Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“Okay, at ease. Didn’t mean to startle you but I called and you never answered so I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Sorry, sir, I was going to.” Brassing waited until the Glock was reholstered before letting out a wheezy sigh and flopping his arms to his sides.

Late forties to early fifties, stocky, he had a broad face bristled by bushy sideburns and bottomed by eight inches of graying, spade-shaped goatee. A battered, broad-brimmed leather hat sat askew. A gray work shirt was splotched with fear-sweat. Baggy cargo shorts revealed callused knees. The soles of hiking boots were crusted with leaves.

“Oh, man,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “You scared the stuffing out of me.” His cheeks fluttered as his head moved to the side.

Milo said, “So, Dave, what brings you here?”

“Checking around,” said Brassing. “For you, actually. I was going to call after I saw that everything was okay.”

Not getting the point of evidence preservation.

Brassing said, “Whew.” His chest heaved.

“You want some water, Dave?”

“No, I’m okay... can I sit down?”

“Sure. Didn’t mean to freak you out, Dave.”

“My fault, should’ve answered you sooner,” said Brassing. “I saw your car, figured it was police, but when you rushed out with that heater...” He exhaled, face glassy with sweat. “Guns are a thing with me. I used to hunt, nothing bothered me. Then I got held up a few years ago and when I see ’em, I get kind of queasy.”

“Sorry ’bout that.”

“Yeah,” said Dave Brassing. “Armed robbery. It was hairy.”

Milo said, “It happen around here?”

“Down in San Berdoo. I was working at a tire store, couple of hoodies came in and shoved iron in my face and had me clean out the register, I thought I was going to — thank God there was some cash in there.”

I said, “What a thing to go through.”

“Wouldn’t wish it on my enemy,” said Brassing. “I’m not saying I got rid of my weapons, fact is I’d have been better off packing when they showed up. But I look at guns different, now. The one they used was a.38 Smith-W. One of mine was one of those, I got rid of it.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t even want to watch movies with shooting. Anyway, I should’ve called out Hello, it’s Dave, or something, I didn’t figure. Phew. Okay, I’m breathing again.”

Milo said, “You’re sure you’re okay? Don’t want water?”

“I’m fine, thanks, no worries — actually, yeah, water sounds good, mind if I get it myself?”

“Go for it, Dave.”

Brassing walked to the kitchen, filled a glass from the sink, held it up to window light.

“It was good last time I checked but winter there was runoff-silt. Nothing dangerous, just minerals, but it tasted bad.”

He chugged the entire glass, filled another, repeated. “Took me a while to convince them to fix it, finally did. Deposits in the tank, not a small job.”

I said, “They don’t use the house, don’t want to put out the money.”

“You got it.”

“How long have you been taking care of the place?”

Brassing put down the empty glass and sat back down. “I don’t really take care, like a big, detailed deal. What it is, I come in once a month except winter, when it’s two three times, got to make sure the pipes don’t freeze, all that good stuff.”

He pointed to the rear window. “Also that, in the winter. That much glass, you get constriction of the frames, the glue dries, you get leaks.”

I said, “Then there’s the mousetraps.”

“Oh, yeah, that, too. Little buggers used to get inside, poop all over the place, that was gross. I sealed off holes and cracks, baited outside to keep them away from inside.” Tensing. “You’re not saying you saw some in here?”

“Just traps near the garbage cans.”

“That’s okay,” said Brassing. “I also got them placed clear back to the end of the property.”

“Where is that, Dave?”

“Right where the grass ends.”

“Not the trees,” I said.

“That’s the neighbor, super-rich guy, computers or something, he’s got fifteen acres, at least. Big stone house. Not that he uses it, either. That’s the way it is here. They say it’s an investment — he said that. Mr. Corvin. He wasn’t a bad type. Still can’t believe what happened to him.”

“Mrs. Corvin told you.”

“On her message. That was kind of... but I’m not judging.”

I said, “Unemotional?”

“Yeah,” said Brassing. “ ‘Hi, Dave, need to let you know.’ Then she lays that on me. Like please check the garbage cans and oh, yeah, Chet got killed.”

“Is that her usual approach?”

“Couldn’t tell you, maybe I seen her three times, I always dealt with him.”

“Could we hear the message?”

Looking puzzled, Brassing produced his phone, scrolled, activated.

Felice Corvin’s voice came on, cool, soft, articulate. “David Brassing, this is Mrs. Corvin. Not sure of your schedule but I’m calling to let you know the police will be examining the house in the near future. Mr. Corvin was shot and killed.”

Click.

Dave Brassing said, “Wow, that’s colder than I remembered.”

Milo said, “You’ve met her three times.”

“Maybe, could be two.”

“What about the kids?”

Brassing shook his head. “They said they had kids but never seen any.”

“And Mr. Corvin?”

“More,” said Brassing. “But not a lot. They bought the place something like two and a half, three years ago. I worked for the people before them, the Liebers. That was real caretaking, they were older folk, retired, they used it all the time, were still skiing when they were like eighty. They recommended me to the Corvins.”

I said, “How many contacts have you had with Mr. Corvin?”

“Oh... I’d say... eight, nine? Mostly on the phone. Don’t know, really.”

Milo said, “In three years.”

“Yup. It’s mostly copacetic, here.”

“How about this year?”

“Hmm... twice, three? Last time was like... a month ago? The mice. I guess he was here and saw droppings. He called me up, said, ‘What do I pay you for?’ ”

“Copping an attitude.”

“Well,” said Brassing, “can’t say I blame him, who wants to see that? I finally figured out there was a small hole in the lint trap vent. Sealed it off, no more little Mickeys.” He smiled. Lots of missing teeth and the dentition that remained was yellow and ragged.

“Problem solved,” I said. “Was he grateful?”

“He never complained.” Removing his hat, he scratched dense, gray hair.

Milo said, “When Mr. Corvin stayed here, who was he with?”

“Who?” said Brassing. “I’m assuming her.”

“Mrs. Corvin.”

Brassing’s bushy eyebrows flickered. “You’re saying not?”

“Not saying anything, Dave. When’s the last time the master bedroom got used?”

“Hmm,” said Brassing. “Not for a while. I haven’t been here in a month but even before that — it’s not like it was regular.”

“How could you tell?”

“They always cleaned up real good,” said Brassing. “New sheets, new pillowcase.”

I said, “There’s perfume in the air. Smell it?”

Brassing sniffed. “Can’t smell so good — yeah, I’m catching a whiff.”

“Familiar?”

“No, not really.”

“Deviated septum?” said Milo.

Brassing tapped his right nostril. “Tumor. Back when I was in high school. Played football, got a monster headache, everyone figured it was a hard tackle but it was a tumor. Benign, they rooted around and got rid of it, I had headaches for years but now it’s okay. But not much sense of smell. Some of my taste, too, my wife says it don’t matter, anyway, I’m no gourmet.”