Night Moves

Chapter 28

Papa Giorgio was closed for renovation and had been since two days after Chet Corvin had charged dinner. San Remo and Mexicali Café were bustling, throngs of hungry weekend diners crowding the host stations. The people behind the stations looked harried and distracted and pretended not to notice us.

Milo made his way past the crowd, stepped in close to each of them, and announced, “This is about a homicide,” loud enough to be heard over the din.

A few people near him recoiled.

Wilson R. at San Remo said, “Oh, man — just hold on for a sec.”

Lourdes Briseno at Mexicali said, “Omigod, sure, sure, please just wait.”

Two quick shuffles through computers produced Chet Corvin’s receipts at both restaurants. Dinner for two, the unifying factor, red meat: at San Remo, spaghetti Bolognese and fettuccine with beef cheeks; the Combo Grande at Mexicali, a masterpiece for two built around carne asada.

Two bottles of high-priced Chardonnay.

Corvin’s quirky taste in wine, or pleasing his companion?

Milo asked each of the hosts if they could recall the couple who’d eaten those meals.

Wilson R. said, “Not unless they’re regulars...” Examining the receipt. “Nope.” To the queue: “Bainbridge, party of four?”

Lourdes Briseno said, “I really wish I could help you guys but I really don’t remember. Really. So sorry.” She walked away with the next lucky eaters.

The Mexican place was our last stop. We’d arrived just after eight p.m., had been kept waiting as the population of salivating citizens swelled. Lots of families, lots of kids.

Milo said, “Post-hunger baby boom.”

Cupping his mouth to be heard above human chatter, flatware clatter, and piped-in mariachi music.

Lourdes Briseno returned, looking surprised to see us.

Milo said, “You didn’t hear my last question. Do you remember the party?”

“Oh. No, I don’t, really sorry.”

“No prob.” He loomed a bit, gave the wolf-grin. “Been a long day. Any way you could squeeze us in for dinner?”

“I...” She looked past us. “Sure. Of course. We really appreciate what you do.”

Picking up two menus, she guided us toward the rear of the restaurant, raising grumbles.

Milo mumbled, “Bring on the pitchforks and the lanterns.”

Lourdes Briseno, sounding utterly unconvincing, called out, “One second, people. They have a reservation.”

She hurried us to a table set into a corner. More of a drink stand, barely wide enough for two people if elbows were kept at bay.

I thought: Just like his office.

Milo rolled his shoulders and slid in.

Lourdes Briseno said, “I know it’s really cramped, but it’s really the best I can do, really sorry.”

When she left, Milo said, “I really believe her.”

He studied his menu like a monk assigned to an illuminated manuscript. “Everything sounds pretty good — place smells good, finally something to block out that damn perfume.”

He began to lay the menu down. That would’ve covered his half of the table, so he held on to it. “The combo — what Chet ordered — actually sounds pretty good.”

“It’s for two.”

“You’re back to being ascetic?”

“Go for it.”

“Great,” he said. “Once I get my share down here” — patting his gut — “maybe I’ll have one of those new-age mystical experiences.”

I said, “Cow-induced insight?”

“Ingest what the victim did and stimulate empathy.”

“Better than ingesting the victim.”

He laughed.

Lourdes Briseno returned with a handheld device. “We’re really jammed so I’m taking care of you guys. Do you know what you want?”

Milo gave her the order.

She said, “Great choice, it’s really popular. To drink?”

“The heart says cerveza, the job says iced tea.”

She pouted. “Aw, poor guys. Okay, some chips and salsa will be coming up in a sec.”

She bounced away. No mention that we’d ordered the same thing as Corvin. She probably hadn’t noticed.

That’s the way it is with most people: Details are an intrusion. Then there’s the rest of us, lying in bed at three a.m., scrolling through volumes of mental small print.

I said, “Cow and Chardonnay.”

Milo nodded. “Don’t tell the gender police but I’m thinking lady’s choice. That, the necklace, whoever she is, they had more going on than porn in a motel. And the fact they’ve been together two months points against a hit woman. So the question is what happened to her at the Sahara. And if she escaped and cared about Chet, why not come forward?”

“Fear,” I said. “That fits with her being the one who called it in. Avoiding 911 to stay anonymous and keep her voice unrecorded.”

A busboy brought a mini-trough of corn chips, a soup bowl full of salsa, beer steins filled with frosty tea. Using a comically dainty finger grasp, Milo extracted a chip, dipped, tasted, sipped, repeated, and let out a contented sigh. “Quality but not at the expense of quantity. The key to success in the Home of the Brave.”

A dozen pulverized chips later: “Chet and Madame X tryst up at the lake and down here in the city. Maybe she’s someone local. Now, what about the Camaro?”

I said, “Ventura to Arrowhead covers a lot of ground. Strong emotion can do that.”

“Hatred as jet fuel of the soul. Didn’t some psychologist say that?”

“Never heard it.”

He grinned. “That’s ’cause I just made it up. Yeah, you’re making sense. The hippie had some kind of beef with Braun and Corvin. His age, that could slam us back to what you said before: Chelsea’s forbidden boyfriend. He stalked both his victims, took care of Braun first, spotted Chet driving here and then back to Hollywood.”

I said, “Maybe EmJay Braun’s remembered something since we spoke to her.”

He phoned Wife Number Three. She continued to know no one with a black Camaro.

Milo listened for a while, said, “Not to my knowledge... no, honestly, ma’am, we’re just asking questions... exactly... okay, I will... I’ll definitely put in the request. Take care.”

He hung up. “She’ll be looking at cars on her block all the time now and freaking out. On top of that she’s having a painful arthritis attack. I’m definitely meant to feel guilty.”

He demolished a few more chips. “My atonement is I call Ventura PD, ask for some drive-bys at her place.”

He followed through, got referred up the chain, per usual, ended up with a tepid “We’ll see,” from someone of his own rank.

He said, “Long as we’re in the Ventura groove,” and called Henry Prieto. This time, he hung up laughing. “He’s already got his eyes peeled, don’t I think he’d let me know if he knew something?”

Twin mountains of marinated beef each ringed with slices of avocado and radishes arrived. Side bowls of refried beans, rice, and posole stew, supplemented by a coarse, black-stone bowl of guacamole and a platter of glazed, pepper-rubbed pork ribs.

“Whoa,” said Milo.

“She says mucho gusto,” said the server, pointing to Lourdes Briseno, holding an armful of menus as she shepherded a party of eight across the room. Grumpy octet, the squinty-eyed look of plane-wreck survivors assessing their friends’ nutritional value.

Milo waved at her.

She returned the gesture wearily.

“At least someone likes me,” he said. “Too bad she’s really irrelevant.”

I was hungry and adrenalized, put away more food than usual before hitting the satiation wall. I pushed my plate away. Milo’s attention was fixed on his own dinner, his arms food-ingesting turbines. I was drinking tea when he came up for air.

A glance at my partially eaten alp. “She probably did that. Ms. Armani.”

“Did what?”

“Sat there like you, self-righteous and slim, while ol’ Chet packed it away.”

I said, “You engaging in culinary snobbery?”

“Just pointing out the sin of moderation. It’s a cross I bear. Not just you, Rick. The rest of the unreasonably reasonable world.”

He hunched over his food and got back on task. Another avocado heard from.

His remark made me think about Chet Corvin and his mistress, rendezvousing, dining, partying at several locations. That sparked another thought.

I said, “This is far-fetched but what if Donna Weyland — the woman who just left her husband — is a brunette around Chet’s age or younger?”

He put his utensils down. “What brought that on?”

“Mental meandering. I thought of that scene we saw a few nights ago, Paul Weyland, driving up, all hangdog, telling Felice his marriage was over. In all this time, we’ve never seen Donna. A new relationship would explain that, and where do people find lovers? At work and close to home.”

“The old neighbor game,” he said. His eyes sparked. “Hey, Felice was pretty touchy-feely with Weyland. Otherwise she’s been an ice queen. What if the infidelity cut both ways?”

“Chet and Donna, Felice and Paul.”

“Sounds like a movie, but why not, your basic steamy suburbia. Hell, the whole goddamn cul-de-sac could be a nest of sin — Bitt and Chelsea on one side, marital messes on the other.”

He frowned. “Be great for prime time but how does Black Camaro fit in? Not to mention Braun... hell, there’s one thing I can do.”

He phone-Googled an image search, handed me the cell.

Five Donna Weylands, three of them in their twenties. A gorgeous black cheerleader at the University of Houston was caught in midair, an Alaska Air flight attendant from Vancouver, British Columbia, posed in a bikini on an unnamed beach, a game-show developer from Williamsburg, Brooklyn, sported more iron in her face than a high-power magnet, Donna Ethelina Weyland of Paterson, New Jersey, had passed away in 1937.

Donna A. Weyland, an employee of the L.A. Unified School District, appeared once, in a group shot of an educational task force convening in Reno.

Middle-aged, full-faced and zaftig, hair that could be gray or blond clipped in a no-nonsense page, oversized eyeglasses, a hesitant smile.

Milo said, “She mighta broken Paul’s heart, but I’m not getting Armani, pricey chocolates, and vino from someone like Chet.”

I handed the phone back. He swabbed at his mouth with a napkin, motioned the busboy over, and ordered coffee.

Milo drank two cupfuls, pried his bulk upward, and tossed cash on the table. No need to wait for the check, he always surpasses.

I said, “Let’s split it.”

“Like that’s gonna happen.”

Scooping more chips out of the bowl, he tilted his head toward the front door. “Pitchforks are gone, let’s head back to alleged civilization.”