too much self-esteem.

The following day, just after noon, Milo dropped by looking sour but purposeful. He marched to the kitchen, flung the fridge open, took out eggs and whatever else he could find, and set about constructing a terrifying omelet.

I said, “No luck with Bitt.”

“Truck wasn’t there. I knocked anyway, got the expected silence.” He waved a wooden spoon, used it to push a yellow mountain around the pan. A few flecks of egg landed on the floor. Blanche bounced over and gobbled them up.

He said, “There you go, symbiosis.”

“More like exploitation,” I said.

“Huh?”

“What does she give you in return?”

“Oh, pooch, you’ve got a mean dad.” Blanche smiled up at him. “What does she give me? The restorative joys of visual beauty.” He turned off the gas, petted her, plated the mountain, brought it to the table, and began consuming.

Blanche trotted to his feet.

“Can I give her some more?”

“Please don’t. Eggs make her gassy.”

“Daddy’s mean and ecologically insensitive to the virtues of wind power.” Bending low. “He wasn’t such a fuddy-duddy, we could get a government subsidy.”

Straightening, he shoveled food. Blanche settled, closed her eyes, began snoring lightly.

Milo said, “In terms of Bitt’s movements, Sean logged him coming out once, around midnight, followed him to a twenty-four-hour pharmacy over in Pali village. He came out with a small paper bag. Sean said his nose appeared swollen and he didn’t look happy. I’d like to think he’s got a raging coke habit, but probably a cold and NyQuil. That coffee still hot?”

I poured him a mugful.

He said, “Gracias. Sean left at four a.m. Sometime between then and nine when I showed up, Bitt left again and stayed away. He seems to be moving around more but for all I know he went to the doctor to get his sinuses reamed. Moe’ll try tonight, again. I have energy, I’ll come by when he leaves. Meanwhile, no night moves from Ms. Chelsea.”

His phone kicked in. New ringtone: a few bars of Puccini’s “Babbino Caro.” Gorgeous piece of music. Shame to abuse it that way.

He said, “Hey, Sean. When’d you get in... good for you... it did? One’s better than nothing, I’m at Dr. D’s place, email it to him, we’ll print it from his computer.”

Forkful of omelet. “I told him to check my computer every hour. The rest of Corvin’s corporate credit card records just came through.”

“You can’t get downloads to your phone?”

“I can technically but it’s iffy, regulation-wise,” he said. “Department’s still working out specifics on interfacing with personal devices.”

“My computer’s okay?”

He grinned. “Your screen’s larger.”

As he washed the fry pan, I printed. Five pages of fine print covering three billing periods that I brought to the kitchen.

Chet Corvin had traveled extensively up and down the coast, charging business and first-class airline tickets, rental cars, meals, and hotels from San Diego to Seattle. No stops at or near Oxnard, Ventura, or Santa Barbara, which caused Milo to curse under his breath.

At the bottom of the fifth sheet: the Sahara Motor Inn, the wine, “merchandise” at Hustler, and something Raul had missed: a “delux.assort” purchased at “Haute Eu. Choco.” Ninety-three dollars and some change.

I said, “High-priced dessert?”

Milo said, “Candy’s dandy, liquor’s quicker, when in doubt go for both.”

Haute European Chocolatiers had one location: the north side of Sunset, 1.3 miles east of the Hustler store. Open three days a week, closed yesterday when Raul had searched.

The “elite confectionary” offered a pricey assortment of French macarons, Swiss sweets, and other “Continental temptations.”

Milo said, “Ninety-three bucks. Definitely a party. But why there?”

I said, “Maybe his girlfriend lives nearby — Hollywood Hills, Los Feliz, Silverlake.”

“Chet and Madame X,” he said. “He thinks he’s in for fun and she turns out to be Ms. Murderous. Or she got taken and ended up like he did. Let’s learn about dessert. You drive.”

The shop was a fifteen-foot storefront sandwiched between two clothing boutiques, both featuring gray, cachectic manikins and abbreviated dresses with S&M overtones, tight enough to highlight pores.

By contrast, the chocolate store looked old-school, with a yellow, umbrella-shaped awning doming the window and a glass door printed in gilt script. The display window featured boxes of assorted candies resting in beds of tinsel.

I said, “Refined sugar doesn’t seem like a good fit for the size zero crowd.”

“Or this place caters to the worst dregs of humanity.”

I looked at him.

He said, “Zombies — the evil undead. They eat what they want and stay skinny.”

He pushed the door open. A bell tinkled. Inside, the air was creamy and sweet and cloying. A display case held more high-end sucrose nestled in little brown paper cups. Joan Jett’s “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” streamed. Performed by a string quartet.

The woman behind the case smiled. “Hi, guys. How can I tempt you today?”

Pretty, late forties to early fifties, with long hair, blond on top, black at the ends. A heart tattoo graced the left side of her neck topped by inked Asian lettering that might mean something. Ebony gauges the size of quarters stretched her earlobes.

The kids of tomorrow will have interesting grandparents.

Milo flashed his badge along with a smile.

The woman said, “We haven’t had any problems recently. Should I be worried?”

“Recently?”

“The usual, you know. Drunks and homeless making a mess in the morning and a few months ago there was that burglary at Adrienne Ballou up the block. Should I be worried?”

“Not in the least, ma’am. We’re wondering if you remember a specific customer.”

“How far back?”

“Day before yesterday.”

“I’m not senile, c’mon! Who?”

He began describing Chet Corvin.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Mr. CEO,” she said. “He got the deluxe assortment. Why’re you asking about him?”

“He’s a person of interest.”

“Well, he didn’t interest me. Talk about inept.”

“In terms of—”

“Flirting,” she said. “Like it was expected of him, like it was his usual — what do you guys call it... a priori?”

“Modus operandi.”

Perfect smile. “That’s it! He was a tool! Winking and leering, and showing off his Range Rover fob, like that’s supposed to impress me. My ex drove a Bentley and he was no catch. What’d he do?”

“Any idea who he bought the chocolate for?”

“He sure wanted me to know,” she said. “Not the actual person, the fact that they were going to do you-know-what. Wink wink. I expected him to start drooling.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like that’s special. Women come in here because they appreciate fine confection. With guys, it’s either they’re like him, out for some play, or they’re trying to get on a chick’s good side after doing something gross or stupid — no offense to you guys. I’m sure you treat your women great.”

Milo smiled. “You’ve got that right. He’s a sensitive guy and I revere my mother. So what else can you tell us about Mr. CEO?”