Джонатан Келлерман - Night Moves

“I can imagine.”

Weyland’s lips folded inward. “If you do suspect him, I’d sure like to know. Look how close he is to us. To them, also. I guess bringing a body from his side would be possible — not that you suspect that. Of course...” Weyland shook his head. “I don’t want to get involved in something I know nothing about... but isn’t that how it sometimes happens? The quiet ones?”

I said, “Sounds like he’s more than quiet.”

“Well, yes — I’m sure it means nothing. Please don’t quote me on anything.”

“Of course not,” said Milo.

Weyland removed his glasses. “I didn’t actually see what happened. To that man. But Chet described it. Not that I wanted him to but Chet’s kind of...”

“He does things his way,” I said.

“Exactly. Anyway... good luck, guys.”

Milo said, “Thanks for your time, sir. Try to get some sleep.”

Weyland smiled and drew his bathrobe sash tighter. “Emphasis on try.”

Inez Jonas exited the house and two coroners drivers rolled a gurney inside, wrapped, bagged, and removed the body. They were technicians in their own right, transporting with impressive speed and grace.

Jonas said, “Nice meeting you, Doctor, hope you find something psychological. ’Cause this sure is crazy.”

I said, “Do my best. Have a good night.”

“My night’s just starting, got called to Pico-Union, normally not my area but there’s no one else.”

Milo said, “Gang thing?”

“They don’t tell me but yeah, probably. Walk-by shooting, sounds like a simple one. Relatively speaking.”

We met up with Moe Reed on the upstairs landing.

He said, “Second floor is three bedrooms, two bathrooms. Nothing interesting apart from some porn in one of Mister’s dresser drawers and under Junior’s mattress. Similar stuff, looks like Junior borrowed. Missus has nothing heavier than a romance novel on her nightstand.”

“Paper-and-ink porn?” said Milo.

“You got it, L.T. Old-school. Well-used magazines that look old, nothing bloody or sadistic or freaky. Junior can access whatever he wants online but maybe he found Dad’s stash quaint. Dad sees something missing, he’s not exactly gonna complain.”

Milo laughed. “Speaking of online, how many computers are we talking about?”

“Laptops for Mom, Dad, and the boy.”

“Nothing for the girl?”

“Nope. Mom wanted to take them, I had no grounds to say no. I didn’t pick up anything hinky from her, just someone who wanted to get back to normal.”

Milo turned to me. “A kid without a computer, what’s the diagnosis?”

I said, “She’s not much of a student, her phone’s enough.”

Reed said, “Did I screw up by letting her take everything? I really couldn’t see grounds.”

“That’s ’cause there aren’t any, Moses. At this point, they’re peripheral victims, not suspects. I’m assuming no weapons up here.”

“Nope. Missus said none and she was righteous.”

“Check downstairs.”

Reed descended and Milo entered the master suite. Corn-yellow walls, matching en-suite bathroom redolent of lavender potpourri. The Corvins shared a clumsy rendition of an Edwardian sleigh bed, pale-blue bedding a bit threadbare at the corners, not even a close match to the rest of the furniture: almost-deco from the nineties.

I stood by as Milo deftly searched drawers and closets, making sure everything was replaced exactly as he’d found it. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Reed. Staying active elevates his mood.

We moved on to Brett’s and Chelsea’s rooms. Both were small and simply furnished, the boy’s space reduced further by navy-blue walls, jumbles of sports equipment, and heaps of balled-up clothing.

Chelsea’s white chamber was neat. The exception was the top of her desk, covered with pencil drawings.

Page after page filled with crude, repetitive geometric shapes.

Overlapping circles evoked a bubble-pipe gone mad. Parallel lines were so densely rendered they made the paper look like linen. Five-pointed stars and jags that might’ve been lightning bolts evoked an imploding universe.

Milo said, “What is she, autistic — the spectrum, whatever?”

“At this point, no diagnoses.”

He flipped through the artwork. “No gory stuff. Okay, she’s just an oddball.”

Moe Reed came up the stairs. “No weapons or ammo, not in here or the garage. Nothing back there that could’ve been used on those hands, either, like a band saw. The only tools they keep are the basics: screwdriver, hammer, socket wrench, set of Allen wrenches. The rest of the garage was piled high with boxes. Like two-thirds of the space is boxes. I checked a few. The ones marked clothes have clothes, same for kitchenware and books. Looks like they moved and never bothered to deal with it.”

“Books turn out to be books,” said Milo. “Don’t you just hate honesty?”

“Worst thing in the world,” said Reed.

We walked him to his unmarked. “What time tomorrow, L.T.?”

“Can you do seven a.m.?”

“I can do six.”

“But I can’t, kiddo. Meet you back here at seven, we’ll canvass with Sean and whatever uniforms I can commandeer. Before we talk to anyone, let’s look for CC cameras. We’ve got a pretty good fix on the time frame and there won’t be much traffic on the street, so fingers crossed. What shift is Sean on?”

“Not sure,” said Reed. “I do know he just closed an assault.”

“Then let’s reward him with more honest labor, Moses. He’s got kids, should be up early, anyway. Captain Brazil’s on tonight, she can be okay. I’ll make a strong case for six uniforms. She gives me a hard time, we’ll make do. But I don’t think she will. Know why?”

Reed looked at the death house. “Upscale neighborhood.”

Milo patted his shoulder. “You are socioeconomically acute, Moses.”

The young detective smiled and drove off.

I said, “I’d like to see the utility door.”

Milo said, “That can be arranged.”

We gloved up and walked the empty driveway to the Corvins’ token gate. Milo arched his hand over the rim, undid the latch, switched on his flashlight.

The backyard was a rectangular pool surrounded by a wooden deck and little else. The water was black as oil when grazed by the flashlight beam, invisible otherwise. Serious hazard if you were unfamiliar with the place.

I said so.

Milo grunted, kept walking. I followed, straining for details in the dark. Three walls of ficus hedge blocked out neighbors on all sides. A pool net and vacuum sat on the far left-hand corner of the deck. Nothing else but a couple of folding chairs and a plastic owl for scaring away pigeons, perched near the shallow end of the pool.

The wood planking fed to the French doors I’d seen at the rear of the house. Easy access. Milo tried each door. Shut solid.

“Decent latches, be a challenge without breaking the glass.” He continued to the side of the house, where concrete steps led to a plain white door.

No shreds of black plastic on the paved ground, no drag marks or footprints. He flashlit the two flanking windows. “Nailed shut, looks like for a long time. Fire department would love that.”

I got close to the door. No pry scars.

Milo tapped the wood. Hollow. “Flimsy piece of crap, ol’ Chet figured this would be the way. He may be a buffoon but a man knows his own house.”

Pulling out his wallet, he removed a credit card, bent and fiddled.

No instantaneous success; this wasn’t the movies. He worked the card into the space between door and jamb, jiggled, angled. Finally, a click sounded and the door swung open. The process had taken around a minute.