Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“That’s it. He’s never been here before since I bought the place and that’s four years ago.”

“One-shot walk-in.”

“We get them,” she said. “Kind of like church or temple, you know? Atoning?”

Milo showed her Hargis Braun’s photo. “Is he one of your customers, also?”

She studied the image. “No. Who’s he?”

“Part of an investigation.”

“What, there’s some sort of middle-aged white-guy thing going on?”

“Nothing scary,” he said. “Thanks for your time.”

“Can I give you guys samples?”

“Appreciate it but we’re on the job, Ms.—”

“Nola. Aw c’mon, I won’t tell your mommies. Soft center or hard?” Eyelash aerobics.

Milo said, “I’m a sucker for caramel.”

“Then you’re in luck, ours is like nirvana, we use creamery butter from the Alps. You, sir?”

“Anything semisweet.”

Nola tossed her hair. “ Très sophisti cah- ted.” Fishing two truffles out of the case, she dropped them in fluted paper cups. “Here you go, I picked the color specially for you guys.”

The cups were a perfect match to the tan uniforms of West Hollywood sheriffs. LAPD’s blue but Milo said, “Great, thanks, Nola.”

“Enjoy! Try them right now so I can see your reaction. I love to make people happy!”

I bit off half of my truffle. A hard shell encased something liquid, alcoholic, and nicely bitter — maybe Campari.

I said, “Great,” and finished with a second bite.

“There you go!”

Milo’s caramel was sheathed in milk chocolate, shaped like a teardrop, and dotted with white chocolate. He popped the whole thing into his mouth, jaws working on the caramel as he thanked her again.

“I love it, Nola, it’s amazing. Would you mind if I showed you another photo? I’m sure it’s nothing but what the heck.”

“Why would I mind? Anything for you guys, you keep us safe.”

Out came Bitt’s DMV shot.

Nola said, “That’s Trevor the artist.”

“You know him?”

“I know his name is Trevor and that he’s an artist. He did me a drawing — I’ve got it in back, want to see?”

She returned with a five-by-seven pencil sketch in a thin black frame. A pair of fluffy white rabbits feminized by long lashes. One animal was half the size of the other. Baby bunny smiling sleepily as it nestled in the refuge of its mother’s curling body.

Nola said, “I told him I had a daughter and he left for like a minute, came back with paper and a pencil, and drew it right here, on the counter. See — he signed it to me.”

The inscription was near the bottom, beautifully printed, slanting forward. What a comic-book artist might use for emphasis.

To Nola and Cheyenne. May all your dreams be sweet. Best, Trevor.

She said, “He just stood here and did it while I watched, didn’t erase once. I figured to give it to Cheyenne but she thought it was silly.” Shrug. “She’s sixteen. So I kept it for myself — you’re not going to tell me he’s a bad person, are you?”

Pressing her palms together.

Milo said, “Not at all.”

“Then, what?”

“I wish I could give you details, but like I said nothing for you to worry about.”

“I’m not worried but I am curious,” said Nola. “You have his picture along with that other guy. And you asked about that CEO sleazeball. Hmm, let’s see how good I am at detecting. A gang of middle-aged white guys, has to be a shady business deal. What, real estate? A Ponzi? My ex was — but you don’t want to hear about that.”

Her expression said she hoped we did.

Milo said, “How often did Trevor come in?”

“Just twice. When he did the drawing was the second time, that was right before last Christmas. The first was around a year ago. Look at these super-smooth lines, that’s pretty impressive. At least to me.”

Milo said, “Any idea who he was buying chocolate for?”

“Someone super-lucky, he put out some bucks,” said Nola. “C’mon, what’s up, some sort of Enron thing? My ex thought they were a great company, invested some of our savings with them. That’s why I’m here. Though I do love it, turns out.”

“No, Trevor’s an artist, just like you said.”

“Last name?”

“Bitt.”

She phone-Googled. “Oh, with two t ’s... he’s got a Wikipedia bio... famous comic-book artist? Is this worth something? I bet it is, thanks guys, eBay here we come. How about some bonbons, got them in the freezer out back, milk chocolate for guava, dark for raspberry.”

With obvious pain, Milo said, “No thanks,” and headed for the exit. Before he got there, the door was pushed in hard, forcing him to sidestep.

No apologies from the man charging forward, head down, shoulders tight.

Thirties, as emaciated as the manikins next door, wearing blood-red skinny jeans, a scooped-neck orange tee, and electric-blue high-tops. His hair was buzzed at the sides, piled high on top, his beard a black chunk of topiary.

Milo muttered, “Undead.”

The new arrival raced to the counter. “I need something, Nola.” As if ordering a casket.

She said, “Oh, Richard. What did you do now ?”

Back in the Seville, Milo said, “Chocolate. A link between Corvin and Bitt?”

I said, “What made you show her Bitt’s photo?”

“Wish I could say it was brilliant deducing but just grasping.” He pulled a cigar out of his pocket, rolled it between his fingers. “Besides a sweet tooth, what the hell else did the two of them have in common?”

“Maybe nothing.”

“Did we just inhabit parallel universes, amigo? A fancy candy store they both happen to patronize?”

“There’s another way to look at it.”

He sighed, put the cigar back. “Isn’t there always. What? ”

“Corvin’s only been here once but Bitt bought gift boxes twice. The first time was around a year ago. ‘Around’ could mean a couple of weeks, give or take. What happens in two weeks?”

“What — oh, shit,” he said. “Chelsea’s birthday? Bitt bought her a present?”

“Maybe that and a box for Christmas. The connection to Chet could be nothing more than him seeing the chocolates in Chelsea’s room and asking her about it. If she shined him on, he’d likely drop it. But what if he filed the store’s name away and noticed it on his way to the Sahara. It jogged his memory.”

“You believe in that level of coincidence?”

“I believe there’s a relationship between Bitt and Chelsea. Her after-dark expeditions and his being so squirrelly point that way. And those drawings we saw in Chelsea’s room — all those pages of repetitive designs — might be her attempt to impress a real artist.”

“She digs Bitt, he pretends to be impressed, nasty stuff ensues in the studio.” He frowned. “You really think Corvin wouldn’t push things with Chelsea if he saw high-end goodies in a shiny box? More to the point, Felice wouldn’t?”

“From what we’ve seen, Chet and Chelsea didn’t have much of a relationship. He called me in to see her without consulting Felice, used the girl to embarrass her mom and me. I don’t think he told Felice much, period. Even if Felice did find out, she might prod a bit, but if Chelsea sank her heels in and refused to say, I think she’d have backed off. Assuming it was a gift from a boy. Finally.”

The cigar reappeared. He bit off the tip, spat it out the window. “Anything’s possible, but I’m still thinking the simple route. Like Nola just said, a gang of white dudes. Daddy plus the weirdo next door plus too-good-to-be-true guy named Hal.”

I thought: The simple route? All from a box of chocolate? Said, “Sure,” and started the car.