Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“Talking,” she said for a third time. “He was a little guy, I didn’t understand him ’cause he was Spanish.” Jagged-tooth meth grin. “Little dude. Cute. We was talking and we heard it. Little Dude got scared and hid in the bathroom.”

She clapped her hands together. Feeble act, producing a faint, puffy sound; not much muscle left in her arms.

Milo said, “You heard the gunshots. Little Dude’s hiding in the bathroom, where are you?”

“In the front room, ready to pee my panties. Little Dude comes out, gets dressed real fast.” Giggling. “He’s like getting his feet caught in his pants and his thing is waving. He opens the door and books, I shut it and get down on the floor.”

She tucked in her head and covered it with both arms. A schoolkid during one of those pointless Cold War drop drills.

I said, “Must’ve been tough, waiting.”

Her arms dropped and she looked at me. A ribbon of fear curled across her face, rippling sections of ashy skin. “I was scared, sir. Waiting for more.”

“More gunshots.”

“A lot of times there’s more. Right?”

“Right,” said Milo. “Then what happened, Bean?”

“Nothing happened, sir,” said Sarser. “So I looked.” Spreading the air with her hands, she created a two-inch space centered on her face.

I said, “Through the blinds.”

“The what?”

“The window covering.”

“Oh,” she said. “I thought you were saying I’m being blind. For not seeing more.”

I aped the spreading motion.

“Yes, sir. I did that a little and peeked.”

“And saw...”

“A guy.”

First time that had come up.

Milo looked at me, then Petra. No one spoke.

Sarabeth Sarser said, “That’s it. Can I have pie?”

“A guy,” said Milo.

“And a girl.” Breezily, as if one went inevitably with the other.

“From room fourteen.”

“Yeah.”

“What’d they do, Sara?”

“Booked.”

“They ran off together?”

A beat. “He musta pushed her, she like... tripped a little? But she didn’t fall.”

“Then what?”

“He put her into the back of the Rover and booked.”

All new material.

Petra said, “Did she put up a fight?”

“Uh-uh, no. But like I said, she kind of... fell when she walked. But not down. Just like she was... I dunno.”

I said, “She stumbled.”

“Yeah!”

Petra said, “Okay, this is the important part, Sara. What did these two people look like?”

“Don’t know, ma’am. It was dark, I was scared shitless.”

“Tall? Short?”

Head shake. “I didn’t see nothing but shapes and they were moving fast.”

“Black, white, Spanish?”

Head shake. “If they were purple I couldn’t tell you, ma’am, I swear.” To me: “Guess I was kind of blind.”

Petra said, “Age?”

“Couldn’t see .”

Milo said, “No idea at all about age or race?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“What about clothing?”

“Sorry, sir, I wasn’t P.R.’ing.”

“P.R.’ing?”

“ Project-Runway -ing,” she said. “Like when you study the creations?” Frown. “I streamed a bunch of episodes then my iPad got ripped off.”

Petra said, “Bean, in your first call to the station, you didn’t mention any of this. And you didn’t tell me when I talked to you a few hours ago.”

“I was scared.”

“But now you’re telling us.”

“I figured I should.”

“Saving up for a rainy day,” said Milo.

“It’s not raining,” said Sarser. “Not all year, I like that.”

“Like what?”

“When there’s no rain.” Another giggle. “Less clothing, sir.”

“See your point,” said Milo. “So you were saving up the information for when you could use it.”

“That’s what I do, sir. I listen to Gram.”

Petra said, “Let’s go over it again.”

Sarser pouted. “Really?”

“Really.”

Puffing her cheeks while tearing lettuce into shreds, Sarser retold her story. Nothing new.

“After they drove away and didn’t come back, I booked. Got rid of my panties, sir. Like I said, I was scared shitless.”

She laughed. “Can I have pecan pie?”

We left her facing a mammoth slice of pecan pie, glazed nuts crystallized past optimal freshness, the wedge topped by a runny heap of vanilla ice cream. The enhancement, Milo’s burst of generosity.

À la mode, Bean?

Told you, sir. I don’t speak Spanish.

Pie with some ice cream?

That would be cool, sir.

Literally.

Huh?

Out on the sidewalk, Petra said, “Sorry for bringing you out for that. She kept hinting around she had more but obviously she just played me to get her solicitation ticket wiped off.”

Inside the coffee shop, a man walked up to Sarser. Ten years her senior, dark-complexioned, lazy eyelids, lizard face. He wore a black leather jacket, a flashy flowered shirt, diamond earrings in both lobes. Tattoos ran up his neck, flirting with his carotid.

“Look at this zombie-scum,” said Petra. “How many priors would you say?”

Milo scratched his chin. “Twenty, minimum.”

“I say thirty.” She stared at the newcomer, squinting, tight-jawed. Hoping he’d notice her. He didn’t. Kept talking into Sarser’s left ear. Sarser’s hands were flat on the table.

Petra said, “Pathetic. Next time I hear about her, she could be my client.” She turned away. “Okay, guys, let’s get some sleep. Wish it had made a difference.”

Milo said, “Nothing to be sorry for, kid. We learned plenty.”

“What?” she said.

“The woman with Chet wasn’t the caller, making her likely collateral damage, maybe dumped along with the Range Rover, so let’s keep our eyes out for the vehicle. Also nothing we just heard budges Bitt off the radar. The whole Bitt-and-Felice thing is nuts. Old boyfriend moves next door?”

Movement from inside the coffee shop caught our eyes. Iguana Man had looped one arm over Sarabeth Sarser’s shoulder. Smiling slackly, ripe with entitlement.

His mouth got close enough to her left ear to insert his tongue. Maybe that’s what he did. Maybe he just spoke. Either way, she squirmed.

His other arm moved, dangling over her meth-shrunk bosoms.

He began eating her pie.

Petra went in and said something to him. He bristled but slithered out of the booth and left the coffee shop. Making sure to avoid Milo and me.

Petra returned with her phone out, read a text and smiled. “Aww, Eric claims to miss me. I’m straight home, guys.”

She walked away, alert, gracefully athletic. To outward appearances a good-looking woman far too stylish for this section of Hollyweird. One hand rested near the gun beneath her jacket. We watched her slender form melt into the darkness, then headed for our cars.

At the Seville, Milo said, “No more bullshit, tomorrow before Felice takes the kids to school, I’m calling her to see if she can convince Bitt to talk to me. She doesn’t want to cooperate, I’ll inform her there’ll be police banging on his goddamn door day in day out, the press will find out, the entire Westside’s gonna know she’s been in a sneaky relationship with someone who draws obscene, violent cartoons.”

“The kids will be impacted.”

“Got something better?”

“Let me call and ask her.”

“That would work because...”

“I began something this morning, maybe I can build on it.”

“Building rapport through psychological sensitivity,” he said.

“That would be the hope.”

“Rather than the spontaneous invasion of the Visigoth-Mongol-Hun known as me.”