Джонатан Келлерман: Night Moves

“I did indeed.”

“Two squats, gotta keep my eye on both. But I’m getting the hell inside Marquette.”

Judge Sonia Martinez was on vacation.

“Fishing in Alaska, hopefully a bear won’t eat her,” said Milo.

He called Biro for another name, Biro had nothing to offer. Several more calls finally pulled up Galen Friedman, a recent appointee with higher political aspirations and a rep as “a cop groupie, his daughter just started the academy.”

Friedman listened to fifteen seconds of Milo’s spiel and said, “You’ve obviously done your homework. Bring the application to my house and you’re all set.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Where are you?”

Friedman gave him an address on June Street in Hancock Park.

“Terrific, Your Honor. Meantime, may I assume verbal—”

“Is sufficient?” said Friedman. “You may, go catch some criminals, Lieutenant Sturgis. And don’t forget the little ones in December.”

“Which little ones?”

“Ill children are my fervent cause, Lieutenant. I chair an appeal for Orthopedic Hospital at year’s end. It defines worthy.”

“I’m on board, sir.”

“You bet you are, Lieutenant.”

After completing the warrant application, Milo said, “Just to keep things smooth,” and phoned Deputy D.A. John Nguyen.

Nguyen said, “You’re still after the loco cartoonist?”

“No, he’s off the radar.”

“What, then? Something’s changed?”

“A lot’s changed, John.”

When Milo finished, Nguyen said, “You’ve built up the grounds. I could’ve gotten you in with any judge.”

“Didn’t wanna bug you, John.”

“Sure, that was it,” said Nguyen. “Friedman hit on you for one of his charities?”

“Sick kids.”

“See you at his party,” said Nguyen. “You’ll get to see his house. Freakin’ castle. But shit hors d’oeuvres.”

Milo got a uniform named Shari Bostwick to deliver the paperwork to Friedman.

She said, “Hancock Park, ooh,” and left.

I said, “No desire to see the castle?”

“Not tonight.” He stood, shook himself off like a wet dog, and tossed his jacket over his shoulder. “My real estate dreams are more modest. Let’s see which troops I can convene.”

Moroni was on a motorcycle trip to South Dakota, Lincoln visiting relatives in Birmingham, Alabama.

Leaving Reed and Binchy and anyone else Milo could muster.

Everyone he talked to had reasons and excuses. The most he could get out of a harried sergeant was patrol cars driving by Evada Lane “maybe two, three times” per shift.

Milo said, “Appreciate it, but don’t bother.”

He phoned Raul Biro again. “What you said before, bored? Still that way?”

“Ready to shed my skin.”

“Okay, got something for you but it’s not gonna actually be stimulating.”

Biro said, “Better than the alternative.”

Milo told him to keep an eye on the Evada house. “Be there when the sun sets.”

Another email check ended with a smile. “Miracle of miracles, Mr. Light of Day actually came through — permission to enter the Marquette house by any means necessary. Okay, you go home and relax, Moe and Sean and I will handle it.”

“Smaller team than with Bitt.”

“Given what happened last year, maybe it’s better keeping it light and tight.”

I’d been there when a raid on another house had led to a murderer being shot to death by an overeager rookie. Ruled justified but the process had dragged on and the shooter had left law enforcement.

I said, “What time, tonight?”

He looked at me.

I said, “All this foreplay and no climax?”

“Listen to you, Dr. Salty. It’s the vest again and you’ll stand even farther back.”

“I’m getting used to the look and I don’t mind solitude.”

“Fine, but first help me scheme.”

By nine p.m. Milo and I were sitting in his unmarked, four properties north of the house on Marquette. The street was lit intermittently but the moon was well nourished and we had a decent view.

As Reed had described, the block was mostly apartment buildings. The exceptions were an acre of land, fenced, weed-choked, waiting for development, and the plain, little box Herbert McClain had lived in for six decades before dying without a will.

You see throwbacks like that in L.A. — people holding on, undeterred by real estate values as they seek the comfort of the familiar. Upkeep often suffers, and the house where Paul Mearsheim squatted looked unloved. The front yard was flat dirt and thistly stuff, the shingle roof checkered by bare spots. An old TV aerial perched on the peak. Drapes covered windows whose frames sagged and splintered.

All that was missing was a dented, dusty sedan with original blue plates.

In another city, the attached double garage might be deemed overbuilt for the puny structure. In L.A., built around the car, it made sense.

Lights dimmed by heavy curtains illuminated the right side of the house but so far, no signs of habitation. Same situation at Evada Lane, per Biro’s half-hour call-ins.

Milo said, “If they’ve rabbited, I’m cooked.”

I thought that had a culinary ring to it but didn’t comment. Situations like this, the less said, the better.

Per usual, I had no role other than “observer.” Last year, that had expanded to witness. Subpoenaed on the police shooting, I’d spent unbilled time answering pre-cooked questions.

Time passed. An itch developed over my left nipple. When it didn’t go away, I unbuttoned my shirt, managed to get a finger under the vest, and scratched.

Milo said, “They put something in the fabric. Next time be careful what you ask for.”

I rebuttoned my shirt. “I’m content.”

“Foreplay.” He laughed. Phoned Moe Reed, parked down the block, south of the squat. Binchy was up a ways, on the opposite side of the street. Both young detectives were in civvies: brown shirt and jeans for Binchy, black sweats, sneakers, and a knit cap for Reed, his weight lifter’s chest swelled ridiculously by the vest.

Milo had told him, “Lose the hat, you look like the McBurglar.”

Reed said, “And I was going for Secret Agent.” Now, he said, “Nothing, L.T.”

Same message from Binchy.

The plan that had culminated with the suspect shooting had been a major production, featuring a day of serial surveillance by several vehicles and Reed impersonating a parcel driver. Tonight would be Milo knocking politely on the front door and, if spoken to, identifying himself truthfully.

Keeping his voice light and unthreatening, calling Mearsheim “Mr. Weyland,” and explaining that he had a few questions to ask about Trevor Bitt.

That might throw Mearsheim off but chances were the door-knock would be immediately threatening. If Mearsheim tried to escape through the back, Reed and Binchy would be there, waiting. If things went really south and he barricaded himself in, everything would change.

If that happened and Trisha Bowker was in there with Mearsheim, hopefully she wouldn’t end up a hostage. Or, worse, a co-combatant.

High risk but the rationale for doing it this way — and I’d supplied part of it — was criminal predictability.

Psychopaths are, at the core, boring creatures of habit. What we knew about Paul Mearsheim suggested he was a high-functioning psychopath, a lifelong con, and a murderer who’d never been arrested because he operated with finesse. His performance the night of the Braun murder had been Oscar-quality.

My best guess was that, certain he could talk his way out of anything, he’d avoid impulsive violence and opt for cool, calm, and outwardly harmless.