Jonathan Kellerman - Flesh And Blood

The phone booth at the ARCO station smelled of too-old burrito, but the dial tone was clear. I called Milo at the station, and before he could speak said, “Finally, something real.”

“Yeah, they’re both in there,” he said, returning to the Seville and leaning in the driver’s window. “Room two fifteen. They checked in yesterday under LeMoyne’s name.”

It had taken him a quarter hour to arrive. He’d left the unmarked on the opposite side of the lot, conferred for a couple of minutes with the desk clerk, emerged nodding.

“Cooperative fellow?” I said.

“Ethiopian fellow studying for the citizenship exam, very yessir, nosir. I promised not to bring in a SWAT army if he didn’t fuss or notify LeMoyne and Salander. He seemed duly impressed by the badge – Why should he know that justifying a warrant, let alone a G.I. Joe ground assault, is about as likely as Ghaddafi marrying Streisand.”

“Let’s hear it for TV.”

“And here I was thinking it was my commanding aura. He also volunteered that Salander just called down and asked where he could order a pizza. He directed them to Papa Pomodoro on Overland, told me they’ve got a guaranteed half hour delivery or it’s a freebie. So I’m gonna knock on the door in five minutes, and just maybe they’ll open it with pepperoni expectations.”

“And when the real delivery boy shows up?” I said.

“We’ll have a party – Thanks for noticing LeMoyne’s car, Alex.”

“Hard not to, I was right there.”

“And they say no one in L.A.’s neighborly.”

“If he checked in under his own name, LeMoyne wasn’t exactly being cagey,” I said. “Driving up to his house in broad daylight, staying this close to home? Doesn’t smell like a frantic rabbit.”

“Then what’re they doing here? Vacationing in Culver City?”

“Maybe taking a breather,” I said. “Giving Andy Salander time to figure out what to do with the information he got from Lauren.”

“Or he was Lauren’s partner in crime.”

“No sign she shared the wealth. She was the one with the wardrobe and the investment portfolio. Salander barely scraped by on his bartender’s salary. No, I think she took him in for company – nonsexual company – just like he said, and he became her confidant. Maybe she didn’t even give him details, just told him enough for him to figure things out when people started dying. Reconciling with LeMoyne couldn’t have come at a better time for him – allowed him to leave the apartment, move in with LeMoyne. He told LeMoyne of his suspicions, scared LeMoyne enough to bunk down here.”

“And he didn’t call me because…”

“Because why should he, Milo? If he’s a TV baby, how many times has he seen the old witness protection bungle story? Not to mention all those police corruption scenarios. Fictional or otherwise.”

“Untrustworthy?” he said. “Moi?” He gazed at the hotel. “Or maybe the two of them are trying to figure out how to take over the blackmail scheme.” He looked at his watch. “Okay, time to be Simon the Pie Man – Wait here, and if it’s okay for you to come up, I’ll let you know. If the delivery guy does show up, you can say the pizza’s yours and pay him.”

“Is the department going to reimburse me?”

He dipped in his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet.

“Put that back,” I said. “Just kidding.”

“Sure,” he said, flashing teeth. “I can be trusted.”

Seven minutes later a small, fine-featured black man in his late twenties stepped out of the Palm Court, sighted across the parking lot, spotted the Seville, and waved. I jogged over, and he held the door open. After ushering me into the skimpy, dim booth the hotel passed off as a lobby, he led me to a chipped, brown-metal elevator, cupped his hand over his mouth, and spoke so softly I had to lean toward him.

“Detective Sturgis rogers you to ascend, sir.”

“Thanks.”

“Room two fifteen. You may take the elevator. Please.”

The lift rattled dangerously, and the one-story ride took nearly a minute. The second floor was a single, low, pink-vinyl hallway crowded with gray-green doors fitted with cheap locks. The sand-colored carpeting beneath my footsteps was unpadded and grimy around the edges. Midway down the corridor, an ice machine gurgled. DO NOT DISTURB signs dangled from three knobs, and every few feet canned laughter oozed through the vinyl.

No sign on 215. I knocked and Milo’s voice said, “Enter.”

Blue room. Gold bamboo over turquoise paper, a queen-sized bed made up carelessly with a navy spread, a black-painted desk and chair, a nineteen-inch TV bolted to the wall, rental movie-video game box riding on top. No closet, just open shelves next to the bathroom door, bare but for two six-packs of Budweiser and a collection of Chinese take-out cartons. A pair of older Vuitton suitcases had been shoved into a corner, sad as impoverished nobility.

Justin LeMoyne sat on the edge of the chair twirling an unlit cigarette between the fingers of one hand. His shoes were off, and the file case I’d seen him take from the car rested near his bare feet. In his lap was a black-bound script, and on the desk was a cell phone and a ThinkPad. Up close he looked older – early fifties – neck puffing and hollowing in all the wrong places, facial skin losing its grip on the bone. The kinky hair was worn down over his collar at the back, but a feathery, precise hairline in front said transplant. Behind the tiny glasses his eyes were dark, bright, uncertain.

Andy Salander was perched near the foot of the bed, dressed similarly to LeMoyne in khakis and a polo shirt – his, white with an olive collar. On the nightstand near his elbow was an open can of Bud. The ashtray on the opposite stand overflowed with butts, and the room reeked of tobacco and restless sleep.

Milo stood behind them, up against the beige chenille drape that dirtied the light leaking through the room’s single window.

Salander said, “Hi there, Doctor,” in a breakable voice.

LeMoyne gripped the script and pretended to study dialogue.

“Hi,” I said.

“This is Justin,” said Andy.

“Pleased to meet you, Justin.” LeMoyne sniffed, thumbed pages.

“Mr. Salander and Mr. LeMoyne are on ‘retreat,’” said Milo. “The question is from what.”

“Last time I checked it was a free country,” said LeMoyne, without looking up.

“Justin,” said Salander.

The older man looked up. “Yes, Andrew ?”

“I – we… Forget it.”

“Excellent idea, Andrew.”

“Oh, my,” said Milo. “Such a simple question.”

LeMoyne said, “Nothing’s simple. And you have no right to invade our privacy.” To Salander: “You didn’t have to let him in, and there’s absolutely no reason we should permit him to stay.”

“I know, Justin, but…” To Milo: “He’s right. Maybe you should go, Detective Sturgis.”

“Now I’m hurt,” said Milo.

“Knock it off,” said LeMoyne. “The cute stuff chafes. We’ve already put up with the indignity of being frisked and having our belongings pawed through. If you have something to say, say it, then let us be.”

Milo fingered the drapes, pulled them aside, turned and peered through the window. “Gas station view.” He let the chenille drop. “If I lived in Beverly Glen, I wouldn’t retreat here, Mr. LeMoyne.”

“To each his own. You of all people should know that.”

Salander winced.

Milo smiled. “The thing is, Andy, this whole free country thing – people recite it like a mantra, but we’re really not all that free. The law imposes restrictions. I’ve got handcuffs in my pocket, and I can take them out, place them around your wrists, and take you to jail and be operating in a perfectly legal manner.”