Night Moves

Chapter 2

“That one,” he said, pointing to the house right of the Corvins’. Just south of the cul-de-sac’s apex, an aspiring hacienda, fronted by a small walled courtyard.

A silver Ford Taurus was parked as far up the drive as possible, nosing a wrought-iron garden gate. The gate was padlocked, unlit, just black space between the curlicues.

That made me detour to take a look at the Corvins’ fence. White wood pickets, three feet high.

I said, “No lock. Symbolic.”

Milo went over to inspect, came back shaking his head. “Just reach over and unhook the latch. Can’t remember ever being around here for anything nasty, so I guess I can’t blame ’em.”

We entered the courtyard. Paved with river rock; charming. But up close the economy that had been taken with the house’s construction was obvious: flaking sprayed-stucco finish, cheap metal-framed windows, a molded door of some wood-like material trying to pass as carved.

The uniform standing sentry opened the door for Milo and studied me. She’d have to remain curious. As I had with the death house, I followed my friend inside.

This entry was floored with Mexican pavers cracked and chipped at the grout seams. Two steps dipped to a living room furnished with off-white seating and mismatched end tables. A wreath of dry flowers was the only thing on the wall. Sliding glass patio doors were ebony rectangles.

A large, florid man with gray hair slicked and combed straight back filled an armchair that faced the front door. Midfifties, navy polo shirt, khakis, brown deck shoes.

The sofa perpendicular to his chair contained a thin, strawberry-blond woman of the same vintage, pretty, freckled, with down-slanted, pouchy eyes that looked accustomed to stress. Her clothes narrowed her further: black cashmere crewneck and tailored slacks, black patent flats, black purse.

A foot to her left a boy around thirteen or fourteen hunched and picked a cuticle. Long-limbed and freckled with a rusty faux-hawk. His out-for-the-evening duds were a blue-and-white perforated Dodgers shirt, white board shorts, high-tops the color of canned green beans.

Positioned at the farthest end of the sofa was an older girl, maybe a high school senior, maybe a college freshman. Soft and chubby with a doughy face from which dark eyes popped like raisins in an unbaked muffin, she wore a curiously fusty floral blouse with puffed sleeves, skinny jeans, and hiking boots. Her hair was brown, shoulder-length, lank. Pudgy hands resting in her lap twitched every few seconds.

The big man bounded up, flashed a nanosecond grin, and said, “Hey, Lieutenant,” in a radio-announcer voice. “Anything yet on the situation? You’ll be cleaning up soon and letting us back in, right?”

Milo and I kept approaching.

“Soon?” said the man. “We need to get back.”

The women frowned and said, “Chet.”

“What?” The man turned to her, smile vanished. “They don’t mind questions. Right, Lieutenant? Informed citizens are an asset to law enforcement.” A glance at me. “New guy beefing up the team? Great idea, more the merrier, let’s clear up this insanity A-sap.”

He held out a hand. “Chet Corvin.”

“Alex Delaware.”

“Great to meet you, Alex.” His grip was fierce as he pumped my arm.

He said, “Might as well do the intros for Detective Alex here, right, Lieutenant? I’m Chet Corvin, the guy who pays the mortgage next door. The vision in black is my bride, Felice, next to her is Brett, our star first baseman.”

Wink at the boy; no response.

Chet Corvin glanced at the girl, as if in afterthought. “At the Siberia edge of the couch is daughter Chelsea.”

Felice Corvin shot her daughter a quick look. As Brett had done with her father, Chelsea ignored her. Both kids looked as if they were orbiting in a distant galaxy. Their father’s failure to notice was stunning.

A fifth person entered the room from the left — the dining room and kitchen area if this layout matched the Corvins’ house.

Short, sparely built man in his late forties, wearing rimless eyeglasses and weekend stubble. Bald but for feathers of brown at the sides of a narrow face. Dressed for stay-at-home comfort in a white T-shirt, cargo shorts, rubber beach thongs.

“Paul Weyland,” he said, wearily.

Milo said, “Thanks for doing this, sir.”

“Of course.” Weyland sat in a corner chair.

Milo turned to Chet Corvin. “I wish I could give you better news but I’m afraid your house is going to remain a crime scene for at least one more day, possibly longer.”

“Longer? Why?”

“We need to be thorough, sir.”

“Huh,” said Corvin. “Can’t see why it needs to — fine, you’ve got your job. But afterward you will do a thorough cleanup.”

Milo said, “There are private companies specializing in—”

Corvin’s hands slapped his hips. He canted forward. “You don’t handle that?”

“We don’t, sir, but I can give you some referrals and funds can be obtained through victim assistance. So can compensation for temporary housing, but I’m afraid the amount won’t cover anything luxurious.”

“Forget that, we’re not public assistance people,” said Chet Corvin. “We’ve got a place in Arrowhead so save the money for — people in Compton, wherever.”

Milo motioned toward the recliner. “You might want to sit, sir.”

Corvin remained on his feet. “I still don’t see why — let’s keep our heads clear, Lieutenant. Something crazy happened that has nothing to do with the Corvin family.”

Milo said, “As I said, sir—”

“If you need to be thorough, why don’t you accumulate sufficient personnel to do that in a timely manner?”

Felice Corvin stared straight ahead. Paul Weyland took out his phone and scrolled. The kids remained lost in space.

Milo nodded at the recliner. Chet Corvin sat. “Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing.”

Brett Corvin, still playing with his fingernails, said, “It was like murder, Dad. They can’t just mess around.”

Chet stared at his son. His eyes hardened. “Of course, slugger.”

Felice Corvin said, “We can’t go to Arrowhead, they’ve got school.” To Milo: “How much does this victims’ group pay, Lieutenant?”

Milo said, “I’m not sure, ma’am, but I’ll see to it that you get the right contact information.”

“Thank you very much.”

Chet Corvin said, “What? Some cheesy motel in a crap part of town? I think not. In terms of school, the kids can get their homework and take it with them.”

Felice Corvin said, “We’ll discuss it.”

Brett Corvin said, “Arrowhead would be cool, we never go, I can do my homework there.”

His mother said, “Nice try.”

Chet humphed and cracked his knuckles.

Through the exchange, no comment from Chelsea. The hands in her lap were twitching faster. Paul Weyland looked at her with what seemed to be pity, but neither parent paid her any mind.

Chet Corvin said, “Back to basics. Who’s the poor devil in my den?”

“No idea, sir.”

“What kind of lunatic would do that to a house?” To me: “We come back home, great dinner, prime rib, I could still taste the pie. Everything looks normal, we might never have found it until tomorrow morning but I left my reading glasses in the library and went down there and did find it.”

To his wife: “And then you come down and scream.”

Felice Corvin said, “You were down there so long, I got concerned.”

“It wasn’t exactly a dead mouse,” said her husband. “I needed time to take it in, who wouldn’t? Something like that, right off our damn living room?”

“Dying room,” said Chelsea Corvin.

Everyone looked at the girl. She mumbled.

Brett gave a knowing smirk: Weird sister behaving predictably.

Chet and Felice shook their heads. Unified in bafflement, their odd child.

The girl bent over and began crying.

Paul Weyland looked ill at ease. A host whose guests had overstayed their welcome.

Felice Corvin went over to Chelsea and touched the girl’s shoulder. Chelsea recoiled. “It’ll be okay, honey.”

“Easy to say, hard to accomplish,” said Chet Corvin, looking at his daughter and wife with curious detachment. “But we’ll get through this, the Corvins are made of tough stuff, right, gang?”

“Totally gross,” said Brett Corvin, with little passion. He sniffled, gulped. Smiling as he mocked his sister.

His mother said, “Bretty—”

The boy made a hacking motion. “I saw it, no hands. Bleh. Messed up.” To Milo: “Maybe they got thrown in the garbage.”

Felice said, “Brett Corvin!”

Chelsea whimpered. Brett said, “Crybaby.”

“Son,” said Chet, “that really is a bit out of line.”

The boy untied a sneaker, twirled a lace. “His face was like that stuff you ate last week, the Italian food. Tar-tare. Bleh.”

Chelsea Corvin made a gagging noise, clamped a hand over her mouth, and tottered upright. Panicked black eyes settled on Paul Weyland. “Ba-ru?”

Her father said, “What?”

Weyland stepped closer to her and pointed. “There’s a bathroom right over there.” Right-hand door on the way to his den. Maybe there was a matching room in the Corvin house. I’d been looking at other things.

The hand Chelsea used to cover her mouth was white and tight. She faltered, gagged again.

Chet Corvin said, “Go! Same place as our powder — go, g’won, don’t mess up Paul and Donna’s carpet.”

The girl ran off, swung a door open, slammed it shut. Retching and vomiting followed immediately. A toilet flush. More gastric noise. Another flush.

Brett Corvin said, “Gross. This is like a whole gross night.”

Milo said, “Mr. and Mrs. Corvin, in terms of where you want to stay tonight—”

Paul Weyland said, “If it helps, they can stay here.” Tentative offer but far from a commitment. “My wife’s visiting her mother, I’ve got three bedrooms. A couple have beds, for the other I’ve got futons in the garage.”

Felice Corvin said, “That’s so incredibly kind of you, Paul, but we couldn’t impose.”

Chet Corvin said, “Big of you, neighbor, deeply appreciated. But seeing as Arrowhead’s off the table, I’ve got a better idea. My corporate card from the company will get us lodging in a decent hotel.” To Milo: “At least for the day it takes to get our homestead back.”

“We’ll do our best but no promises, sir.”

“You’re making it sound as if you own the place.”

“With a crime scene, Mr. Corvin, we do become custodians.”

Chet turned to Weyland. “Thanks but no thanks, Paul. We’ll take it from here.”

“Sure,” said Weyland, sounding relieved.

Brett said, “A hotel, cool. Let’s do the one near Magic Mountain?”

Felice said, “What are we going to do about clothes, toothpaste, pajamas. Your snore-guard, Chet?”

Mention of the appliance tightened her husband’s face. “There’s such a thing as luggage, dearest. Lieutenant, I’m sure you can find a way to accompany us next door so we can take a few necessities without screwing up your procedures.”

“I’m afraid not, sir. We need to preserve the crime scene strictly. If you need to purchase anything, the victims’ fund will also—”

“We’re not victims.” To his wife: “Fine. We’ll buy whatever we need and I promise not to saw wood.”

“Yeah, right,” said Brett, letting his mouth drop open and snuffling wetly.

His mother took hold of his arm. “Stop it.”

“What?” he said.

The powder room door opened and Chelsea staggered out, face damp, strands of hair plastered to her cheeks.

“That do the trick for you?” said her father. “We don’t want an accident.”

The girl hung her head.

Silence from her mother.

Chelsea sat back down, rotated her body away from everyone else.

Chet Corvin said, “Can we at least take our cars?”

“They’ve been gone over, so sure, Mr. Corvin.”

“Ooooh, CSI,” said Brett. “Hey, Dad, are you like a serial killer?” Drawing a finger across his throat and bugging his eyes.

“Son, you might want to cool it.”

“Why?”

“I appreciate the humor, champ, but—”

“It’s gross,” said the boy, jutting his mandible. “You can’t make it not-gross.”

“Son—”

“Stop it!” said Felice. “Everyone just stop it. Here we are gabbing as if nothing happened and all we care about is toothpaste. This is a tragedy. That poor man.” To Milo: “I do hope you find out who he is. For his family’s sake.”

Paul Weyland nodded.

Felice smiled at him.

Chet Corvin watched the exchange. “Fine, we’ve got a consensus on sympathy. So may we go, now?”

Milo said, “We’d like to talk to each of you individually.”

“Really,” said Chet.

“Not for long, sir, just enough to get some basic statements.”

“How much is ‘not for long,’ Lieutenant?”

“A few minutes each.”

“Well,” said Chet, “I don’t mind personally, not that I have anything to add. But the kids, they need to be accompanied by an adult, right?”

“I’m not a pussy,” said Brett.

“Bretty,” said Felice.

Out came the lower jaw. “What? I can do it by myself. I wanna do it.”

She looked at her husband. He shrugged.

She said, “I suppose, if it’s brief and you promise to be sensitive, Lieutenant.”

“Scout’s honor,” said Milo.

“You were a scout?” said Chet. “I made Eagle, youngest ever in my troop, record number of badges. All right, go for it, kids. Strong stuff, the Corvins, all the way back to King Richard.”

No one had asked Chelsea how she felt. Milo walked over to her. “Are you okay with talking to us alone?”

His voice was soft, gentle. The girl looked up.

“I don’t need them,” she said. “I can even go first.”