Night Moves

Chapter 29

Not a word from Milo the following day. Nothing on my Saturday calendar other than dinner with Robin. Meanwhile, she was working.

I drove to the Palisades, parked a quarter mile from the Corvins’, and walked.

Using your legs in L.A. when you’re not accompanied by a dog makes people nervous. When I was a block away I clipped my expired LAPD consultant badge to my belt. It entitles me to nothing but can mute anxiety.

At the mouth of Evada Lane, that was put to the test.

As I entered the cul-de-sac, an older, pale-blue BMW 6 drove past me, stopped for a moment, then rolled up the driveway of the second house on the north side of the block. Illinois plates, the paint salt-pocked and grimy.

A man got out carrying a macramé shopping bag. Forties, thick mop of gray hair, matching beard. He wore a tweed jacket, pressed jeans, a blue work shirt, brown-and-tan wingtips. Standing near his driver’s door, he pressed a finger to his chin as if considering options.

I kept going, positioning myself so the badge was easy to spot.

“Police?” he said.

I stopped. He put his bag down. “If I’m correct, I’ve noticed another one of you guys, looked like a weight lifter? I was coming home after a weekend away, early morning, saw him around the corner. When he saw me, he started jogging, which seemed odd at that hour. I hope he’s one of you and not some muscle-bound burglar.”

I smiled.

He said, “Knew it! I’m pretty impressed with how you guys are sticking with it. How long’s it been — weeks.”

“Exactly.”

“Kudos. Where I’m from, good luck getting follow-up.”

“Where’s that?”

“South Side of Chicago.”

“Professor?”

“It’s that obvious?”

“You don’t look like a gangster.”

He chuckled. “South Side’s all thugs and academics? That’s a little facile. Actually, you’re right. Actually, there’s considerable spillover between thugs and academics.”

I laughed and walked over to him. The macramé bag was filled with groceries. Packaged steak on top; grass-fed, organic, Whole Foods.

I held out my hand. “Alex Delaware.”

His grip was firm. “Bart Tabatchnik. I’m at the U. for a semester teaching economics. I hope I’m not about to oversell something I observed. I really didn’t think it was important, still don’t, but seeing you, I figured why not? Seeing as it’s still unsolved.”

I said, “Anything you can offer would be appreciated.”

“This was a couple of weeks before it happened,” said Bart Tabatchnik.

“Even so.”

“Okay. I’m sure you know that the fellow who lives to the left is an artist named Bitt. After the murder, people were murmuring about him, apparently they think he’s odd. I’ve had no contact with him but it made me curious so I looked him up and his work is pretty out there. Normally, I’d assume a clash of norms is at play — it’s a pretty conservative neighborhood, I wouldn’t want to get anyone in trouble. But then I saw his face and I realized I’d seen him before. Only once, but it might be substantive. Then again, it might not.”

He stroked his beard. “Sorry, I tend to get prolix, occupational hazard, get paid to lecture, cut to the chase: Around a week after the murder I saw Bitt and another man having a confrontation. I wondered if that was Corvin — on the off chance, I don’t know anyone here but it was his house — anyway, I looked him up and it was Corvin.”

Pausing. “If he’s already told you about it, I have nothing to add.”

No idea Corvin was dead. It takes a village to breed gossip. The residents of Evada appeared to relate on the emotional level of cans on a pantry shelf.

I said, “What did you see?”

“I’d have to term it an encounter between Bitt and Corvin. I won’t call it an exchange because Corvin was doing all the talking. Quite a bit of talking. His body language seemed somewhat assertive.” He demonstrated by leaning forward.

I said, “How did Mr. Bitt react?”

“Not at all, he just stood there. I felt there might be tension brewing, though I had no overt indication of that. But living on the South Side, you develop a feel for that. I felt as though something might occur.”

“Physical violence.”

“It struck me as a possibility. I didn’t want any part of that so I went inside, put my things away, returned to my front window. Whatever had begun was over. Corvin was walking back toward his house and Bitt had crossed the street and was headed in the opposite direction. I came out to smoke a cigar — my landlord won’t allow it in the house. And the woman who lives right there” — pointing to the left — “came out and asked if I’d seen the ‘fuss.’ I said I had, she called them a couple of stupid little boys, went on a rant about paying huge property taxes to live in a nice neighborhood and still having to deal with stupidity.”

He smiled. “She’s a bit of a crank.”

I said, “Name?”

“Don’t know — if you’re going to speak to her, please keep me out of it.”

“You bet. Bitt and Corvin live at the other end of the block but they took their issues here.”

“I did wonder about that,” said Bart Tabatchnik. “Perhaps they were out walking, encountered each other, and some sort of prior issue rose. As to what that might be, sorry, no idea.”

“Appreciate the input, Professor. Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“Nope and please keep my name out of everything. My interest is in spotting micro-trends, I tend to be more observant than most. But I really don’t want anyone in my face.”

“Of course.”

Lifting his shopping bag, he trotted to his front door, turned toward me, fist-bumped air, and went inside.

He hadn’t taken a single look at my badge.