Night Moves

Chapter 24

Back in the Seville, Milo said, “Chocolate. A link between Corvin and Bitt?”

I said, “What made you show her Bitt’s photo?”

“Wish I could say it was brilliant deducing but just grasping.” He pulled a cigar out of his pocket, rolled it between his fingers. “Besides a sweet tooth, what the hell else did the two of them have in common?”

“Maybe nothing.”

“Did we just inhabit parallel universes, amigo? A fancy candy store they both happen to patronize?”

“There’s another way to look at it.”

He sighed, put the cigar back. “Isn’t there always. What?”

“Corvin’s only been here once but Bitt bought gift boxes twice. The first time was around a year ago. ‘Around’ could mean a couple of weeks, give or take. What happens in two weeks?”

“What — oh, shit,” he said. “Chelsea’s birthday? Bitt bought her a present?”

“Maybe that and a box for Christmas. The connection to Chet could be nothing more than him seeing the chocolates in Chelsea’s room and asking her about it. If she shined him on, he’d likely drop it. But what if he filed the store’s name away and noticed it on his way to the Sahara. It jogged his memory.”

“You believe in that level of coincidence?”

“I believe there’s a relationship between Bitt and Chelsea. Her after-dark expeditions and his being so squirrelly point that way. And those drawings we saw in Chelsea’s room — all those pages of repetitive designs — might be her attempt to impress a real artist.”

“She digs Bitt, he pretends to be impressed, nasty stuff ensues in the studio.” He frowned. “You really think Corvin wouldn’t push things with Chelsea if he saw high-end goodies in a shiny box? More to the point, Felice wouldn’t?”

“From what we’ve seen, Chet and Chelsea didn’t have much of a relationship. He called me in to see her without consulting Felice, used the girl to embarrass her mom and me. I don’t think he told Felice much, period. Even if Felice did find out, she might prod a bit, but if Chelsea sank her heels in and refused to say, I think she’d have backed off. Assuming it was a gift from a boy. Finally.”

The cigar reappeared. He bit off the tip, spat it out the window. “Anything’s possible, but I’m still thinking the simple route. Like Nola just said, a gang of white dudes. Daddy plus the weirdo next door plus too-good-to-be-true guy named Hal.”

I thought: The simple route? All from a box of chocolate? Said, “Sure,” and started the car.

We were back in his office thirty-five minutes later. The rest of Chet Corvin’s credit card history sat on his desk. Fewer charges on the remaining cards but the same pattern: cities up and down the coast, a few more stops south in San Bernardino, Riverside, and San Diego. Hotels, restaurants, occasional charges for groceries and men’s clothing.

No alcohol, no chocolate, no lingerie. The last day of Corvin’s life had been different and I said so. “Maybe because he was about to make a change. Preparing to leave his old life behind and venture out with a new love.”

He poked the pile of charge records. “This is business stuff.”

“But romance could easily be buried in here. Book a single-occupancy room, someone sleeps over, who’s going to know? And with a double meal charge, who’s to say he didn’t take a client out? As long as he kept it reasonable, no one would take a close look.”

He placed the forms in the murder book. “I need those phone records.”

He checked with Binchy, Reed, the desk officer, the downstairs clerk. No messages from the phone company, the mail had come and gone, nothing.

Snatching up his desk phone, he punched numbers, shook his head. “This is Lieutenant Sturgis from LAPD West L.A. I seem to keep missing you. Wondering about those logs I requested on a homicide victim. Chet. Middle initial M. Corvin.”

A voice you might interpret as friendly if you couldn’t see the way his facial muscles strained the bones below.

He slammed the phone down. “At least I learned about a place for a good Christmas gift.”

“Rick likes chocolate?”

“Allergic,” he said. “I’m talking self-gratification.”

At eight thirty the following morning, he called, sounding buoyed. “Phone logs got emailed just as I was about to leave last night. Can I bring them by?”

“When?”

“I’m parked outside.”

I’d been playing guitar in my bathrobe out in the studio with Blanche. By the time I reached the front door, Milo was standing inches from the threshold, olive-drab vinyl attaché case in hand, his bulk blocking out most of the light.

He forged in like a gust of wind, sat down in the living room.

His hair was nearly tamed by some sort of product, his ravaged face razored as smooth as it was going to get. A brown sport coat woven from a nubby fabric that evoked a cheap couch went nicely with wheat-colored jeans and a yellow shirt new enough to sport box creases.

Planning to go somewhere, later.

I said, “Natty.”

He humphed and popped the case and took out a sheaf of papers. Six months of phone calls on the personal cellular account of Chet M. Corvin.

Each had been checked off in blue ballpoint. A few were margined by notes in Milo’s hand. Hyatt, Portland; Embassy Suites, Tacoma; Firewood Café, Oakland airport.

Two numbers were circled repeatedly in red. Twenty-eight calls to and from a 310 listing over the past two months. Eleven to the 909 area code were clustered during the last week of Corvin’s life.

Milo tapped the twenty-eight-caller. “Local but disposable and expired, no way to trace. I was hoping Chet used the Burner app on his phone to create his own temporary but no such luck, just your basic by-the-month dope-dealer accessory.”

I said, “Something to hide.”

“That girlfriend scenario of yours is looking better. And maybe we can find her. The 909 is in San Bernardino, a landline. I tried, no answer, no machine. But it’s active. Any guesses?”

“Lake Arrowhead’s in San Bernardino County. First time we met Corvin, he mentioned a weekend home there.”

He grinned. “Great minds. Yeah, I called Felice, she confirmed it. Said the family hadn’t used the place since two winters ago. She wanted to know why I was asking. I said Chet seemed to be calling there, I had yet to find out why. But she got the point, became rather irate.”

I said, “The call dates say the relationship began at least two months ago in L.A. For the past week or so, he moved her to the family getaway.”

“In preparation for his new life.” He stood, bowed, sat back down. “Felice’s anger worked in my favor. She gave me permission to go there and take a look. There’s a local guy, sees after the place twice a month, has a key. I left him a message, haven’t heard back. But I don’t need him, Felice said she’d leave one under the mat.”

“New friend.”

“Common enemy.”

I began walking out.

“Where you going?”

“Shave, shower, et cetera.”

“Getting yourself dapper?” he said. “Good. I have my standards.”