Jonathan Kellerman - Compulsion

“Maybe… Clyde? I don’t know for sure.”

“Clyde what?”

“Clyde Greased-monkey.” Laughing louder, she swung the door open and hurried back to the world of cover-up.

I drove out of the Barneys lot and Milo worked the phone. “Clyde the Bentley boy, shouldn’t be a feat of detection.”

He started with the main dealership on the Westside. O’Malley Premium Motors was on the east end of Beverly Hills but the service facility was on Pico, in Santa Monica.

Minutes from the Light My Fire.

Milo called, asked for Clyde, said, “Yeah, that’s him – is he in? Thanks. No, not necessary.”

Click.

“Not Clyde, Clive. Probably a chips and ale and darts kinda guy. And tinkering with high-priced British metal as we speak.”

O’Malley Premium Motors Service and Maintenance was a gray wedge of front office glued onto a taller brick garage. A few nondescript cars were parked in the employee lot, soaking up sun and pollution. Off to the left in a covered Customers Only! area sat a few million bucks’ worth of status symbol.

Milo said, “Pull in next to that blue Rolls.”

“Don’t I need to be preapproved?”

He slapped the Seville’s vinyl dash. “How many miles on this masterpiece?”

“Sixty thou on the second engine.”

“Endurance beats flash anytime, son. You are officially a classic.”

The waiting area was a sliver of space facing an empty coffeemaker. No chairs, no reading material, no one waiting. Behind a glass partition, a black woman wearing reading glasses moved columns of numbers around a computer screen.

Milo rapped on the glass. The partition slid open. “How can I help you?”

He introduced himself and asked for Clive.

“Clive Hatfield? Why?”

“We’d just like to talk to him.”

She pushed a button on an intercom. “Clive to front desk. Front desk for Clive.”

Milo said, “Not too many customers today.”

“We call them clients,” she said. “They rarely come here.”

“Pickup and delivery?”

“Those people expect it. We used to do it free. Now we charge a hundred dollars a trip and no one complains.”

“The age of lowered expectations.”

“Pardon?”

“The cost of gas, huh?”

“That’s what the bosses say.”

“Who does the pickup and delivery?”

“The same guys who detail the cars.”

“Not the mechanics?”

“With what they get paid? I don’t think so.”

“Skilled job.”

“That’s what they say.”

“How long’s Clive been working here?”

She edged closer to the glass. “You suspect him of something?”

“Not at all.”

“Routine questions,” she said. “Like on TV.”

“You got it.”

“If you say so.” She returned to her computer.

We waited five minutes before Milo asked her to page Hatfield again.

She said, “Maybe he’s doing something noisy and didn’t hear.”

“We can go back and look for him.”

“No, that’s okay.” She repeated the page. Before the announcement faded, the door opened behind us and a reedy voice said, “I heard you the first time, Esther.”

Definite accent, but not chips and ale. Maybe Sweet Home Alabama.

Esther muttered, “He’s all yours.”

Clive Hatfield wiped blackened hands on a rag not much cleaner than his skin. Early thirties, tall and bowlegged in gray pin-striped coveralls, he had long, lank brown hair tinted brass at the tips, bushy sideburns, a tiny crushed nose. Squinty eyes looked us over while he worked at the grease. As some of the grime relented, I noticed a pallid band of flesh circling his left ring finger.

“Yeah?”

Esther said, “These are the police, here to see you.”

“The police – what the… this is for real?”

Milo said, “Let’s talk outside.” Hatfield hesitated, then followed.

We passed near a bright red Continental GT coupe that Hatfield regarded with distaste.

Milo said, “Kind of garish.”

Shrug. “It’s their money. Where are y’all taking me?”

“Here,” said Milo, stopping at the Seville.

Hatfield’s face tightened as he checked out my car. “This is a cop drive? What, some sort of undercover thing?” He ran a finger along the top of the Seville’s hood, left a gray trail. “GM used a Chevy Two chassis on these, gussied it up and quadrupled the price.”

Milo said, “I hear the Bentley Continental’s an Audi with interior decorating.”

Hatfield stashed the rag in a rear pocket. “You’re into wheels? What do y’all drive when you’re not working?”

“Porsche 928.”

“Not bad for what it was. But give me a Carrera any day.”

“Clive, we’re here about Katrina Shonsky.”

Hatfield brushed hair from his eyes. Grazed his nubby nose in the process, left a greasy dot on the tip. “What about her?”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“What, she’s in trouble?”

“If you could just answer the question.”

“The last time… so she did get herself in trouble, figures.” Hatfield pulled a hard pack of Salems from a side pocket, blew smoke toward the scoop-mouth of a black Aston Martin. “The last time was when she got all dramatic and kicked my ass out of her crib… I’d have to say… three months ago.”

“Lovers’ spat?”

“There was never no love,” said Hatfield, smiling. “Only you-know-what.”

“Physical relationship.”

“Just physical, no relationship,” said Hatfield. “I picked her up in a bar, we went out a few times. The girl knows how to put on an act. In bed, I mean. Goes all crazy like she’s gonna explode. I finally figured out she was faking and told her so. That’s when she kicked me out.”

“Which bar?”

“Which bar…” Hatfield scratched his head.

“Doesn’t seem like a real tough question, Clive.”

“Me and her went to a bunch a them, can’t remember right off. I live in North Hollywood, she’s in Van Nuys, but she wanted to drink in Sherman Oaks, Studio City, said it was upscale… the first time I’d have to say was at… nope, not a bar-bar, the first time was a restaurant, this French-type place… Chez Maurice. I was eating a steak and she was at the bar and when I went to the bathroom I saw her ass on the stool and moseyed back. Good-looking girl, the light shined on her hair, making it look all goldy. Small but a great bod. We talked real easy, she went along real easy and just like that we’re at her place. A few days later I called her and we started hanging out. But nothing serious.”

“How long did you date her?”

“How long… I’d have to say two and a half, three months. Then it got you-know-what.”

“What?”

“Complicated,” said Hatfield. “Lotsa drama, like with all girls. So what’d she do to get herself in trouble?”

“Why would she do anything?”

“The girl has no discipline.”

“About what?”

“She drinks too much – crazy Long Island Teas, taste like iced piss. Sometimes she smokes too much you-know-what. Sometimes she packs her nose with too much you-know-what. For me it’s one beer, maybe two. I don’t get next to that shit.”

“Drama and dope,” said Milo.

“Y’all would be surprised how many of them are like that.” He smoked, waited for a comment that never arrived. “I keep it real. Used to do some racing back in Pass Christian. Gotta keep the reflexes sharp.”

“Where’s Pass Christian?”

“Mississippi.”

“NASCAR?”

“Some Pro Street, some Dixie Sportsman. I can drive in my sleep.”

“Katrina overindulges,” said Milo. “So maybe her reflexes aren’t that great.”