Heartbreak Hotel

Chapter 39

Day 1, shift 1, four thirty-five P.M.

Milo, leading off in the Ford truck, spotted Phil Duke walking around from the back of his house.

By the time I cruised by there in a malodorous Audi, Duke was picking leaves out of his flower beds. Same Catalina Jazz Club T-shirt, baggy shorts, rubber thongs. Limited wardrobe? Waiting for the big score before going couture?

I slowed down enough to snag a look at his face. Bland, nothing furtive. Maybe he was a cold bastard. Maybe we were wrong about him.

By the time Milo made his second circuit in a Toyota Tercel, Duke was gone.

No further sightings until the end of my third shift at five A.M.

Milo said, “Tomorrow, you go last, so take your time getting here, say seven thirty.”

I drove home, tried to empty my head and catch some sleep. When I got to the conference room the following evening at six thirty, Reed and Binchy were out driving and the rookies sat at the far end of the table, watching videos on their phones.

My greeting was met by slow, dispirited nods. Monchen and Burgoyne looked like they were about to take a test.

Milo pulled me aside. “They’re bored. It keeps going this way, they’ll probably switch careers.”

“Find something more exciting,” I said. “Like sitting in a tollbooth.”

He switched on his radio. Moe Reed’s calm voice did nothing to attract the rookies’ attention.

“Sean and I both saw him for a full hour but he went back inside, the van’s still there.”

Milo clicked off.

I said, “Out gardening?”

“Seems to be his favorite thing. Maybe this is a waste of time and the worst thing he does is overwater.”

I spent the next hour and a half polishing evaluation reports on my iPad, picked up my new ride, a nice black Camaro, just before eight, waited until Milo returned in a barely breathing Datsun at eight thirty.

Circuit one, nothing. Same for two.

By the time I began three, at nine thirty-five, I was wondering if having a scotch or two when I got home would help or hinder sleep.

A full-sized van driving slowly up Phil Duke’s street caught my attention. Lettering on the back said Rapid-Rooter was available 24/7 for plumbing emergencies. Toll-free number, cartoon of a beaming, bow-tied man who could’ve been Ward Cleaver’s cleaner-cut brother.

The van stopped and started.

I notified Milo.

He said, “Sounds like something we’d do. God help me if there’s some other agency involved and we’re crossing wires.”

The van stopped again. I held back. Suddenly, it sped up, lurched forward several houses past Duke’s, and pulled into a driveway. A man carrying a tool case walked up to one of Phil Duke’s neighbors. A pretty young woman in a T-shirt and shorts greeted him.

Genuine emergency.

I told Milo.

He said, “Or someone’s shooting a porn movie.”

I laughed. “No cameras in sight — okay, I’m coming up on Duke’s place.”

“Yawn yawn.”

I drove past the lovely lawn, ready for a whole lot of nothing.

Instead, I got something. The front door was open. Two figures stood in the doorway, one partially hid by the jamb, the other totally visible and backlit.

Female contours. Big mop of hair. One leg crooked. Languid wrist.

Sparks tumbled. Flicking her cigarette.

Taken by surprise, I pulled an amateur move and lifted my foot off the gas. The figures in the doorway didn’t seem to notice. Standing close to each other. Facing each other.

I drove on, passed the plumbing van. Lights on inside the house with the clogged drain. At the end of the block, I radioed in.

Milo said, “Really,” and broke his own rules, gunning a battered Dodge Ram and arriving sooner than scheduled.

“Got it! Shapely blonde.”

I said, “I’ll go back, make an extra circuit.”

“No, hold on — who’s up, guys?”

Moe Reed said, “Sean and me, the toddlers were yawning so we sent them to get coffee. I can take the next one.”

“Do it, Moses.”

By the time Reed drove by, the door was closed.

The next morning, the team reconvened at seven A.M.

Milo and the young D’s were in fresh clothes and had shaved. The rookies arrived slightly late, wearing backpacks and looking bleary.

Milo said, “Everyone knows about last night. Can I prove the female’s the lovely Deandra? Not yet and the male was partially hidden, no idea if he’s Bakstrom or Duke, they’re about the same size. But I’m declaring success and trying for warrants. Any thoughts?”

I said, “As far as we can tell, she never left the house. That sounds more like hiding out than just bunking there.”

“Or,” said Moe Reed, “she attends to her business during the day and we missed her.”

Milo said, “It’s possible, Moses, though I don’t see why she’d do that when nighttime would give her better cover. Either way, we’re shifting gears and switching to a daylight routine, with you two kicking it off.”

Indicating the rookies.

Eric Monchen said, “Same drill, sir?”

“A little different,” said Milo. “It’ll be drive-time, so you go with whatever the flow is but obviously don’t call attention to yourselves — gawking, doing anything a commuter wouldn’t do. Part of my warrant application is gonna include sticking a GPS on the bottom of Duke’s van, with installation tonight. You ready?”

Monchen: “Always, sir.”

Ashley Burgoyne: “Yes, sir. Who goes first, me or him?”

“Flip a coin.”

The two of them looked at each other and headed for the door. Burgoyne stopped. “Sir, do you foresee eventually breaching the premises?”

“Are you asking if you’ll finally get to do something exciting?”

“No, sir—” Slow smile. “Actually, yes, sir.”

“Breaching would be the goal, Officer Burgoyne. In the meantime, stay safe while you’re doing the uninteresting stuff.”