Night Moves

Chapter 19

As we walked away from the motel, I noticed a young man standing near the office door picking a cuticle at warp speed. A boy, really, eighteen, nineteen. When our eyes met, he looked away.

“The clerk?” I said.

“That’s him. Keith Singh.”

“You mind?”

“Go for it.”

As we approached Singh, he startled and turned to go back inside.

I said, “A second, Keith?”

He stopped, rotated. Kicked one ankle with the other. “Yes, sir.” Lanky, Indian, with shoulder-length black hair, wearing a yellow Lion King T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. If he was able to grow a beard it didn’t show. But his eyes looked old, bottomed by dark crescents, managing to be weary and wary at the same time.

I said, “Tough night.”

“Total disaster, sir. My parents didn’t want me working here, now they’ll insist. One of my dad’s friends owns the place, but Dad says Waris — Dr. Waris Singh, he’s a dentist but he’s mostly into real estate — isn’t careful.”

“About security?”

“In general,” he said. “My parents are more religious than him. They think he could be a bad influence.” His eyes dropped. “I’ll have to quit. Which is crap, I still have tuition.”

“Where do you go to school?”

“The U. I’m out of state so the tuition’s crazy.”

“Sure is.”

“I was a late admission, all the work-study jobs were taken. I have to find another one but the only other sure thing is a restaurant Waris owns. But that place is all the way in Pasadena and it’s crazy busy. Here I can get a lot of studying done.”

The gurney was wheeled out of the motel. Keith Singh’s eyes saucered.

I said, “What’s your major?”

“Econ.” His eyes drifted to the yellow tape, moving in the night breeze like a harp string lightly plucked. “It’s crazy, sir, I didn’t hear anything.”

I said, “You probably wouldn’t, too far away.”

“Exactly.”

“Have you remembered anything else about Mr. Corvin?”

“The guy?” he said. “Like what?”

“Did he say anything when he checked in?”

“He said a lot,” said Keith Singh, clapping his index finger and his thumb together. “Talking talking talking.”

“About what?”

“Random crap. How’s it going, young man, nice night. I kind of blocked it out. He saw my econ book, told me he took micro and macro in college. Told me it was too theoretical, he majored in accounting and business management, not econ, I should do the same thing if I wanted to make serious money.”

“He’s there ten seconds and is giving you advice.”

“I’m used to it,” he said. “Dad.”

“What else did Corvin have to say?”

“Nothing, sir — oh, yeah, he showed me the wine.”

“He brought the wine into the office.”

“Yeah,” said Keith Singh. “In a bag, said he just got it, it was expensive. Said it was worth it.” Keith Singh licked parched lips. “He winked when he said that. That it was worth it.”

“What do you think he was telling you, Keith?”

The kid colored, chestnut skin turning to mahogany. “What do you mean?”

“Sounds like he was trying to impress you.”

“Why would he do that, sir? More like bragging. Like he was used to that.”

“Did you see the woman he was with?”

“I didn’t see anyone, sir. I was here in the office, like I’m supposed to be, he gave his card and drove over. I didn’t look at him much. Waris told me that at the beginning. Don’t look at the customers, they want privacy.”

“Lots of hot dates show up here, huh?”

He frowned. “I mean, people... you know... I mean Waris doesn’t rent by the hour like some other places but his rates are cheap.” He shrugged.

I said, “A lot of customers choose not to spend the night.”

Keith Singh’s Adam’s apple rose and fell. “My parents thought it was a real bad idea. Waris convinced them but not really, you know?”

“They gave in.”

Another ride of the gullet elevator.

“My dad owes Waris money. Waris kind of pressured him.” A flap of black hair fell forward. He tucked it behind his ear. “I probably would’ve quit anyway.”

“Not happy with the job.”

“It’s gross, you know?”

Milo said, “No-tell motel.”

The boy blinked. He’d never heard the phrase. “All I want to do is study, it’s hard enough. My parents wanted me to stay in Tucson, go to Arizona, live at home. I thought I’d have to but last minute I got into the U. from the waiting list and it’s way higher-rated so I wanted to. I have a cousin, a CPA in Boston, he told them where you go makes a difference so they finally allowed me.”

I said, “Good luck with your studies. Is there anything else you can tell us about Mr. Corvin?”

“Just what I said to you.” Looking at Milo. “He used a platinum — not like some people, they’re, you know... looking all over the place, embarrassed, using cash. He was just the opposite. Kind of full of himself, you know? Like he wasn’t expecting anything bad to happen.”

I said, “People usually don’t.”

“Oh, man,” said Keith Singh. “I’m probably going to quit tomorrow. Maybe I’ll have to go back to Tucson.”

— Milo and I continued to the Seville.

I said, “Chet bringing the wine in, still bagged, could mean he’d just bought it.”

“I’ll tell Petra and Raul to check out nearby liquor stores, maybe someone’s memory will be jogged.”

He loosened his tie. “I’m figuring to catch Felice and the kids before they leave for school, say seven a.m. You up for rise and shine? You’re not, I understand.”

I said, “I’ll be there. If you want, I can tell the kids. To make sure it’s done right and you’ll have more time to gauge Felice’s reaction.”

“That would be great.”

At the Seville, he said, “All these years I still hate death knocks. And kids? Thanks. See you bright and early. In my case, just early.”

I parked in front of the Corvin Colonial at six fifty-six a.m. Milo’s unmarked sat in front of Trevor Bitt’s Tudor. The black Ram was there.

A bit of activity on the street: a couple of gardener’s trucks pulling up but waiting before unleashing mowers and air guns, neighbors leaving for work or taking in newspapers, a few of them looking at us, most pretending not to.

Felice Corvin came to the door dressed in a hip-length tweed jacket, a black blouse, and gray slacks. Hair combed, makeup impeccable, mug of coffee in her hand. No sign of the kids. She said, “This is a surprise.”

Milo said, “Can we come in?”

No Good morning, ma’am, no friendly-cop smile.

“What’s going on, Lieutenant?”

“Inside would be better.”

She looked down the street. “I’ve got to get going soon.”

Milo said, “Please,” making it sound like a command.

She stepped back and we entered. Footsteps from upstairs pinpointed the kids’ location. Breakfast smells — eggs, toast, coffee — drifted from the kitchen.

Milo said, “I’m sorry to tell you, Ms. Corvin. Your husband’s body was found last night.”

Long stare. Three blinks. “Body?”

“He’s been murdered, Ms. Corvin.”

“Body,” she repeated. She stood there, not moving a muscle. Then she teetered and when Milo caught her elbow, she didn’t resist.

Her hand pressed against her mouth and her breathing raced as he steered her into the living room. The kids’ footsteps stopped and Felice Corvin looked at the staircase with panic. Then the noise resumed and she allowed Milo to sit her down on a sofa. He and I took facing chairs. He edged his closer to her.

“I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. Dry eyes, rigid posture. Every hair remained in place. “Body?”

Flat voice. Her complexion had lost color; makeup could only go so far.

“Last night, Mr. Corvin was found in a hotel shot to death.”

“He’s always in hotels.”

“This one was in Hollywood.”

“The Roosevelt?” she said. “That’s the only hotel I know in Hollywood. It’s supposed to be haunted. I went to a concert there a few years ago. The Da Camera Society. Baroque music. I loved it, Chet slept through the whole thing. Why would he go to the Roosevelt?”

Milo exhaled. “This was more like a motel.”

Felice Corvin’s face whipped toward him. “Why didn’t you say that at the beginning? Why can’t you be precise?”

We sat there.

She said, “You really need to be precise. Precision matters. If the educational system was more precise...” She shook her head. “Who killed him in a motel?”

“We don’t know.”

“A motel.” Lips curling around the word. “Are you trying to tell me something icky about Chet?”

“We don’t know much, yet, ma’am.”

“That seems to be your pattern,” she said. “Not knowing much.”

“It’s a tough job.”

“So is mine. So is everyone’s. Life’s frigging tough. I wish my kids could learn that, they’re growing up expecting everything to come their way. At least Brett is. He’s spoiled, Chelsea... for her, everything’s a challenge. I’m not sure she really understands what she’s up against... a motel? What are you really telling me, Lieutenant?”

“Just that, ma’am.”

“I know about motels. What they connote. Are you denying that?”

Milo said nothing.

Felice Corvin hugged herself and glanced at the stairs, again.

“Ma’am, would you like us to tell the children?”

“Us?” she said. “The two of you are a team? Or does that just mean you want Dr. Delaware to tell them? Psychological sensitivity and all that.” To me: “You want to make them psychiatric patients? No, thanks, they’re mine and I’ll handle it.”

A thump from above.

Felice Corvin said, “When I’m ready.”

We sat there.

Her grip on her own shoulders tightened. “I am so angry. One friggin’ damn thing after another — it just keeps — okay, let’s stop beating around the bush. Was he with a whore?”

Milo said, “Did Chet make a habit of—”

“I have no idea about Chet’s habits. Other than the ones he displayed here.” She huffed. “He was gone all the time. Business. I’m not stupid. I know what men are like. I know what Chet was like. He didn’t give a damn about anyone but himself.”

“Is there a specific woman he was—”

She laughed, clawed air, yanked on her hair. “Why don’t you just log onto whores.com or something and run your finger down the list.”

“So you were aware—”

“I was aware that Chet had the sexual scruples of a wolverine in heat. And that when he returned from his ‘business’ ” — she shaped quotation marks — “he paid even less attention to me than usual, which was pretty minimal to begin with. Are you understanding? His needs were being tended to. A while back I decided to confront him. So he wouldn’t give me a disease. Of course he denied it but I told him if you ever infect me with something, I’ll kil—”

She cut herself off. Literally, with a hand over her mouth. When her fingers dropped, her lips formed a crooked, icy smile. “That was a figure of speech. I certainly didn’t leave my children last night, drive over to some disgusting motel I had no idea existed in the first place, and shoot my husband. I’ve never fired a gun in my life.”

Milo nodded.

“You agree?” said Felice Corvin. “Don’t tell me you’re not considering it. Isn’t the spouse the first person you look at? Am I one of your friggin suspects? Fine, do your thing, I have nothing to hide.”

She charged to her feet, stomped to the entry hall, raised a fist. “I am so, so angry. It never stops.”

Milo said, “What doesn’t?”

The fist waved. “Crap doesn’t. The endless flood of crap and... and... and... issues. Now I have to go tell my children something that’s going to screw them up forever. How are they ever going to have faith in the future?”

She covered her face with both hands, fought tears and lost.

I guided her back to the living room. Her body stiffened when I touched her elbow but she returned with me and sat in the same place.

I fetched tissues from the powder room. She dabbed her eyes dry, sat with her hands in her lap, a chastened child.

Milo said, “Ma’am.”

Felice Corvin said, “I apologize, Dr. Delaware. I’m not one of those people — afraid of therapists. I believe in therapy, used to be a teacher, wanted so many kids to get help who never did. Then I had my own and — I’m sorry. I’ve been rude to you, Dr. Delaware, and I want to explain.”

“Not neces—”

“It is necessary! I need you to understand! It was nothing personal, I’m sure you’re a good psychologist. But a bunch of your colleagues did nothing for my daughter and some of them made her feel much worse. So I lost faith... I’m sorry. For being so angry and for being such a pain in the butt and now it’s really hit the fan and what the hell am I going to do?”

More tears, followed by a lopsided smile. “During challenging times one needs especially to be gracious. My mother always said that. Her mother, too. I told them I agreed. I do.” Tears trickled down her cheeks. “I’ve obviously failed that challenge miserably.”

Milo said, “It’s a terrible thing to go through. Again, we’re so sorry.”

“I believe you, Lieutenant. I really do.”

“There are questions we need to ask about Chet.”

“Chet,” said Felice Corvin. “Who knows anything about Chet?” She shrugged. “Maybe I’ll miss him.”

Milo managed to get the basics in. Could she think of any possible link between her husband and Hal Braun?

Not to my knowledge.

Did Chet have any business dealings in Ventura, Oxnard, or Santa Barbara?

I know nothing about his business.

Had he been involved in exceptionally bitter business conflicts — denied claims that led to personal attacks?

I have no idea.

I believed her and from the looks of it, Milo did, as well.

Separate lives.

What he didn’t bring up were Chelsea’s night moves, the possibility of contact with Trevor Bitt.

We’d discussed broaching the topic, agreed it was a bad idea, no sense overwhelming the widow and alienating her completely.

We got up to leave.

Felice stood, too, reaching out and grazing my fingertips. She moaned, “Oh, Dr. Delaware, I’m... could you tell my children?”