Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“Also, put BOLOs out on the Weylands’ vehicles, here’s the info.”

Binchy copied. “Something come up on them?”

“Not yet, Sean, but maybe it’s not a beautiful day in the neighborhood.”

“All that nice real estate, go know, Loot, huh? Glad you called, I was just about to try you. The desk left me a message slip for you. Someone named Henry Prieto, want me to follow up?”

“No, I’ll handle it. Thanks, Sean.”

“Hey, I love my job!”

“Prieto residence.”

“Lieutenant Sturgis, sir. Got a message—”

“Three hours ago you got it,” said Prieto. “Right after I saw that black Camaro driving up and down my street in a suspicious manner. It made two circuits, parked in front of her place — Maria Braun’s. Driver proceeded to exit, continued toward her front door, observed me observing him, and ran off like a scared bunny. Male Caucasian, nineteen to early twenties, five-eleven, thin build, one forty to fifty, stringy blond hippie hair to his shoulders, acne pimples on his face. Too far away to ascertain eye color. I wrote down the plate. Tags are not current. Blue, could be ’14, ’09, ’04, et cetera depending on how far back you want to go.”

“You’re a gem, Sergeant.”

“Doing my job. Got a pencil?”

Back to DMV with the Camaro’s plates. As expected, no match to currently registered vehicles but fees had been paid in 2009. Milo took the time to put out this BOLO, listing the car as stolen, before sending another text to Petra adding another CCTV target.

Onward to the Camaro’s last owner of record: Edda Mae Halversen, the 1200 block of Laguna Street, Santa Barbara, California.

I said, “Hal Braun went up to Santa Barbara and came back fired up about something.”

Milo looked up Edda Halversen. Ninety-one years old, five-four, one sixty, white and blue, corrective lenses required. No license for five years.

I said, “She can’t drive anymore so her grandson — or great-grandson — gets the car but lets the reg lapse. Or he’s just someone who bought it from her and she can give you a name.”

“Let’s find out,” he said. “If she’s still breathing.”

If a current landline was evidence of life, Edda Halversen was inhaling and exhaling. The number was unlisted and took a while to get, Milo finally getting help from a Santa Barbara detective he’d worked with before named Braxton, who scoped utility records.

Milo thanked her and made the call. No pickup, no voicemail. He logged back to NCIC.

“Ninety-one,” he said. “This’ll be a waste of time unless she’s Ma Barker... yup, pure as milk. Okay, let’s try the Camaro kid. Maybe he’s a Halversen, too, and naughty to boot.”

Several men with that surname had run afoul of the criminal justice system but none came close to matching the skinny blond youth Henry Prieto had seen.

I said, “Whoever he is, he is linked to Braun and Arrowhead. Meaning he might know about Chet and Donna.”

“Arrowhead,” he said. “Let’s see if I can make someone guilty enough to get off his ass.”

His notepad gave up the number of San Bernardino detective Roger Livingston. Off shift but Milo pulled rank with the desk making no mention he was L.A., not local, and got a personal cell number.

Livingston picked up, sounding confused by Milo’s name.

Milo began to explain. “Oh, yeah, that,” Livingston said, sounding as if he was sitting on a monumental hemorrhoid. “You needed to call me at home?”

“I’m working two homicides. Some kind of schedule would help.”

“Yeah, well, don’t count your chickens, we’re short-staffed, get shootings on a regular basis, not like Beverly Hills.”

“I’m West L.A.”

“Whatever,” said Livingston. “It’s serious, here. Like yesterday. We picked up a 187 in need of boo-koo tech attention. Torched vehicle, victim in the driver’s seat with a bullet hole in his head, we’re still trying to I.D. him.”

Milo said, “Where’d it happen?”

“Coming down from Arrowhead into the city,” said Livingston. “Gully off 18. Tight curves in the road, we get go-overs all the time but this wasn’t no accident. Gasoline used as an accelerant, plates removed, VIN number filed off. Obviously a drug-gang thing. Some of those weekenders are scumbags.”

“By any chance are we talking about a Taurus or a Ford Ranger?”

“Nah, a lot more painful,” said Livingston. “Hot wheels gone to waste. One of those Range Rovers.”

Milo clamped his hand atop his head and worked to keep his voice even. “A Rover could be related to my cases. Put money on it, in fact.”

Long silence from Livingston. Other voices drifted into the background. Kids.

Livingston said, “Hold on,” and moved somewhere quieter. “What the hell ?”

“One of my vics — the owner of the house I asked you to process — drove a Range Rover. The guy who shot him took it, along with a female hostage.”

“A female,” said Livingston. “Well our vic’s a man. Despite being barbecued, you could see a few beard hairs. Long ones. And a leather hat that looks like grilled steak. Now I got to go take care of my kids—”

“Guess what, Roger. I might be able to I.D. your vic.”

“What?”

“The caretaker at the house I asked you to process had a beard and wore a leather hat. Name’s David Brassing.”

“You’re shitting me,” said Livingston.

“Where in the head was the wound?”

“Temple.”

“Which side?”

A beat. “Left. I think.”

“So the killer either fired from outside the car or your vic was in the passenger seat while it was parked, shooter got out and lit up and staged the push-over.”

“Anything’s always possible,” said Livingston.

“David Brassing,” said Milo. “If you want I can call his house, find out if he’s been missing. Then again, it’s your case, Roger.”

“Shit,” said Livingston. “Hold on, I need to write all this down.”

He went offline for a minute. “Okay, got a pen. Let’s have everyone’s names.”

Milo read off the list: Chet Corvin; Paul Weyland; Donna Weyland; David Brassing. “Got all that, Roger?”

“Yeah... shit, my loo’s gonna love this. Not.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lieutenant Ahearn.”

“Gimme his number.”

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Livingston. “He don’t like being called unless it’s an emergency.”

“Three related homicides in two jurisdictions,” said Milo. “That’s kind of emergent, Roger.”

Two beats. “Okay, here it is but don’t blame me .”

Despite Livingston’s warning, Detective Lieutenant Alan Ahearn took the call calmly and graciously. No kids in the background, just jazz. Something syncopated, a Latin beat.

He and Milo agreed on a first-name basis. Milo’s posture loosened, someone he could communicate with. He gave Ahearn a summary, repeated Livingston’s assessment of a drug hit.

Ahearn said, “Roger said that, huh? Caretaker at the house... can you hold for a sec, see if we’ve got anything on him?”

“Sure.”

Ahearn was gone briefly. When he returned, no more music. “Brassing has a record with us but small-time and not recent, I doubt this was a big drug thing. More important, his wife filed a missing on him when he didn’t come home two days ago, which fits the initial pathology on the Rover. What’s your theory, he went over to check out the house, got unlucky and surprised someone?”

“Exactly, Al,” said Milo. “How far is the dump site from the house?”

“Not terribly close,” said Ahearn. “Three, four miles.”