Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“Clean. Big deal, he stinks of con man, who knows what his real identity is.”

I said, “He’s used ‘Paul,’ maybe because that’s his actual given name. ‘Mearsheim’ morphing to ‘Weyland’ could be identity theft of some random dead person. Or he assumed Donna’s name.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Playing the Beta to the hilt, letting her think she was in charge. The cars were in her name because he pled poverty, meanwhile he’s got Jackie’s money hidden from her.”

“Another wife disappeared.”

“Maybe this one can be found,” I said. “Brassing’s murder could’ve resulted from his discovering something buried in that forest behind the A-frame.”

“I told him to stay away.” He thumped the steering wheel with the heel of his fist. “The place has to be processed — let’s see if Ahearn’s a man of his word.”

We got onto the freeway where he immediately ignored speed limits. Just before Carpenteria, with the road sun-brightened and nearly empty, he pulled out his cell then lowered it as something to the right caught his eye.

A CHP Dodge Challenger was parked just beyond a road curve on the western shoulder, blue ocean gleaming through the passenger windows, tan-uniform at the wheel, aiming a radar gun.

Geography providing a nifty little speed trap. Maybe Milo could’ve skated, maybe not. Professional courtesy between the highway patrol and city cops is unpredictable.

He slowed precipitously. The Challenger’s beefy tires rotating toward the highway said it was ready to pounce. Milo altered that plan by turning off onto the right shoulder and coming to a stop three car lengths ahead of the cruiser. By the time he rolled down his window, the trooper was out of his car, one hand on his holster.

A quick flash of Milo’s I.D. and a few pacifying words about heading to a new crime scene and not wanting to drive distracted turned the trooper contemplative.

Milo consulted his phone. “Oh, man, this is serious. Multiple victims.”

The Chippie, young, beefy, sunburn-ruddy, said, “Good thinking your getting off the highway, Lieutenant, the law’s for everyone.” Looking crushed, he swaggered back to his black-and-white and sat there as Milo punched in Ahearn’s numbers.

Ahearn didn’t answer his cell or his desk phone. A desk officer said the lieutenant was out but wouldn’t give details.

Milo said, “Any word on a forensic analysis at—?”

“No idea. I’ll give him the message.”

As we got back on the highway, Ruddy pretended to ignore us.

At Oxnard, Milo looked around and speed-dialed. Nothing to report from Binchy, Petra, or Biro.

He handed me the phone. “Look up the school district I called before, punch it, and hand it over. Please.”

He weathered bureaucracy through Camarillo and well into Thousand Oaks. Hopping like a frog in a lily pond, transferred from one bureaucrat to another. Near Lindero Canyon, I spotted another CHP stalk and said so.

He passed me the phone and I pretended to be him with three L.A. Unified functionaries.

Finally, a woman named Estrelle said, “Neither person is currently employed by the district.”

“Did they quit or were they terminated?”

“I can’t give out that information.”

“Could you make a theoretical guess?”

“I’m not sure I know what you—”

“It’s important to find them. They could be homicide victims.”

Estrelle said, “Really?”

“Really.”

“Well... is this being taped?”

“No.”

“All right,” said Estrelle. “All I can tell you is voluntary leaves of absence have been known to take place.”

“How long ago? Theoretically.”

“Well... could be a month. Around.”

“Thank you.”

“Victims,” said Estrelle. “That’s bad.”

I handed the phone back to Milo.

He said, “You should be me more often, amigo. Though you would need to up your caloric intake. A month. So they both left around the same time.”

I said, “Maybe Donna gave notice first because she was hiding from Mearsheim and prepping to run away with Corvin. Mearsheim found out and quit to go looking for her, finally nabbed her at the Sahara. Then he took her back to Arrowhead to finish her off. Returning to the scene of her crime to mete out justice, but maybe not swift justice. Brassing’s death says Mearsheim was up there recently. One good reason would be to have his way with Donna.”

“You think he tortured her?”

“Someone who could blow a man’s face off, sever his hands, and take the time to stage the body in a neighbor’s house is capable of anything.”

He had me speed-dial Ahearn, still no luck.

“Just like TV,” he said. “Solved by the fourth commercial.”

I said, “By adorable things using whiz-bang DNA.”

He was quiet for the next few exits. Then: “That goddamn place has to be processed.”

No news by ten the following morning.

I had a custody evaluation scheduled, initial session with an eight-year-old girl named Amelia buffeted by her parents’ guerrilla warfare.

She arrived with her father, a grim screenwriter with a history of depression. That, alone, wouldn’t prejudice his case; his ex, a former model, had been in and out of rehab.

Amelia held his hand but pulled it loose when she saw me. Chubby, ginger-haired kid with gray, war-orphan eyes. Tear streaks down her cheeks had dried to salty granulation.

Her father said, “You need to know: She didn’t want to come.”

I bent and smiled, made sure to talk normally, not with that saccharine I’m-so-sensitive shrink-voice amateurs use. “Hi, Amelia. I’m the kind of doctor who doesn’t give shots. We won’t do anything you don’t want.”

Her mouth twisted.

Grim said, “I just got her a dog and she wanted to bring it. I told her it was against your rules.”

“What kind of dog do you have, Amelia?”

Grim said, “Maltese mix,” as if letting out a state secret.

“What’s your dog’s name, Amelia?”

Whispered reply. I bent lower to catch it as Grim said, “Snowy.”

“You can bring Snowy next time, Amelia.”

Grim said, “Speaking of which, how many next times are we talking about?”

“Amelia, do you like all kinds of dogs or just Snowy?”

“All kinds.”

“Any allergies to other dogs?” I asked Grim.

“Not that I know so far. She’s into Snowy, not dogs in general.”

I said, “Hold on for one sec, Amelia,” left, and returned with Blanche trotting at my side.

Gray eyes expanded like a water lily encountering sunlight.

Amelia said, “Wow.”

Her father said, “Hmh. Do I wait here or out in the car?”

An hour later, a perked-up, affectionately licked Amelia was hugging Blanche near the front door as Grim tapped a sandal. “Gotta go, Meel. Meeting at Warner Brothers.”

He reached for her hand. She touched his fingers briefly, dropped her hand to her flanks.

I said, “Next week, same time. With or without Snowy.”

Grim said, “Hope this doesn’t drag on.”

Amelia smiled at Blanche, then stooped and kissed her. Her father waited for a while as child and dog communed.

Just as I finished charting the session, my private line rang.

Milo said, “Ahearn finally called.”

“The A-frame got processed.”

A beat. “In the process of being processed.”

“Great.”

“Not so simple. Not — how’s your schedule?”

“Just got free.”

“I’ll drive, you can look out for radar guns.”

He picked me up four minutes later. Meaning he’d called while driving over, confident of my answer.