Night Moves

Chapter 25

A manila envelope leaned against the door of the Corvin house. Trevor Bitt’s pickup was parked next door. Milo studied the cactus Tudor, scratched the side of his nose and contemplated, then returned to the unmarked he’d picked up this morning. A smooth-driving slate-blue Dodge Charger that still smelled of new car. Way above his usual ride. Hope leads you to all sorts of self-affirming places.

Once behind the wheel, he uncoiled a string on the flap of the envelope. Inside was a key chained to a fob and a folded piece of white paper. The fob was a plastic Disneyland souvenir. Snow White, chaste and unaware she was despised. The paper listed computer-typed directions to the Arrowhead house, the alarm code, and the number of Dave Brassing, the occasional caretaker.

Programming the car’s GPS, Milo checked it against Felice Corvin’s directions. “Perfect.”

Big V-8, muscular and smooth.

I said, “How’d you score the hot wheels?”

“Got A’s on my homework and begged Daddy for the keys.” Big grin. “Found out a mere sergeant in Burglary was planning to use it tomorrow and pulled rank.”

“What’s next, an Oscars after-party.”

“Actually, I coulda gone to one last year. One of Rick’s patients is the bimbo girlfriend of a noted producer. Drove into a pole while taking a selfie. Rick put her arm and her shoulder together. Well enough to service Daddy Filmbucks because he extended the invite.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“More allergies. Both of us.”

“To what?”

“Ego cancer and bullshit.”

The route from the Palisades to the Inland Empire’s resort areas was the 405 North, the 134 East, merge to the 210, State Route 18 up to the mountains.

Decades ago, European road architects figured out that curves keep drivers awake, hence the Autostrada, the Autobahn, and the like. Not so, Caltrans. The result is thousands of miles of hypnotic straightaway that scalpel through marginalized neighborhoods. It’s a nonstop display of trailer parks, houses that might as well be trailers, discount malls, car lots the size of small towns, big-box retailers with the grace of an unshielded sneeze.

Intersections in freeway districts are built around gas stations, grease pits, and fast-food joints. The less fortunate citizens of California contend with toxic air, brain-scraping noise, and opportunistic criminals hopping off the freeway to felonize before on-ramping back in celebration.

When I’m not behind the wheel, I find it hard to stay awake on the freeway and I dozed off halfway through the ninety-mile drive.

I woke up on the outskirts of San Bernardino and checked my watch. What should’ve been a ninety-minute drive had stretched to two hours and thirteen minutes.

“Accident?”

Milo’s jacket had taken on wrinkles. His hair spiked where he’d rubbed his scalp. “Coupla semis tangoed twenty miles back, ambulance injuries. Cleared by the time we got there but that didn’t stop idiots from gawking, now it’s even worse, with the cellphone photos. Explain that to me. What’s the thrill?”

I said, “New-age slapstick. Enjoying the fact that the other guy slipped on a banana peel.”

“Cruel world,” he said. “Lucky for me.”

A mile later: “You were snoozing away, amigo. How the hell do you sleep like that?”

I rarely do but how would he know? “Clear conscience.”

“Damn,” he said, slapping his forehead. “Too late for that.”

The outskirts of San Bernardino were what you’d expect, made dreary by Beijing-level smog.

The airborne dirt vanished a few miles into Highway 18, the state route’s primary access to the San Bernardino Mountains. Four lanes that shift gradually to a gear-challenging climb and top-of-the-world views.

Eighteen snakes up to a series of ski resorts before sloping east and descending to the Mojave Desert. The final stop is Adelanto, a town founded over a century ago as a citrus-growing community, switching to poultry farming when that didn’t work out, continuing to struggle as the economic allure of two private prisons proved illusory.

I’d been there a few years ago, evaluating the custodial fitness of a father imprisoned for a massive insurance scam and about to be released. The kind of guy who could easily fool a polygraph. My report was thin on details but loaded with implication. The judge got the point.

Today’s trip included only the first twenty or so miles of 18, as we entered Arrowhead Village. Along the way, signs proclaiming gated, guarded communities and admonishing trespassers had alternated with flecks of lake view that pierced the tree canopy randomly — loose sapphires in a green velvet box. On the water side of the commercial center’s cottagey shops and restaurants, the forest had been cleared, exposing an expanse of blue peppered by white boats.

The lake itself is pure Southern California: theatrically gorgeous but artificial. Created as a reservoir left unfinished after being ruled illegal and subject to decades of shifting ownership, fraudulent land transfers, and inside deals, it had finally settled as a weekend escape where dockside mansions served as stopovers for movie stars and tycoons.

We continued west, turned onto Brewer Road, and entered a tract of modest residences widely spaced on generous lots. Weekend places for the financially comfortable. The attraction here was the much smaller Grass Valley Lake and a golf course. No gates, no warnings.

Our destination, marked by a rustic address sign on a tilting stake, was curtained by white pines, black oaks, and ponderosas and visible only as a smear of cedar siding.

Milo said, “Just Molly and me-ee, in our brown heaven,” and hooked onto a long dirt driveway bordered by rocks the size of Galapagos tortoise shells. The house finally came into view seconds later, shoved off center by a clutch of monumental firs.

One-story A-frame, cedar planks oiled long ago and graying at the edges. No garage, no fencing. Two large plastic garbage cans stood to the left.

We got out of the car, greeted by chittering birds and rustling leaves. Milo checked the cans. Empty. His eyes shifted to the ground nearby. Three mousetraps, one hosting a rodent skeleton. Close by was a rogue patch of grass defying its host patch of gravel. Ruts and tracks ran through the blades and continued to the gravel: wildlife partying, most likely squirrels, chipmunks, and raccoons. The trash-can lids were held in place by metal clasps. Claw marks scored the tops. Coons or bears — juveniles lacking the skill and attention span to pull off a prolonged assault.

Milo returned to the Dodge, now dusted with pollen, popped the trunk, and removed his attaché case. Out came two sets of booties and gloves.

I said, “Expecting a crime scene?”

“Expecting anything.” We covered our shoes and hands and I followed him to the front door.

Big lumbering shape in coarse brown.

Adult bear, ready to forage.

The alarm panel just inside the door whined. Milo punched buttons from the code he’d memorized, created silence, took in the layout.

A single high-peaked space was sectioned by furniture and appliances into a living room with a doorway to the left, a dining area, and a kitchen separated from a laundry room by a waist-high partition.

Open beamed ceiling. Cheap blue felt carpeted the entire floor. The rear wall was glass, a triangle composed of several window frames and interrupted by a rear door. Outside was a skimpy lawn, then a mass of black-green, the rear boundary unclear. A glass-shaded chandelier — unreasonable facsimile of Tiffany — dangled from a center beam. The furniture was bolted-together blond wood and plastic, contrasting with dark-stained wood walls and ceiling. Every upholstered surface was brown; if Milo sat down, he might disappear.

Still in the doorway, he called out, “Police. Anyone home?”

Nothing.

Placing his hand on his Glock but leaving it holstered he motioned me to wait and entered.

A minute later he was back. “All clear.”

He picked up his case, sniffed, nostrils flaring.

I said, “Exactly.”

Empty house but the air lacked the dirty-socks must of disuse. Instead, a pleasant scent washed through, aromatic, familiar.

Armani.

I pointed to a brown princess phone on the floor, next to a couch. Eighties vintage, the closest thing to an antique.

He took an evidence bag out of his case, uncoupled the phone from its cord, bagged it. “If there are prints anywhere, they’ll be here. Not that we don’t know who was answering Chet’s calls. This clinches it, again, you’re right. Girlfriend, not a pro, in that motel room.”

I said nothing.

He said, “Stop bragging. Look what happened to Chet.”

He walked around, opening and shutting drawers and cabinets. Cheap crockery, glassware, utensils, pots and pans. Stepping around the partition to the laundry room, he took his time with the washer-dryer.

Empty, spotless, dry. Same for a plastic utility sink and a cheap wicker hamper. Utility storage consisted of detergent, bug spray, a coiled garden hose, a toolbox whose stiff latch said it hadn’t been opened for a while, four mousetraps in heat-sealed plastic packets.

We returned to the living room, continued through the left-hand doorway. Two identical nine-by-nine bedrooms were dimmed by pebbled windows set high in a tongue-and-groove wall and separated by a Jack-and-Jill bathroom. Nothing in the medicine cabinet.

The master bedroom at the end of the hall was larger but far from generous. The smell of perfume was stronger. Clear-glass windows provided the same green view as the living room triangle. The lav was en suite but drab. No sheets, pillows, or cases on the queen bed; one dresser, also unused. No clothes in the closet but lots of neatly folded percale and terry cloth.

I said, “Rarely used until now. And she cleaned up compulsively. Same as the motel. Same as Braun.”

He stared. “She’s more than a love interest?”

“Just throwing out ideas.”

Noise from the front of the house whipsawed both our heads.

A door closing. Footsteps.

Milo unsnapped his gun and pulled it out, sidled toward the doorway.

He tensed for a second, slipped through, pointed the Glock. “Freeze!”

A male voice said, “Oh, Jesus God!”

The man’s hands were up and they trembled. So did his legs. “Please, man.” High-pitched nasal voice. “Take what you want and—”

Milo said, “Police. Continue to cooperate.” Extricating his badge, he flashed it.

The man said, “Jesus Mary Mother of God.” A meaty face that had gone pale began to take on color, achieved ruddiness within seconds. His posture loosened but he continued to shake.

“Can I?” he said, waving his fingers. “Got a sore rotator cuff.”

Milo said, “Name.”

“Dave Brassing.”

“The caretaker.”

“That’s me, sir, I promise, there’s I.D. in my pocket.”

“Okay, at ease. Didn’t mean to startle you but I called and you never answered so I wasn’t expecting you.”

“Sorry, sir, I was going to.” Brassing waited until the Glock was reholstered before letting out a wheezy sigh and flopping his arms to his sides.

Late forties to early fifties, stocky, he had a broad face bristled by bushy sideburns and bottomed by eight inches of graying, spade-shaped goatee. A battered, broad-brimmed leather hat sat askew. A gray work shirt was splotched with fear-sweat. Baggy cargo shorts revealed callused knees. The soles of hiking boots were crusted with leaves.

“Oh, man,” he said, placing a hand over his heart. “You scared the stuffing out of me.” His cheeks fluttered as his head moved to the side.

Milo said, “So, Dave, what brings you here?”

“Checking around,” said Brassing. “For you, actually. I was going to call after I saw that everything was okay.”

Not getting the point of evidence preservation.

Brassing said, “Whew.” His chest heaved.

“You want some water, Dave?”

“No, I’m okay... can I sit down?”

“Sure. Didn’t mean to freak you out, Dave.”

“My fault, should’ve answered you sooner,” said Brassing. “I saw your car, figured it was police, but when you rushed out with that heater...” He exhaled, face glassy with sweat. “Guns are a thing with me. I used to hunt, nothing bothered me. Then I got held up a few years ago and when I see ’em, I get kind of queasy.”

“Sorry ’bout that.”

“Yeah,” said Dave Brassing. “Armed robbery. It was hairy.”

Milo said, “It happen around here?”

“Down in San Berdoo. I was working at a tire store, couple of hoodies came in and shoved iron in my face and had me clean out the register, I thought I was going to — thank God there was some cash in there.”

I said, “What a thing to go through.”

“Wouldn’t wish it on my enemy,” said Brassing. “I’m not saying I got rid of my weapons, fact is I’d have been better off packing when they showed up. But I look at guns different, now. The one they used was a.38 Smith-W. One of mine was one of those, I got rid of it.”

He bit his lip. “I don’t even want to watch movies with shooting. Anyway, I should’ve called out Hello, it’s Dave, or something, I didn’t figure. Phew. Okay, I’m breathing again.”

Milo said, “You’re sure you’re okay? Don’t want water?”

“I’m fine, thanks, no worries — actually, yeah, water sounds good, mind if I get it myself?”

“Go for it, Dave.”

Brassing walked to the kitchen, filled a glass from the sink, held it up to window light.

“It was good last time I checked but winter there was runoff-silt. Nothing dangerous, just minerals, but it tasted bad.”

He chugged the entire glass, filled another, repeated. “Took me a while to convince them to fix it, finally did. Deposits in the tank, not a small job.”

I said, “They don’t use the house, don’t want to put out the money.”

“You got it.”

“How long have you been taking care of the place?”

Brassing put down the empty glass and sat back down. “I don’t really take care, like a big, detailed deal. What it is, I come in once a month except winter, when it’s two three times, got to make sure the pipes don’t freeze, all that good stuff.”

He pointed to the rear window. “Also that, in the winter. That much glass, you get constriction of the frames, the glue dries, you get leaks.”

I said, “Then there’s the mousetraps.”

“Oh, yeah, that, too. Little buggers used to get inside, poop all over the place, that was gross. I sealed off holes and cracks, baited outside to keep them away from inside.” Tensing. “You’re not saying you saw some in here?”

“Just traps near the garbage cans.”

“That’s okay,” said Brassing. “I also got them placed clear back to the end of the property.”

“Where is that, Dave?”

“Right where the grass ends.”

“Not the trees,” I said.

“That’s the neighbor, super-rich guy, computers or something, he’s got fifteen acres, at least. Big stone house. Not that he uses it, either. That’s the way it is here. They say it’s an investment — he said that. Mr. Corvin. He wasn’t a bad type. Still can’t believe what happened to him.”

“Mrs. Corvin told you.”

“On her message. That was kind of... but I’m not judging.”

I said, “Unemotional?”

“Yeah,” said Brassing. “ ‘Hi, Dave, need to let you know.’ Then she lays that on me. Like please check the garbage cans and oh, yeah, Chet got killed.”

“Is that her usual approach?”

“Couldn’t tell you, maybe I seen her three times, I always dealt with him.”

“Could we hear the message?”

Looking puzzled, Brassing produced his phone, scrolled, activated.

Felice Corvin’s voice came on, cool, soft, articulate. “David Brassing, this is Mrs. Corvin. Not sure of your schedule but I’m calling to let you know the police will be examining the house in the near future. Mr. Corvin was shot and killed.”

Click.

Dave Brassing said, “Wow, that’s colder than I remembered.”

Milo said, “You’ve met her three times.”

“Maybe, could be two.”

“What about the kids?”

Brassing shook his head. “They said they had kids but never seen any.”

“And Mr. Corvin?”

“More,” said Brassing. “But not a lot. They bought the place something like two and a half, three years ago. I worked for the people before them, the Liebers. That was real caretaking, they were older folk, retired, they used it all the time, were still skiing when they were like eighty. They recommended me to the Corvins.”

I said, “How many contacts have you had with Mr. Corvin?”

“Oh... I’d say... eight, nine? Mostly on the phone. Don’t know, really.”

Milo said, “In three years.”

“Yup. It’s mostly copacetic, here.”

“How about this year?”

“Hmm... twice, three? Last time was like... a month ago? The mice. I guess he was here and saw droppings. He called me up, said, ‘What do I pay you for?’ ”

“Copping an attitude.”

“Well,” said Brassing, “can’t say I blame him, who wants to see that? I finally figured out there was a small hole in the lint trap vent. Sealed it off, no more little Mickeys.” He smiled. Lots of missing teeth and the dentition that remained was yellow and ragged.

“Problem solved,” I said. “Was he grateful?”

“He never complained.” Removing his hat, he scratched dense, gray hair.

Milo said, “When Mr. Corvin stayed here, who was he with?”

“Who?” said Brassing. “I’m assuming her.”

“Mrs. Corvin.”

Brassing’s bushy eyebrows flickered. “You’re saying not?”

“Not saying anything, Dave. When’s the last time the master bedroom got used?”

“Hmm,” said Brassing. “Not for a while. I haven’t been here in a month but even before that — it’s not like it was regular.”

“How could you tell?”

“They always cleaned up real good,” said Brassing. “New sheets, new pillowcase.”

I said, “There’s perfume in the air. Smell it?”

Brassing sniffed. “Can’t smell so good — yeah, I’m catching a whiff.”

“Familiar?”

“No, not really.”

“Deviated septum?” said Milo.

Brassing tapped his right nostril. “Tumor. Back when I was in high school. Played football, got a monster headache, everyone figured it was a hard tackle but it was a tumor. Benign, they rooted around and got rid of it, I had headaches for years but now it’s okay. But not much sense of smell. Some of my taste, too, my wife says it don’t matter, anyway, I’m no gourmet.”

Gap-toothed smile. “Guess I’m the lucky one.”

Milo and I looked at him.

“The tumor, then getting held up and surviving?” said Brassing. “A few other things in between, God pulled me through.”

“I admire your faith, Dave,” said Milo.

“My pastor says it’s easy to have faith when things work out good, the key is when it’s rough — think I’ll get myself more water.”

He drank a third glass, came back.

Milo said, “So you have no idea who Mr. Corvin stayed with?”

“I’m getting a feeling it wasn’t the wife, huh? You’re thinking that’s what got him killed?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Dave, we’re just asking questions.”

“Got it. Wish I had answers for you.”

“No idea who might’ve stayed here with Mr. Corvin.”

“Sorry, nope.”

“What about something left in the garbage — a credit slip, anything with I.D.?”

“No garbage,” said Brassing.

“What do you mean?”

“The cans were always empty. I guess they could’ve taken it to the dump. It’s at Heap’s Peak, a few miles down the mountain, on the way back to the freeway.”

“They don’t pay for trash collection?”

“They do,” said Brassing. “When I throw stuff out — mousetraps, whatever — it gets picked up.” He tugged at his beard. “Fifty bucks a month doesn’t sound like much but I like to come up here, anyway, breathe some good air.”

“Come up from where?”

“San Bernardino. I’m semi-retired, do flea markets on the weekend. Used to do other houses but now it’s just this and another one closer to the village.”

“When Mr. Corvin was here, which car did he drive?”

“The first time I met him he had a Jaguar — the big sedan. The only other times — maybe one, maybe two, he had a Range Rover.”

Brassing slapped his forehead. “Shoot, I forgot, sorry. A week ago, after I checked my other house — the Palmers — I decided to drive by, just an overall look, nothing huge I needed to deal with. And this car drove toward me the opposite way, seemed to be coming from the property. I can’t be sure but the houses are pretty far apart, it seemed to be coming from here. It was already up the road by the time I got here and nothing looked wrong so I figured it was just someone doing a three-point turn.”

Milo said, “What kind of car?”

“That I can tell you,” said Brassing, “Camaro, eighties. Cool color: black. It makes them look more racy, you know?”

I said, “A week ago. So last Friday.”

“That’s when I do the Palmers. Twice a month. They play golf, I go in and check around.”

Milo said, “Catch a look at who was driving?”

“Nope, it was going pretty fast.”

Milo handed Brassing his card. “You see it again, try to get the license plate, even if you don’t, give me a ring, okay?”

“It’s important? Sure,” said Brassing.

The three of us stood.

Brassing said, “Uh, one thing, sir. I’m not sure if I still have the job. Thought I’d give Mrs. Corvin some time to settle down before I ask her.”

“My advice,” said Milo, “is let it ride. You don’t hear from her, you’ve got the job.”

Brassing winked. “Don’t upset the apple cart, huh?”

“Exactly, Dave. When’s your next visit scheduled?”

“Like in a couple weeks.”

“You can drive by but don’t go inside until I tell you it’s okay.”

“Why’s that?”

“I need to keep the place as is.”

“For CSI stuff?”

“That kind of thing.”

“Got it.” Brassing read the card. “Homicide. Can’t believe that actually happened.”