Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

Gap-toothed smile. “Guess I’m the lucky one.”

Milo and I looked at him.

“The tumor, then getting held up and surviving?” said Brassing. “A few other things in between, God pulled me through.”

“I admire your faith, Dave,” said Milo.

“My pastor says it’s easy to have faith when things work out good, the key is when it’s rough — think I’ll get myself more water.”

He drank a third glass, came back.

Milo said, “So you have no idea who Mr. Corvin stayed with?”

“I’m getting a feeling it wasn’t the wife, huh? You’re thinking that’s what got him killed?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Dave, we’re just asking questions.”

“Got it. Wish I had answers for you.”

“No idea who might’ve stayed here with Mr. Corvin.”

“Sorry, nope.”

“What about something left in the garbage — a credit slip, anything with I.D.?”

“No garbage,” said Brassing.

“What do you mean?”

“The cans were always empty. I guess they could’ve taken it to the dump. It’s at Heap’s Peak, a few miles down the mountain, on the way back to the freeway.”

“They don’t pay for trash collection?”

“They do,” said Brassing. “When I throw stuff out — mousetraps, whatever — it gets picked up.” He tugged at his beard. “Fifty bucks a month doesn’t sound like much but I like to come up here, anyway, breathe some good air.”

“Come up from where?”

“San Bernardino. I’m semi-retired, do flea markets on the weekend. Used to do other houses but now it’s just this and another one closer to the village.”

“When Mr. Corvin was here, which car did he drive?”

“The first time I met him he had a Jaguar — the big sedan. The only other times — maybe one, maybe two, he had a Range Rover.”

Brassing slapped his forehead. “Shoot, I forgot, sorry. A week ago, after I checked my other house — the Palmers — I decided to drive by, just an overall look, nothing huge I needed to deal with. And this car drove toward me the opposite way, seemed to be coming from the property. I can’t be sure but the houses are pretty far apart, it seemed to be coming from here. It was already up the road by the time I got here and nothing looked wrong so I figured it was just someone doing a three-point turn.”

Milo said, “What kind of car?”

“ That I can tell you,” said Brassing, “Camaro, eighties. Cool color: black. It makes them look more racy, you know?”

I said, “A week ago. So last Friday.”

“That’s when I do the Palmers. Twice a month. They play golf, I go in and check around.”

Milo said, “Catch a look at who was driving?”

“Nope, it was going pretty fast.”

Milo handed Brassing his card. “You see it again, try to get the license plate, even if you don’t, give me a ring, okay?”

“It’s important? Sure,” said Brassing.

The three of us stood.

Brassing said, “Uh, one thing, sir. I’m not sure if I still have the job. Thought I’d give Mrs. Corvin some time to settle down before I ask her.”

“My advice,” said Milo, “is let it ride. You don’t hear from her, you’ve got the job.”

Brassing winked. “Don’t upset the apple cart, huh?”

“Exactly, Dave. When’s your next visit scheduled?”

“Like in a couple weeks.”

“You can drive by but don’t go inside until I tell you it’s okay.”

“Why’s that?”

“I need to keep the place as is.”

“For CSI stuff?”

“That kind of thing.”

“Got it.” Brassing read the card. “Homicide. Can’t believe that actually happened.”

Milo and I stood outside as Brassing drove away in an old Ford van.

He said, “Braun, Bitt, Chet, Chet’s girlfriend, and now the Camaro kid at Braun’s house and here. So he’s definitely involved and there’s definitely a link between Chet and Braun. The whole chocolate thing... I was starting to think the case was coming together but it’s feeling like a magician’s gag. Poof, nothing materializes — are you seeing something I’m not?”

I said, “Wish I was.”

“Brutal honesty,” he said. “So what now?”

“I’d resume the surveillance on Bitt and call Henry Prieto to let him know he was onto something with the Camaro. He still thinks of himself as a cop, will eagle-eye. Who handles law enforcement here?”

“San Bernardino sheriff, Twin Peaks station.”

“Would they do a forensic workup of the house?”

“With no obvious crime? Hard to say.”

“Long as we’re here,” I said, “we could check the places where Corvin spent money. Could give us something on the girlfriend.”

“He’s got a love nest here, why would he use a hotel in San Berdoo?”

“Moving around to be less conspicuous, creature comforts, or just plain novelty. The company was paying for everything, so why not take advantage. On the way, we can stop in Arrowhead Village and ask around.”

He shot a cuff and looked at his Timex. “It’s pushing four, we’ll be coming back late.”

“Less traffic.”

He slapped my back. “Unbridled optimism. Patent it and you’ll own your own jet.”

We sat in the Dodge and examined Chet Corvin’s recent San Bernardino expenditures.

Six stays in three hotels, all tagged as “Inns.” Three restaurant tabs at two Italian and one Mexican restaurant. Everything close to the freeway, in the inland city’s business core.

A call to the Twin Peaks sheriff’s station produced bafflement when Milo admitted the house wasn’t a likely crime scene. He got shunted up the brass rod, ended with a captain named Bacerra who resisted but finally agreed to “limited cooperation”: Once permission to enter was granted in writing by the current owner and non-intrusive access could be guaranteed, the A-frame would “eventually” be processed for prints, fibers, and “obvious” body fluids. Meaning a visual inspection but no dogs or alternative light source unless something “probative” came up.

Milo said, “Thanks,” trying to mean it. “I can get you a key for access and there’s also a caretaker. In terms of written consent, would a fax work?”

“Probably,” said Bacerra. “It’s going to take time, anyway. We’re swamped with real stuff.”

In Arrowhead Village, forty or so trendy-leaning businesses were backdropped by the lake. Emphasis on clothing and personal appearance — beauty salons, a Pilates studio, a gym.

We walked from store to store, showing pictures of Chet Corvin, Hal Braun, and Trevor Bitt, eliciting head shakes. Several merchants said, “Some of the weekenders never come in.”

The losing streak was broken at one of the last shops, Snowbird Jewelers. Just over a month ago, Chet Corvin had purchased a silver filigree necklace set with amethysts for $612.43, paying with cash. The proprietor, an older Iranian man in a white shirt and tie, remembered Corvin because he was “very enthusiastic.”

Milo said, “About what, sir?”

The man adjusted his eyeglasses. “Buying it. Winking all the time.” He demonstrated, the result more comical than lascivious.

“Did he come in alone?”

“He did,” said the man. “It was a surprise. You’re saying not for the wife, eh? I figured.”

“Why’s that?”

“The winking. Wives get presents, they don’t get winking.”

We got back in the car and began the descent of Highway 18. Covering the shopping center had taken time and the sky was fighting to stay lit, bashful lemon-colored sun hiding behind cotton-puff clouds. Below the firmament, the forest had turned black. As dusk set in, the road curves grew challenging.