Night Moves

Chapter 3

Chelsea’s offer was challenged by Brett and bickering ensued, the boy mouthing off as he dared to use obscenities, his sister sneering silently.

Felice Corvin said, “Obviously, they’re in no state. I change my mind, Lieutenant.”

Milo said, “Sure.” He assigned the female cop out front to wait with both kids and Felice as we talked to Chet.

The venue was a few steps away, Paul Weyland’s kitchen, a nineties concoction of generic white cabinets and black granite. The counters were cluttered with take-out pizza boxes, KFC buckets, empty soda cans.

Chet Corvin said, “Batching it, Paul?”

Weyland smiled weakly. “Gonna clean up before Donna gets back.”

“Donna get on your case, does she?”

Weyland frowned, pointed to a round kitchen table set up with four chairs. “This work for you, Lieutenant?”

Milo said, “Perfect, we really appreciate it.”

“No prob.” Weyland stifled a yawn. “ ’Scuse me. Anything else I can do? Something to drink?”

Chet Corvin said, “You have Macallan Twenty-Four?”

Weyland smiled weakly. “Above my pay grade, Chet.”

“School board getting miserly—”

Milo said, “No, thanks, Mr. Weyland. Feel free to go anywhere in your house or outside.”

Chet said, “He’s a free agent and we’re... what a system.”

Weyland said, “I’ll go in my office and clear some paper.”

Chet said, “Donna—”

Milo cut him off with a hand slash. “Thanks again, sir.”

Chet Corvin said, “Lucky you, Paul. Your house isn’t a crime scene.”

Weyland left, lips pursed, exhaling.

Milo took out his pad and pen.

Chet arched an eyebrow. “You guys haven’t advanced to a handheld?”

Milo smiled. “Let’s go over tonight, Mr. Corvin.”

“Nothing to go over. We were out of the house at six fifteen, family dinner, like I told you.”

“You do that regularly.”

“You bet, family that dines together...” Corvin searched for a punch line, failed, frowned. “We try for two Sundays a month, sometimes we miss when I’m traveling but we make the effort.”

“What business are you in?”

“Senior vice president and western regional supervisor at Connecticut Surety, Auto, Home and Transport.”

“Insurance.”

“Reinsurance. Not life, not medical, nothing iffy. I do casualty only, excluding homeowner auto. The big stuff, shipping, rail transport, interstate trucking. I’m in charge of California, Oregon, and Washington, Alaska when our Canadian rep can’t make it. Crazy place, Alaska, transport planes going down in blizzards.”

“Sounds like a lot of travel.”

Chet sat back and crossed his legs, warming to the topic. “Yeah, I’m troubleshooting all over. A little less now, some stuff can be done with face-timing.” Conspiratorial grin. “More time for golf, this year I worked my handicap two points lower. Still, yeah, I’m on the road plenty. In addition to direct business there’s ancillary business — conventions, meetings at the home office in Hartford. I handle a huge catchment area. Trucks alone is three-quarters of a million cumulative miles per year.”

I said, “Lots of responsibilities.”

“You got that, Alan. Big shoulders.”

Milo said, “So you went to family dinner tonight.”

“Like I told you the first time, usually we go somewhere close, the bride likes to eat light, you know women. The kids go for pizza, Italian fits that bill ’cause she can get a salad, lots of Italian places close by. This time I said time for a change, it was going to be meat, prime, no holds barred, the redder the better. I needed fuel, right? Had to be Lawry’s, right? If the bride didn’t like it, she could order a salad. In the end she had the lobster tails and everyone else did the meat thing, iron in the blood.”

He chuckled. “Cholesterol-erama.”

Milo said, “Bit of a drive to La Cienega.”

“You bet,” said Corvin. “Sunday, no telling what you can run into. So we left early. Turned out we had smooth sailing until West Hollywood, then some sort of construction, blocked-off lanes. But we made it right on the dot, my timing was perfect.”

“And you returned...”

“What I told you the first time,” said Corvin.

Milo smiled.

“Fine. What did I say — around nine, right? Still saying that, can’t be more specific than that ’cause I didn’t check, why would I? ETD I can tell you because I established the timetable so obviously I needed to check the old Roller.”

Flashing a steel Rolex, he extended his head forward. His neck was meaty, taurine. “That work for you, Lieutenant? Definite ETD, approximate ETA back to base? Not that I see why any of this is relevant.”

Milo scrawled. “So you got home around nine and went to your den—”

“Pure chance,” said Corvin. “The original plan was catch up on DVR’d TV, one thing the bride and I can agree on is Downtown Abbey, I like the history, she’s into the clothes and whatnot. We had two episodes taped.”

“You went to look for your reading glasses.”

“I didn’t have them in the restaurant but because I knew what I wanted beforehand, the menu was irrelevant. Except for paying the check, for that I borrowed the bride’s glasses.” He laughed. “Pink girlie glasses, Brett thought it was a crack-up, thankfully the place was dark—”

“So you went downstairs—”

“Went downstairs, saw it, and boom,” said Chet Corvin, punching a palm. “There was no smell, nothing to warn me, it was just there. I was a little thrown off, who the hell wouldn’t be? You’re in your own house and you find that? I mean it’s insane. It’s absolutely insane.”

It. That. Not him.

Depersonalizing the body for a reason? Or just Chet being Chet?

Milo said, “You were there long enough for your wife to come down.”

“That,” said Corvin, “was my bad, Lieutenant. I should’ve kept her out but to be honest, I was still a little thrown. So she saw and started screaming her head off and that brought the kids down and now they’re seeing it. She pushes them away, runs toward the front door, I’m saying where you going and she doesn’t answer. So I follow and she looks around and heads here to Paul and Donna’s. We ring the bell, he comes to the door, Felice is totally freaked, she’s jabbering, I take charge and explain clearly, am ready to call you guys. Then I realize I hadn’t taken my phone. So Paul calls you guys.”

Shifting his weight. “And here we are, team.”

Milo said, “Mr. Corvin, some of the questions we ask you may sound foolish but we still need to go through them. Starting with can you think of anyone who could be behind this?”

“Negative.”

“Is there someone who’d want to target your home specifically?”

“Same answer,” said Corvin. “What kind of target would we be? Dumping a body? It’s not like it directly hurt us.”

Milo said, “It could be a psychological assault—”

“Yeah, well, this has nothing to do with us, we’ll get past it and move on. None of that PTSD crap I’m always getting from teamsters.”

“Okay... any idea how whoever did it got in?”

“If I had to guess, Lieutenant, I’d say the utility door. Always remind the bride to lock, she gets careless. Same with the alarm, she’s a smart gal but absentminded, like the professor she used to be.”

“Professor of what?”

“Elementary education. Before that she was a teacher. Then a vice principal. Now she works for L.A. Unified, setting up curriculum. Important job, all kinds of responsibilities. You can see how she’d lose track.”

“Is she in the district’s main office, downtown?”

“Nope, satellite, the Valley, Van Nuys. Paul’s at the downtown office, that’s how he and Donna found out about the house — they rent, don’t own. Felice told them.”

“What does Mr. Weyland do at the district?”

“Search me,” said Corvin. “They’re not teachers, some sort of paper-pushers — he and Donna, both. Couple years ago, they met the bride at a symposium or something, she told them next door was coming vacant.”

“Who’s the owner?” I said.

“No idea. It’s been rented out since we moved in.”

“How long ago is that?”

“Six years.” Corvin touched his chest. “Bought mine when I got transferred from the Bay Area, had to downsize property-wise from this great place in Mill Valley but lucky for us, the recession hit, we stole the place.”

“So,” said Milo, “your rear door could’ve been unlocked and the alarm off.”

“I’m sure the alarm was off or the company would’ve texted me. In terms of the door, I’m sure she left it open.” Wink and a smile. “Don’t tell her I said that or you’ll be aiding and abetting husband abuse.”

Milo smiled back, checked his notes. “Your wife told me she locked it.”

Corvin shrugged. “You know how it is, guys. Choose your battles.”

Milo flipped a page. “Any strange events recently, sir?”

“Like what?”

“Hang-up phone calls, unusual vehicles parked on the street or driving around.”

“Nope.”

“Anyone who didn’t look like they belonged?”

“Nothing,” said Corvin. “Absolutely nothing.”

I said, “Have there been any neighborhood conflicts?”

“Like what?”

“Disputes over anything.”

“Nah, it’s quiet here — okay, here you go, I just thought of something.” He held up a finger. “There’s an oddball, neighbor on the other side of us. Not that I’m saying he did anything but man, he’s different.”

Milo picked up his pen. “Who’s that?”

Corvin glanced to the side. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want it getting back to him.”

“It won’t, sir,” said Milo. “We’re going to be canvassing all your neighbors, so talking to anyone will be routine.”

“Yeah, but I need to — like I said, he’s weird.”

“You’ve had problems with him?”

“Not per se.”

“But...”

“Nothing,” said Corvin. “He’s just weird, so keep me out of it.” Half smile. “Scout’s honor?”

Milo crossed his heart.

“Fine. His name is Trevor Bitt, writes comic books or something.”

“How’s he strange?”

“Lives by himself, keeps to himself, no visitors I’ve ever seen. He never comes out except to bring his cans to the curb or when he drives away in a noisy pickup — a Dodge. If you happen to be there and say hello, he makes like he doesn’t hear.”

I said, “Not a social guy.”

“In his own world, Alan,” said Corvin. “You’ll meet him, you’ll see. But we’ve never given him a reason to hassle us. One time we got his mail and I brought it over. He took it, even said thank you. But I could tell he didn’t mean it. Next time, on can day, he ignored me. Weird.”

“Comic books,” said Milo.

Corvin said, “That’s what they say, I read nonfiction.”

“Who says?”

“I don’t know, I just heard it — go Google him. Maybe I heard wrong and he’s the head of Finland or something.”

“How long has Mr. Bitt been living here?”

“You’re interested in him? Listen, I didn’t want to open some worm can.”

“You haven’t,” said Milo, “but at this point we need to look into everything. How long’s Mr. Bitt been your neighbor?”

Corvin frowned. “He moved in, I want to say, two years after we did. So four years, give or take? I brought him a bottle of wine. No answer at the door so I left it on his doorstep. Next day it was gone but not a single thank-you. The second time we got his mail, the bride brought it over. I warned her he’d snub her. She’s sensitive, bruises like a peach. I used to call her that. My Georgia peach, she spent some time in Atlanta as a kid, father taught at Emory.”

I said, “Did Bitt snub her.”

“She didn’t say, it’s not like he’s a topic. That’s all I can tell you about him.”

“Anyone else in the neighborhood we should be looking at? Even if it seems unlikely.”

“Not a one, Al. This whole thing is unlikely. That it would happen to us.”

Milo did the usual repetition of questions that often pulls up info. With Corvin it didn’t and we walked him out of the kitchen. Brett was seated closer to his mother, fooling with his phone. Chelsea stood at the rear of the room, staring at black glass.

Milo said, “I know it’s late, so how about we talk to the kids now, Mrs. Corvin. Let’s start with Chelsea.”

Felice shook her head. “You heard what I said before, Lieutenant. And actually, the kids and I have been discussing it and they have absolutely nothing to offer. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

Milo said, “How old are you, Brett?”

“Fourteen.”

“Chelsea?”

No reply.

Felice said, “She’s seventeen. They’re both minors, so I’m taking responsibility here. They know nothing and I don’t want their ordeal to be exacerbated.”

Milo said, “Fair enough, ma’am. But kids, if you do think of something, tell your parents—”

Chelsea mumbled, “Bullshit.” Turning, she faced us, focused on her mother, glaring. “I can talk, I don’t care what anyone says.”

Chet Corvin said, “Watch your tone, young lady.”

“Bullshit.”

Felice Corvin said, “Cheltz—”

“Bullshit, I can talk.” A lower-lip tremor robbed the statement of potency.

“Cheltz, you said you had nothing to tell them.”

“But if I did I could.”

“ ‘But if I did I could,’ ” said Brett in a baby voice. “Ooooh.”

His sister wheeled on him. “Fuck off you little ass-wipe—”

Brett bobbled his head and waved jazz hands. “Ooooooh—”

Chelsea spat on the floor. “Ant-dick. I’ve seen it and you are.”

Her turn to smirk. Brett turned crimson and began to rise. His mother restrained him with a hand on his arm. He squirmed. Jabbed the air with a one-finger salute.

“Midget-balls,” said Chelsea.

The boy struggled to peel Felice’s hand off.

She restrained him with both of hers. “Don’t you dare, Brett Corvin.”

Brett flopped back against the back of the sofa, growling. Flashes of red and blue as he bared his teeth. Designer orthodontics.

Chelsea said, “No-go gonad.”

Chet Corvin, stunned, had done nothing during the exchange, eyes moving between his offspring.

Felice pushed Brett back and wagged her finger at Chelsea. Shooting to her feet, she extruded words through clenched lips. “Both. Of. You. Shut. Up!”

Instant compliance.

“Barbarians!” She turned to us, flashed a frosty smile. “Obviously, I’ve proved my point. Here’s what’s going to happen: I’ll talk to you now, and then we’ll be finished.” To her husband: “Watch them properly and find a decent hotel. Make sure it’s got good Wi-Fi.”

Facing us, her back to him.

“Honey,” he said, glancing at Chelsea, then Brett.

The girl trembled. The boy seethed.

Felice Corvin said, “You handle them. For a change.”