Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“Being discreet meant the man Chelsea thought was her father never knew.”

“He and everyone else, including Chelsea,” said Bitt.

“Any idea what changed Felice’s mind?”

Bitt’s fingers moved as if typing on an unseen keyboard. “She told me she told you. Her marriage had slid downhill.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask Felice.”

“She never explained.”

“Just that,” said Bitt. “I don’t like talking about that kind of thing.”

“Emotions.”

“Negatives.”

“Such as?”

Bitt sighed. “Infidelity.”

“Felice learned Chet had been unfaithful.”

“She’d discovered some credit card bills. I told her I didn’t want to know so that’s where it ended.”

Milo said, “A little chat.”

“That’s it.”

“Just talk?”

Bitt looked amused. “If you’re asking about sex, I don’t do sex anymore.” He patted his chest. The cuffs clinked.

“Vow of chastity?”

“Heart problems. In more ways than one.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ve never been an emotional man, have been called emotionally flat. Over the years, I’ve flattened out further.”

Milo said, “You are a stubborn man. I’ve been trying to speak with you for weeks. Why’d you stonewall me?”

“I had nothing to tell you.”

“That’s your answer.”

“All right,” said Bitt. “I do tend to one emotion.” To me: “Someone in your profession called it free-floating anxiety. Treatment would involve drugs so I’ve passed.”

Milo said, “You don’t do drugs.”

“Not anymore, Lieutenant. The result is an undercurrent of dread. I live with it and it propels me inward.”

“Doing the hermit thing.”

“In San Francisco I used to get out and do social things for business. I never enjoyed them.”

Another look at me: “It’s not agoraphobia, any kind of phobia. I don’t have panic attacks and when I need to leave the house, I can. I just don’t prefer it, so I limit my excursions.”

I said, “To what?”

“Shopping when I can’t get something delivered. Brief walks to avoid blood clots per my doctor. Doctor visits. That’s where I was the night Chet died.”

Passive word choice.

I said, “Nighttime doctor visit?”

“Hospital visit,” said Bitt. “St. John’s, for tests. They put a belt on me that monitored my heartbeat. It needed to be done at night so they could observe my sleeping patterns to make sure my system doesn’t go haywire when I’m unaware.”

“You’ve had symptoms.”

“I’d been waking up short of breath. I called my cardiologist, he scheduled the test.”

Milo took out his pad. “Name?”

“Dr. Gerald Weinblatt,” said Bitt. “Sometimes I see his partner, Dr. Prit Acharya. Neither of them was there, the procedure was done by a technician. An African American gentleman, I don’t know his name.”

I said, “When did you learn about Chet Corvin’s murder?”

“Felice came over the following day and told me what had happened.”

“What was her demeanor?”

“Her demeanor? She was upset. Used up half a box of Kleenex.”

Sean Binchy came downstairs, gloved hands holding a bronze-fitted wooden case and a cheap-looking gray cardboard box fastened by an oversized rubber band. Placing both on the floor, he undid the latches on the case and lifted the lid carefully.

The rifle lay in fitted green velvet. Same beautifully figured walnut as the case, with tarnished, hand-engraved metal tooling.

“Hand-etched, Loot, looks like thirties or forties.”

Bitt said, “Probably thirties or even the twenties. Father received it as a boy.”

Milo said, “Mr. Bitt says he’s never fired it.”

Binchy lifted the weapon, sniffed the end of the barrel. Sneezed. Coughed and sneezed three more times. “It’s full of dust and stuff, Loot.” To Bitt: “This is a valuable rifle, sir. You don’t believe in taking care of it?”

Bitt shook his head.

Binchy undid the rubber band. No velvet interior for this receptacle, just more cardboard. Inside was a dull-looking blade, pitted and corroded along the cutting edge, the handle wrapped in white twine that had browned unevenly.

Binchy said, “Looks like pot metal.” He peered at the corrosion. “Don’t see blood, but...”

Bitt said, “There is none.”

Milo said, “Test it — take it to the lab, now.”

Binchy left with both weapons.

Trevor Bitt said, “When you’re finished testing the sword, throw it out. I forgot I had it, only held on to it to remind myself not to be so trusting.”

Milo said, “You’re generally a trusting guy.”

“When I took hallucinogens, I was. Except for when I overdid and became paranoid.”

“Paranoid and brandishing a rifle,” said Milo.

“It’s nothing I’m proud of, Lieutenant.”

“No more illicit chemistry for you. Not even for your free-floating anxiety?”

“For that I use solitude.”

“Stonewalling the cops was therapeutic.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I regret inconveniencing you.”

Milo touched the spot Chelsea’s pencil had missed. His eyes got tight and he rhino-jawed.

Sense memory leading to anger.

Bitt said, “I knew I couldn’t help you.”

Milo said, “Where were you the night the body was dumped in the Corvins’ house?”

“Dumped?” said Bitt. “What do you mean?”

“Not a complicated word, Mr. Bitt.”

“Someone put him there?”

“You didn’t know that.”

“I knew what Felice told me.”

“Which was?”

“They came home and found a dead man in Chet’s den. I assumed he’d been killed there.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“That’s it. As I said, we don’t talk much.”

“No relationship.”

“Only as it concerns Chelsea,” said Bitt. “Felice lets me spend time with Chelsea as long as she sees it being helpful to Chelsea.”

I said, “You’re on probation.”

He looked at me. Blank face, frozen eyes. “I guess you could say that, Doctor.”

Milo said, “Why’d you and Felice break up?”

“She initiated. My guess would be I was dislikable, she’d had enough.”

“You didn’t talk about that, either.”

Head shake. “She stopped taking my calls. I didn’t call for very long.”

I said, “How’d you react when she told you about Chelsea?”

“Surprise,” said Bitt. “And, I admit, some anxiety. I spent a long time fretting. What did it mean? Eventually, I began wondering if something positive might develop.”

“Did you worry about Felice making demands?”

Bitt said, “She assured me she wasn’t interested in money. Then she said she’d been wrong to draw me in, I should forget about it.”

“You didn’t.”

Bitt’s lips worked. What began as a frown ended as a smile. “As you’ve seen, I’m not always cooperative.”

Moe Reed returned. “Nothing in the garage, L.T.” A glance at Bitt. “Like he said, literally. No car, no tools, just dust. There is a toolbox under the kitchen sink, couple of Phillips, one wrench, a measuring tape. In terms of blades, he’s got flatware for two, looks pretty flimsy, and one Henckels knife with no visible blood but I’ll bag it.”

“There won’t be blood, I’m a vegetarian,” said Bitt.

Milo said, “Do it. I told Sean to drive to the lab. If he’s close enough, have him come back and add the knife.”

“There’s no blood,” Bitt repeated. “I promise.”

Moments after Reed’s exit, Marlin Moroni came thundering down the stairs. “Can I talk in front of him?”

“Go,” said Milo.