Джонатан Келлерман: Night Moves

“A bit of work,” he said, “but no Houdini-deal. And with the family gone, there was plenty of time and privacy.”

He nudged the door. It creaked and swung a couple of inches. “Thing’s a joke and they don’t set the alarm.”

I said, “Didn’t you hear Chet? It’s all her fault.”

He laughed. “Yeah, he’s a prince. I wish I could say carelessness is a big clue, Alex, but back when I worked burglaries, this was business as usual and we’re talking the high-crime era. What I said before about not bothering with second-floor windows. People paying good money for a system then not using it. Even when citizens think they are being careful, there’s inconsistency, points of vulnerability, like alarm screens gone bad.”

I tapped the left-hand window. “Those boxes in the garage say they’re fine with the status quo. These were probably nailed shut before they moved in.”

“Overconfidence,” he said. “My job depends on it.”

He pushed the door wide open and we entered a beige-painted service porch. Washer, dryer, laundry basket, cheap prefab cabinets, most of which hung askew.

The floor was vinyl. Clean and shiny, no hint anything nasty had been dragged through.

I said, “Begging the question as to why the body was dumped anywhere in the house, why not just leave it here in the first place instead of dragging it clear across the house to Chet’s den?”

“He’s the target?”

“The crime feels personal, and like you said, charm isn’t his thing.”

“That’s one helluva grudge, Alex. And if someone hates him that much, why not do him ? Why take it out on some other poor devil?”

“Could be a warning,” I said. “Or the poor devil had a relationship with Chet.”

“Chet was pretty convincing about not knowing the guy. He’s that good of an actor?”

“If concealing his involvement was at stake, he’d be motivated,” I said. “Maybe all that bloviating was a cover.”

“Hmm. Okay, let’s assume Chet pissed someone off big-time. His business is transportation insurance. So, what, someone lost a trainload of whatever, didn’t get paid in a timely manner? I don’t see that leading to blowing off a face and hacking off hands.”

“Maybe it was personal, not business.”

He looked at me. “As in?”

I said, “Could be lots of things.”

“Shoot ’em at me.”

“A scam with an enraged victim. An affair — or even a sexual assault. Chet’s on the road all the time, maybe a business trip went really bad. Or it’s something to do with Felice’s private life and the killer’s throwing it in Chet’s face. Or both of them are involved. I can keep going, Big Guy, but the point is, why was this house chosen? And again, why bother to schlep the body?”

“Questions,” he said. “I’m getting a headache. But thanks.” Grinning. “I mean that, you stimulate the gray cells.”

We walked across the house, reached the den. Cleared of its morbid contents, curiously clean and serene.

Back outside, I said, “What bothered you about the family?”

“Couldn’t put my finger on it,” he said, cramming his hands into his jacket pockets. “Still can’t. They’re not exactly a happy bunch but who is? They just seemed...” He shook his head. “From where I was sitting, she can’t stand him. And wanna bet he calls her something other than ‘the bride’ when talking to his pals? Or himself. Then there’s the kids, couple of jackals tearing at each other. What’s the theme, here?”

“They’re disconnected,” I said. “Less a functioning unit than four people operating independently.”

His hands came out of his pockets. One held a panatela and a book of matches. The other rubbed the side of his face. “I knew there was a reason I called you. Exactly, they’re strangers to each other. If this is the family of the future, we’re fucked.”

A finger rose to his temple. More massaging. “Not that it’s necessarily relevant.”

“It could be,” I said. “Isolation is the perfect breeding ground for secrets.”

“So I do more digging into their background?”

“I would. Start with Chet because it is his room. If nothing shows up, move on to Felice.”

“What about the kids?”

“Brett’s too young to be involved. Chelsea’s old enough to have nasty friends but if she or her peers were involved, the scene would be a lot bloodier and messier. This was a meticulous staging.”

“What about an older boyfriend, Alex? One of those disgruntled scenarios?”

“Mom and Dad disapprove so Romeo goes ballistic? This is a girl whose father seems to ignore her so I can see her looking for a substitute and gravitating toward an older man. Every time we’ve seen disgruntled, it’s the parents who are targeted, not some surrogate. But sure, can’t hurt to check Chelsea out.”

“Those drawings of hers,” he said, unwrapping the cigar. “And that thing she said — the dying room. Maybe that’s something she heard before. Maybe that’s why she ran out and heaved, she knows something. I never got to talk to her, courtesy of Mommy’s protectiveness. Maybe because Mommy knows something, too.”

He looked at the black pool water. Lit up, blew smoke rings. “Anything else back here interest you?”

“Nope.”

“Then let’s get the hell out.”

He walked me to the Seville. Crime scene tape remained up. A couple of uniforms lolled.

I got in the car and lowered the window.

“Thanks for coming out late, amigo.”

“I wasn’t doing much anyway.”

Smooth lie. I’d just finished making love to a beautiful woman, had looked forward to a long bath and an early bedtime. As the water ran, Robin and I lay in bed, her head on my chest, her curls tickling my face. She’d answered the phone, said, “Oh, hi, Big Guy,” and passed it over.

Knowing Milo and decoding his tone: Serious Business.

As I’d gotten dressed, I’d said, “Sorry, honey.”

Robin laughed off the formality, kissed me, looped her arm in mine, and walked me to the door.

I wondered if she was still up. If she was, how much I’d tell her.

Milo said, “How’s your schedule tomorrow?”

“Phone conference with some lawyers in the morning, afternoon’s clear.”

“If I get answers by then, I’ll let you know. If I don’t, I’ll probably call you. Especially if I get to him.” Indicating Trevor Bitt’s Tudor. “From what everyone says, mental health backup’s a good idea. Maybe he is the bad guy and this’ll close nice and tight. On the other hand, when has optimism been a valid concept?”

The moment I’d arrived at Evada Lane, I’d switched to work mode: hyperfocused, aiming for logic, suppressing emotion. As I drove home, the vile reality of what I’d just seen hit me.

This was more than murder. It was erasure. An outrage had begun with dispatch, shifted to butchery, ended up with clinical choreography on that blandest of stages, a suburban house.

L.A.’s vastness and varied geography offered a universe of dump sites. Why Evada Lane? Why the Corvins?

Maybe by tomorrow morning the truth would boil down to the odd duck on the block, a sadistic psychopath closeted in his own upscale lair.

A vicious hermit who spied? Had Trevor Bitt, parting his curtains a smidge, watched the family drive away for their Sunday dinner and embarked on a personal Grand Guignol?

That said nothing about motive but it did solve a whole lot of logistical problems.

A brief walk separated Bitt’s property from the Corvins’. Once he’d made it to the end of their driveway with a plastic-bagged package, flipping the gate latch would’ve provided privacy, courtesy of three walls of impermeable hedge.