Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

Felice said, “This is shameful.” To me: “In your case, it’s malpractice.”

Moe Reed stepped in front of her. “Shameful would be your daughter blinding the lieutenant.”

Felice gave a start. “That didn’t... he’s okay, right? Obviously.”

Reed shot her a death-glare. Ditto from Moroni. Even Binchy was looking stern.

Chelsea said, “Let’s go home, Mommy.”

Lincoln propelled them out the door.

I turned to Bitt. “Why do you call her Tamara?”

“Tamara de Lempicka was a great artist.”

“Building up her confidence.”

The suggestion seemed to puzzle Bitt. “I want to encourage her.”

Milo said, “Before we got here, what were you two doing?”

“Painting,” said Bitt. “We’ve just gotten into acrylics.”

He looked down at his tethered hands. Some of the nails were nearly covered by pigment. The rest of him was pallid. He was dressed much like the last time I’d seen him: green cashmere crewneck, brown polo, the same compulsively ironed khakis, brown deck shoes with white soles.

I said, “How’s Chelsea taking to it?”

A beat. “She gets frustrated.”

He sat lower, as if betrayed by a rubbery spine. The furniture all around us was dark, heavy, overstuffed. Castoffs inherited from a maiden aunt. The paintings on the wall were a whole different flavor. Abstractions, sparsely hung on white plaster walls pretending to be the hand-troweling of an English manor.

Nice stuff. I got up and checked the signatures. Judy Chicago, Billy Al Bengston, Larry Bell, Ed Ruscha. Members of the artistic brain trust who’d worked in L.A. during the sixties and seventies. Back when they were affordable, I couldn’t afford.

Trevor Bitt had swiveled and watched as I inspected. When I returned, his eyes dropped back to his hands.

I said, “Before you moved here, did you live in L.A.?”

“Never.”

“You just like L.A. artists.”

Bitt smiled. “I’ve got a room of French fauvists in my bedroom, Hudson Valley landscape painters in the spare. Art’s an easy way to see the world.”

Milo’s hand left his eye socket. He waved a piece of paper in front of Bitt. “This is a warrant to search for firearms and edged weapons on your premises. Would you like to read it?”

“No, thanks.”

“If you tell us what you have at the outset, we can do it quicker.”

“What I have isn’t much,” said Bitt.

Milo tapped a foot.

Bitt said, “Does edged include flatware and palette knives — that’s a tool used to spread paint on a canvas.”

“If it can hurt someone, it’s included.”

“I’ve got aluminum flatware, one butcher knife that’s still sharp because I rarely use it, and three palette knives.”

“Location.”

“Kitchen, kitchen, studio.”

“Firearms,” said Milo.

“Arm singular,” said Bitt. “A Holland and Holland rifle I inherited from my father. He shot grouse with it. Or quail, some kind of defenseless little bird. I never went along, it held no interest for me.”

“But he left you the weapon.”

“Maybe he figured I’d come around.”

“Did you?”

“It’s never been loaded.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“I think I’d remember, Lieutenant.”

“You’ve never brandished it in front of anyone?”

Bitt sat back and stared at his hands.

Milo repeated the question.

“That I have, Lieutenant. More than once.”

“Under what circumstances?”

Bitt said, “Being an idiot. A long time ago.”

“What’s a long time?”

“Decades. I was a countercultural pretender and sometimes used it for dramatic effect. A prop. It’s never been loaded.”

“Why do that?”

Bitt raised his hands to form quotation marks, setting off jingles and rattles. “I wasn’t a ‘nice guy.’ My art wasn’t nice, either. I thought I was being clever and au courant but now it all seems stale.”

I said, “Has your art changed?”

“To the extent that I make any,” said Bitt.

“What do you paint, now?”

“Currently I’m tackling orchids and birds in the style of Martin Johnson Heade. He was an itinerant painter who sold door-to-door. I admire that flavor of enterprise.”

Milo said, “Back in the day, you enjoyed scaring people with your rifle.”

“When I was stoned or drunk or just being a jerk.”

“We won’t find any ammunition in your house.”

“None.”

“What about the garage?”

“There’s nothing in the garage,” said Bitt. “Literally.”

Milo motioned to Reed, who headed for the rear of the house.

“Where’s the rifle, Mr. Bitt?”

“In a burr-walnut case at the back of my bedroom closet.”

“Anything else you want to tell us about before we search?”

“In the same closet, there’s a samurai sword. Tourist junk. I received it as payment for an illustration back in... probably ’67, ’68? A concert poster, some band. When I tried to sell it I learned it was worthless.”

Milo motioned to Moroni and Binchy. Up they went.

Trevor Bitt said, “I had nothing to do with the man who was killed at Felice’s.”

Braun had been killed elsewhere. Feigning ignorance or misdirecting?

Milo said, “We’re dealing with two dead men.”

Bitt nodded. “Chet.”

“What do you think of that?”

“People getting murdered? It’s terrible.”

“Maybe not for you,” said Milo.

Bitt blinked. “I’m not following, Lieutenant.”

“With Chet Corvin gone, you’re free to be with Felice.”

No emotion on the grayish face.

“Mr. Bitt?”

“I suppose I can understand you thinking that.”

“It’s not true?”

“There’d be no... Felice and I aren’t involved romantically. Not since our relationship in San Francisco.”

I said, “The one that led to Chelsea’s conception.”

For the first time Bitt’s demeanor changed. Blinking half a dozen times, brow forming a V-crease as his lips folded inward. “Yes. But by the time I found out, we were over.”

“When was that?”

“When Felice called me five years ago.”

“And you decided to move next door.”

“That took some pondering,” said Bitt. “I moved the following year.”

Milo said, “Living next to your ex-girlfriend-baby-mama and your secret daughter.”

Bitt’s shoulders rose and fell. “It came at a time when I was ready to make a change. I’d considered Venice. Italy, not California. My aunt owns a deteriorating villa on the Grand Canal.”

“Felice’s call changed your mind.”

“After some deliberation.”

I said, “Ready for fatherhood.”

“I didn’t aim that high,” said Bitt. “I was hoping for some sort of relationship.”

“Chelsea calls you ‘Daddy.’ ”

“For the past two days.”

“Before that?”

“She called me Trevor. I tried to be her friend. To inspire her art.”

“But you hoped for more.”

Bitt blinked. Footsteps from above vibrated the ceiling.

I said, “How quickly did the relationship develop?”

“Not quickly at all,” said Bitt. “At first, I did nothing. Then I asked Felice if I might do something. She said absolutely not. She wasn’t happy I was here, had done her best to ignore me and I kept to myself. Last year, she came over, said she’d changed her mind and I could do art with Chelsea if Chelsea agreed and I swore to be discreet.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that, Doctor.”

“Impulsive,” I said. “Like calling to tell you about Chelsea.”

“She can be that way. It’s part of why I was attracted to her back in San Francisco. I have difficulty being spontaneous.”