Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“You weren’t curious enough to come out and check?”

“When I saw Chelsea leave the house — the others, as well — I assumed it was a burglary. The next day, Felice told me what had happened.”

Milo said, “Does Chelsea have a pal who drives a dark truck the same size as yours?”

Bitt’s head swung toward him. “You can’t be serious.”

“We consider everything.”

“Chelsea’s gentle.”

Milo touched the side of his eye. Bitt winced.

“I don’t know anything about Chelsea’s friends. She’s never talked about having any. But she had nothing to do with anything.”

“You know that because...”

“I know my daughter.”

“Would you be willing to release your financial records for inspection?”

The topic shift threw Bitt. Classic detective trick. When he stopped blinking he said, “What kind of inspection?”

“Unusual cash withdrawals.”

“For what — really, Lieutenant?” said Bitt. “As if I’d know how to hire some kind of assassin?”

“A look at your records could clear up the issue.”

“Be my guest, Lieutenant, but there are no records here, everything’s handled by a trustee.”

“Who’s that?”

“A management firm in Palo Alto. Swarzsteen Associates, they’ve worked with us for generations. The executive for my account is Don Swarzsteen.”

Milo said, “Spell that, please.”

Bitt recited slowly.

“So how does it work?”

“I suppose I’ll need a release. Get me a form and I’ll sign it.”

Milo said, “I meant how do you get your bills paid?”

“Swarzsteen pays them — credit card bills, utilities, taxes. For odds and ends, they send me a monthly allowance.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand a month.”

“Tight budget,” said Milo.

“Enough for me,” said Bitt. “At the end of the year, I send some of it back and Don reinvests it. That I can show you.”

We followed Bitt as he opened the door to a bedroom set up with a Chinese wedding bed, a Victorian dresser, three paintings on the three walls, and little else. He rifled in a drawer and handed Milo a computer printout.

Year-end summary below the letterhead of the investment company, most of the activity co-managed by the Palo Alto office of Chase Private Client. Current balance in an “extraneous expenses account,” $12,356.13, monthly deposits of $2,000.00 on the third of each month, slightly over half making a return trip.

Bitt said, “My needs are simple. I use it for food and art supplies.”

I said, “Speaking of art,” and headed for the studio.

Not one easel, a pair, the second positioned against a windowless section of the western wall, invisible from the doorway. The one facing the street propped a painting of two luminous, beautifully rendered emerald-breasted birds hovering in midair. The other displayed a canvas the same size filled with muddy blotches.

Bitt pulled a sketch pad out of a flat file and showed us a pencil sketch of two macaws. “What I was working on, that night.”

I said, “Why don’t you cartoon anymore?”

Bitt said, “I came to see it for what it was. Mean-spirited, seize on deformity and magnify. I had enough.” He pointed to Chelsea’s painting. “Interesting, no? Bringing order to chaos. To me, this paler section up here represents dawning clarity.”

That sounded like art-speak b.s. I saw blotches.

Love knows no bounds.

Bitt took our silence as debate.

“It’s conceptual,” he insisted. “She’s the only thing I’ve ever really conceived.”

We left Bitt in his studio and convened on the sidewalk. Afternoon was conceding to evening, trees zebra-striping sidewalks, a mustard glow limning rooftops.

Milo said, “Please tell me you don’t agree.”

“About what?”

“Bitt’s clean.”

I said, “Cardiac tech verified his alibi?”

“Belted and hooked up for eight hours, never left the sleep lab.”

The door to Bitt’s house opened and the artist stuck his head out. “I just got off the phone with Don Swarzsteen. No form necessary, call him at your convenience.”

Milo said, “My new pal. Dammit.”

“Your level of charm, you’re surprised?”

Another door opened a few houses down. Another head, peering out briefly then withdrawing. Suburban whack-a-mole.

A brief phone chat with Donald Swarzsteen III left Milo shaking his head as he pocketed his cell. “Guy has that ’tude you get from people who live off the rich.”

I said, “Thinks he’s more than a babysitter.”

“You must be a psychologist. Yeah, he’s a stick-up-the-ass snoot. He also backs up Bitt’s claim that there’s no other money.”

We entered the Corvin house. Marlin Moroni stood watch on the upstairs landing. He came down, looking bored.

“Girl’s in her bedroom doing whack drawings. I figured it was okay, she gets ideas about her fucking pencil, I can handle it.”

I said, “Whack as in?”

“Hope you don’t want me to get medical, Doc. Whack as in tiny little squares over and over. But what do I know about art? She’s also got headphones on. Attached to a — get this — CD player, Country Joe and the Fish, my older brother was into all that flower-power crap.”

I said, “San Francisco, her father’s era.”

Moroni said, “You cleared him?”

“Disgustingly alibied,” said Milo. “What about the boy and Mrs. C?”

“He’s in his room, playing videogames, she’s at the kitchen table pretending nothing happened. I got a look at her screen, something about curriculum.”

“She works for the school district.”

“Figures, she’s got that mean-teacher vibe. Anything else you need?”

Milo said, “Nah, you can go. Thanks, Marlin.”

“Thank you for the overtime,” said Moroni. He checked a rubber-strapped diver’s watch. “Shift’s not officially over but I’m assuming we’re not going to get all fractional.”

Milo said, “I’ll put it in as a full, enjoy life.”

Moroni rolled his shoulders and put on mirrored shades. “This one chalks up as a good day. Had nothing to do in the first place and I’m walking away healthy.”

Felice Corvin sat typing at the kitchen table. She saw us but kept working.

Milo said, “Let’s talk about Chelsea.”

Felice’s fingers rested on the keys. Her eyes faced her screen. “Hasn’t there been enough stress for one day?”

“Not as much as there could’ve been, ma’am, as in I don’t need a white cane.”

“That was unfortunate.”

“Fortunate for me, ma’am.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. Chelsea’s sorry.”

“She can atone by cooperating.”

“She has nothing to offer, Lieutenant.”

“I won’t know that until I talk to her.”

“I’m her mother, trust me.”

Milo said nothing.

Felice shut her laptop. “She’s a minor.”

“She comes of age in a few days.”

“Rules are rules.” That sounded like something she was used to saying.

“I have no problem with rules,” said Milo. “The penal code’s got one about attempted assault on a police officer.”

“Oh, please! She didn’t even touch you.”

“Not for lack of trying, Ms. Corvin. She can be arrested right now, for a serious felony. I’m assuming you’d rather I talk to her.”

“This is extortion.”

“No, ma’am. Extortion is a crime and I’m not a criminal. I’m laying out contingencies.”

She didn’t answer.

He said, “Have it your way.” Reaching around under his jacket, he produced his cuffs.

Felice shot to her feet. “Please!”

Milo looked her in the eye. She made a fist but uncurled it quickly.