Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

We were back in his office thirty-five minutes later. The rest of Chet Corvin’s credit card history sat on his desk. Fewer charges on the remaining cards but the same pattern: cities up and down the coast, a few more stops south in San Bernardino, Riverside, and San Diego. Hotels, restaurants, occasional charges for groceries and men’s clothing.

No alcohol, no chocolate, no lingerie. The last day of Corvin’s life had been different and I said so. “Maybe because he was about to make a change. Preparing to leave his old life behind and venture out with a new love.”

He poked the pile of charge records. “This is business stuff.”

“But romance could easily be buried in here. Book a single-occupancy room, someone sleeps over, who’s going to know? And with a double meal charge, who’s to say he didn’t take a client out? As long as he kept it reasonable, no one would take a close look.”

He placed the forms in the murder book. “I need those phone records.”

He checked with Binchy, Reed, the desk officer, the downstairs clerk. No messages from the phone company, the mail had come and gone, nothing.

Snatching up his desk phone, he punched numbers, shook his head. “This is Lieutenant Sturgis from LAPD West L.A. I seem to keep missing you. Wondering about those logs I requested on a homicide victim. Chet. Middle initial M. Corvin.”

A voice you might interpret as friendly if you couldn’t see the way his facial muscles strained the bones below.

He slammed the phone down. “At least I learned about a place for a good Christmas gift.”

“Rick likes chocolate?”

“Allergic,” he said. “I’m talking self-gratification.”

At eight thirty the following morning, he called, sounding buoyed. “Phone logs got emailed just as I was about to leave last night. Can I bring them by?”

“When?”

“I’m parked outside.”

I’d been playing guitar in my bathrobe out in the studio with Blanche. By the time I reached the front door, Milo was standing inches from the threshold, olive-drab vinyl attaché case in hand, his bulk blocking out most of the light.

He forged in like a gust of wind, sat down in the living room.

His hair was nearly tamed by some sort of product, his ravaged face razored as smooth as it was going to get. A brown sport coat woven from a nubby fabric that evoked a cheap couch went nicely with wheat-colored jeans and a yellow shirt new enough to sport box creases.

Planning to go somewhere, later.

I said, “Natty.”

He humphed and popped the case and took out a sheaf of papers. Six months of phone calls on the personal cellular account of Chet M. Corvin.

Each had been checked off in blue ballpoint. A few were margined by notes in Milo’s hand. Hyatt, Portland; Embassy Suites, Tacoma; Firewood Café, Oakland airport.

Two numbers were circled repeatedly in red. Twenty-eight calls to and from a 310 listing over the past two months. Eleven to the 909 area code were clustered during the last week of Corvin’s life.

Milo tapped the twenty-eight-caller. “Local but disposable and expired, no way to trace. I was hoping Chet used the Burner app on his phone to create his own temporary but no such luck, just your basic by-the-month dope-dealer accessory.”

I said, “Something to hide.”

“That girlfriend scenario of yours is looking better. And maybe we can find her. The 909 is in San Bernardino, a landline. I tried, no answer, no machine. But it’s active. Any guesses?”

“Lake Arrowhead’s in San Bernardino County. First time we met Corvin, he mentioned a weekend home there.”

He grinned. “Great minds. Yeah, I called Felice, she confirmed it. Said the family hadn’t used the place since two winters ago. She wanted to know why I was asking. I said Chet seemed to be calling there, I had yet to find out why. But she got the point, became rather irate.”

I said, “The call dates say the relationship began at least two months ago in L.A. For the past week or so, he moved her to the family getaway.”

“In preparation for his new life.” He stood, bowed, sat back down. “Felice’s anger worked in my favor. She gave me permission to go there and take a look. There’s a local guy, sees after the place twice a month, has a key. I left him a message, haven’t heard back. But I don’t need him, Felice said she’d leave one under the mat.”

“New friend.”

“Common enemy.”

I began walking out.

“Where you going?”

“Shave, shower, et cetera.”

“Getting yourself dapper?” he said. “Good. I have my standards.”

A manila envelope leaned against the door of the Corvin house. Trevor Bitt’s pickup was parked next door. Milo studied the cactus Tudor, scratched the side of his nose and contemplated, then returned to the unmarked he’d picked up this morning. A smooth-driving slate-blue Dodge Charger that still smelled of new car. Way above his usual ride. Hope leads you to all sorts of self-affirming places.

Once behind the wheel, he uncoiled a string on the flap of the envelope. Inside was a key chained to a fob and a folded piece of white paper. The fob was a plastic Disneyland souvenir. Snow White, chaste and unaware she was despised. The paper listed computer-typed directions to the Arrowhead house, the alarm code, and the number of Dave Brassing, the occasional caretaker.

Programming the car’s GPS, Milo checked it against Felice Corvin’s directions. “Perfect.”

Big V-8, muscular and smooth.

I said, “How’d you score the hot wheels?”

“Got A’s on my homework and begged Daddy for the keys.” Big grin. “Found out a mere sergeant in Burglary was planning to use it tomorrow and pulled rank.”

“What’s next, an Oscars after-party.”

“Actually, I coulda gone to one last year. One of Rick’s patients is the bimbo girlfriend of a noted producer. Drove into a pole while taking a selfie. Rick put her arm and her shoulder together. Well enough to service Daddy Filmbucks because he extended the invite.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“More allergies. Both of us.”

“To what?”

“Ego cancer and bullshit.”

The route from the Palisades to the Inland Empire’s resort areas was the 405 North, the 134 East, merge to the 210, State Route 18 up to the mountains.

Decades ago, European road architects figured out that curves keep drivers awake, hence the Autostrada, the Autobahn, and the like. Not so, Caltrans. The result is thousands of miles of hypnotic straightaway that scalpel through marginalized neighborhoods. It’s a nonstop display of trailer parks, houses that might as well be trailers, discount malls, car lots the size of small towns, big-box retailers with the grace of an unshielded sneeze.

Intersections in freeway districts are built around gas stations, grease pits, and fast-food joints. The less fortunate citizens of California contend with toxic air, brain-scraping noise, and opportunistic criminals hopping off the freeway to felonize before on-ramping back in celebration.

When I’m not behind the wheel, I find it hard to stay awake on the freeway and I dozed off halfway through the ninety-mile drive.

I woke up on the outskirts of San Bernardino and checked my watch. What should’ve been a ninety-minute drive had stretched to two hours and thirteen minutes.

“Accident?”

Milo’s jacket had taken on wrinkles. His hair spiked where he’d rubbed his scalp. “Coupla semis tangoed twenty miles back, ambulance injuries. Cleared by the time we got there but that didn’t stop idiots from gawking, now it’s even worse, with the cellphone photos. Explain that to me. What’s the thrill?”

I said, “New-age slapstick. Enjoying the fact that the other guy slipped on a banana peel.”