Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

The second man was short, stocky, and dark, clean-shaven and baby-faced. He had a Ritchie Valens pompadour, narrow eyes with lips to match, wore a blue blazer and gray slacks. He was the one doing most of the talking.

The two men stood in profile, neither of them seeing us.

Milo walked up to the taller one and said, “Brad.”

The man turned and stared. A few of the shabby men followed the stare. The darker man stopped talking, checked out his partner, then Milo. As if unleashed, the homeless men began to drift away. The darker man said, “Hold on, campers,” and the men stopped short, some of them muttering. The detective gave his partner an arched eyebrow.

The man Milo had called Brad sucked in his cheeks and nodded.

The other man said, “This way, campers,” and corralled the shabby men off to one side.

The taller man watched them until they’d passed out of earshot, then turned back to Milo. “Sturgis. How convenient.”

“What is?”

“I hear you’ve been down here already today. Which makes you someone I want to talk to.”

“That so?”

The detective transferred his cigarettes to the other hand. “Two trips in one day- pretty dedicated. Getting paid by the hour?”

Milo said, “What’s up?”

“Why all the interest in McCloskey?”

“Just what I told you when I checked in a couple of days ago.”

“Run it by me again.”

“The lady he burned is still gone. Real gone. Her family would still like to know if there’s a connection.”

“What do you mean, real gone?”

Milo told him about Morris Dam.

The blond man remained impassive, but the hand around the cigarette pack tightened. Realizing it, he frowned and examined the pack, tugging at cellophane, using his fingertips to straighten the corners.

“Too bad,” he said. “Family must be shook up.”

“They’re not throwing any parties.”

The blond man gave a curdled smile. “You already rousted him twice. Why again?”

“First couple of times he didn’t have much to say.”

“And you thought you might convince him.”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that.” The blond man looked over at the dark man, who was still lecturing to the derelicts.

Milo said, “What gives, Brad?”

“What gives,” repeated the blond man, touching the rim of his eyeglasses. “What gives is that maybe life just got complicated.”

He paused, studying Milo. When Milo didn’t say anything, the blond man fished a cigarette out of the pack, put it between his lips, and talked around it. “Looks like we’ve got business together.”

Another pause for reaction.

From half a mile away the freeway rumbled. From half a block away came the sound of shattering glass. Brad’s partner kept talking to the derelicts. I couldn’t make out his words but his tone was patronizing. The shabby men looked nearly asleep.

The blond detective said, “Seems Mr. McCloskey met with an unfortunate situation.” Staring at Milo.

Milo said, “When?”

The detective felt around in his trousers pocket as if the answer were to be found there. He pulled out a disposable lighter, and ignited. The flame cast a two-second hobgoblin glow over his face. His skin was rough-sanded and knobby, with shaving bumps along the jawline. “Couple of hours ago,” he said, “give or take.” He squinted at me through glass and smoke, as if his releasing the information had made me someone to be reckoned with.

“Friend of the family,” said Milo.

The tall man kept scrutinizing me, inhaling and blowing out smoke without removing the cigarette from his mouth. He’d majored in stoicism and graduated with honors.

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware, Detective Bradley Lewis, Central Division Homicide. Detective Lewis, Dr. Alex Delaware.”

Lewis blew smoke rings and said, “A doctor, huh.”

“ Family doctor, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah.”

I tried to look doctoral.

Milo said, “How’d it happen, Brad?”

“What?” said Lewis. “This some kind of a bounty thing? Getting paid for bringing the good news back to the family?”

Milo said, “It won’t bring her back, but yeah, I can’t imagine they’ll mourn.” He repeated his question.

Lewis pondered answering it, finally said, “Back alley a few blocks south and east of here- the industrial area between San Pedro and Alameda. Auto versus pedestrian, auto winning with a first round KO.”

“If it’s hit and run, why are you guys on it?”

“What a sleuth,” said Lewis. “Hey- d’you ever do police work?”

Grinning.

Milo didn’t talk or move.

Lewis smoked and said, “As it happens, the auto didn’t take any chances, according to the techs. Ran over him once, then backed up and did it at least twice more for good luck. We’re talking road pizza with all the toppings.”

He turned to me, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, and flashed a sudden, wolfish grin. “Family doctor, huh? You look like a civilized gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving sometimes, right?”

I smiled back. His grin widened, as if we’d just shared a terrific joke.

“Doctor,” he said, chain-lighting a second cigarette and grinding out the first on the sidewalk, “you wouldn’t by any remote chance have used your Mercedes or BMW or whatever to put poor Mr. McCloskey out of his misery, would you, sir? Quick confession and we can all go home.”

I kept smiling and said, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Darn,” said Lewis. “I hate whodunits.”

“The car was German?” said Milo.

Lewis kicked the cement with one boot heel and blew smoke through his nose. “What is this, Meet the Press ?”

“Any reason not to tell me, Brad?”

“You’re a civilian, for one.”

Milo said nothing.

Lewis said, “Maybe even a suspect, for two.”

“Right,” said Milo. “What is this, Brad? Fucking Murder She Wrote ?”

Turning his stare on Lewis. They were the same height but Milo outweighed Lewis by fifty pounds. Lewis stared back, smoking, stone-faced, and didn’t answer.

Milo near-whispered a single word that sounded like “Gonzales.”

Lewis’s gaze faltered. The cigarette in his mouth dipped, then arced upward as his jaw tightened.

He said, “Look, Sturgis, I can’t fuck around with this. At the very least there’s a conflict of interest- like if we end up coming out to Pasadena and talking to the family about this.”

“The family, as it stands right now,” said Milo, “is an eighteen -year-old girl who just found out her mother’s dead and doesn’t even have a body to bury ’cause it’s at the bottom of the goddam dam. Sheriff’s just waiting for it to float-”

“All the more reason-”

“That happens, it’ll be loads of fun for her, right, Brad? ID-ing a floater? Meanwhile, she’s been cooped up in the house for the last few days, tons of eyewitnesses, so she sure as hell didn’t run the piece-o-shit over, and she sure as hell didn’t put any contracts out on him. But if you think there’s some advantage to coming around and getting her really freaked out, be my guest. Deal with their lawyer- guy’s uncle was Hammerin’ Harmon Douse. Captain Spain always did appreciate guys taking the initiative.”

Lewis puffed and dragged and stared at his cigarette as if it were a thing of wonder.

“If that’s where it leads, bet your ass I’ll be there,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Milo said, “Be my guest, Brad.”

The dark detective finished talking to the homeless men and gave a dismissing wave. They dispersed, some of them entering the mission, others drifting up the street. He came over, wiping his palms on his blazer.