Джонатан Келлерман: Night Moves

I said, “Hiding evidence is the most likely reason.”

“But nothing’s guaranteed.” Strange smile. “Given tonight, that’s pretty obvious.”

I looked at Milo and he took over, covering the same ground he had with Chet. Hang-up calls, strange vehicles, anything out of the ordinary.

Identical denials from Felice. The first sign of accord between them. They’d never know.

Milo closed his pad. “So it’s pretty much a quiet neighborhood, Mrs. Corvin.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it a neighborhood. That would imply neighborliness.”

“Not a friendly place.”

“Not friendly or unfriendly, Lieutenant. Just a bunch of houses that abut each other. I grew up in Indiana and Georgia, we had block parties, no fences between the yards. Even later, up north — we used to live in Mill Valley before we came here — we knew the people around us, rode our horses together — we had equestrian zoning, it was lovely.”

“Not here,” said Milo.

“Hardly,” said Felice Corvin. “Here, you rarely see people, period. Weekends are dead.” She colored around her freckles. “Sorry, that was... what I’ve heard is that a lot of the owners have second homes. And some are renters.”

I said, “Like the Weylands.”

Felice Corvin squinted at me.

I said, “It came up in conversation with your husband. Your helping them find the place.”

“Did he call me a busybody like when it happened?”

“He said you were helpful.” Ever the therapist.

“Well,” said Felice Corvin, “I did tell them about the vacancy. I knew Donna because she’s in accounting downtown, came to our office to deliver papers, we chatted, she told me she was looking for a place. Paul I only met after they moved in. Nice people but we don’t see them much, they have no kids, do a lot of traveling.”

Milo said, “Another neighbor came up in conversation with your husband. Mr. Bitt, on the other side.”

Felice Corvin’s head drew back. “What about him?”

“Your husband said he was a bit odd.”

She drummed a granite counter. “Can’t argue with that. Was there a reason Chet brought it up? As in something he knows but has chosen not to tell me about?”

“No, ma’am,” said Milo. “We probed for anything out of the ordinary just as we did with you and Mr. Corvin said Mr. Bitt was a bit different.”

“Okay. I’d hate to think Chet was keeping something important from me. Yes, Trevor’s a bit of an odd duck. Keeps to himself, we rarely see him, though for all I know he emerges when we’re at work. I did bring him his mail once and he thanked me but that’s been the extent of it. As I said, no one around here is exactly gregarious. Except Chet, of course, he’s never met a stranger.”

Her smile was lopsided, unrelated to happiness.

“Never met a stranger, Chet,” she repeated. “I guess now he has.”

We escorted her back to the Weylands’ living room. Three people working their phones. The kids didn’t look up but Chet did.

“Got us set up at the Circle Plaza, nice and close to the 405, make your commute a cinch.”

“It’ll do,” said Felice. “We won’t be staying long, anyway.” To Milo: “Can you give me at least an educated guess as to when we can return home?”

“As I said, ma’am, it’s likely to be a crime scene through tomorrow, possibly the day after.”

“Okay, if I know, I can plan,” she said. “In terms of that cleanup company, no need, we’ll have our housekeeper do it. Get her some heavy-duty gloves.”

Chet said, “I don’t know, that’s pretty intense—”

“ I know. There wasn’t much blood that I could see. Right, Lieutenant? It’s something we can handle.”

“Probably.”

“No guarantees, huh?” She laughed. To her husband: “We’ll be fine. It’s only one room.”

“My room.”

“The dy-ing room,” said Brett, not bothering to look up from his tiny screen. One hand finger-waved. “Ooooh, scary!”

Chelsea texted and ignored him.

Felice said, “We’ll pick up what we need from the twenty-four-hour Ralph’s in Brentwood, seeing as it’s close to — oh, one thing, Lieutenant. May my children get their backpacks so they have their schoolbooks?”

“Sure,” he said. “An officer will accompany one of you to get them.”

“ I’ll be that one,” she said. “Thank you.”

Brett said, “Books for one day? I don’t need ’em.”

His mother said, “Enough out of you.” But she smiled and her son returned the courtesy.

Chelsea had returned to staring at nocturnal nothingness.

Milo radioed Moe Reed, who came to escort Felice as the rest of us waited outside.

Both family vehicles had been processed and released. No sign of blood, the only irregular find a silver flask of whiskey in the glove compartment of the black Range Rover.

Chet Corvin said, “I take it to the clubhouse, share some Oban with the guys.”

Milo said, “I’d keep it somewhere else, sir.” He returned the bottle, snipped the tape blocking the driveway.

“Duly noted, Lieutenant,” said Corvin. Not a trace of sincerity.

Milo said, “Soon as your wife returns, you’re good to go, sir.”

Chet Corvin said, “I’m good now. You guys wait for Mom.” Climbing into the Rover, he backed out too fast, bucked the vehicle as he shifted to Drive, and sped away. Brett and Chelsea, entranced by their phones, didn’t seem to notice his departure.

Neither did their mother, toting two backpacks. Shouting, “Turn those things off, our bars are getting low and our bill’s insane,” she headed for the gray Lexus.

When the sedan was gone, Milo studied the Tudor Revival to the left. Clumsily built, with exaggerated slope to the mock-slate roof, too much half timber crisscrossing stucco and brick.

The landscaping didn’t fit medieval England: cactus, aloe, and other sharp, spiky things bordering a C-shaped cobbled drive and fringing the bottom of the house. Drought-friendly but also human-unfriendly. A black Ram pickup, maybe twenty years old, was positioned so it blocked a view of the front door.

He said, “Too late to deal with neighbors, let alone the resident loner. Let’s see what’s going on, tech-wise.”

A voice behind us said, “May I lock up?”

Paul Weyland had come out of his house. He’d put on a bathrobe. His front door remained open.

Milo said, “Go ahead, sir. Thanks for your hospitality.”

Weyland rubbed his bald head. “I can’t exactly say it was my pleasure. But they needed somewhere to go — what a terrible situation. Are they okay?”

“Good as can be expected.”

Weyland yawned, raised a hand to cover his mouth. “ ’Scuse me. Guess I’ll try to grab some shut-eye.”

Milo said, “Long as we have you, could we ask a few questions?”

Weyland righted his eyeglasses. “Sure.”

Milo repeated the pop quiz he’d given the Corvins. Same answers.

He pointed to the Tudor. “How well do you know your neighbor over there, Mr. Bitt?”

Weyland frowned. “Not well... he’s not what you’d call friendly.”

“A loner.”

Nod. Weyland chewed his lip. “Are you saying you’ve got evidence of a problem with him?”

“Not at all, sir,” said Milo. “The Corvins described him as a loner. We’ll be talking to him along with everyone else on the block.”

“Well, good luck talking to him,” said Weyland. “He really is kind of antisocial. Shortly after we moved in, my wife happened to catch him going to his truck. Donna’s friendly, she said hi. Bitt just ignored her and drove away. She said he made her feel like she didn’t exist. She was kind of upset.”