Night Moves

Chapter 31

Evada Lane, one a.m. A starless sky sagged like a rain-soaked tarp, a malnourished moon cast anemic light.

The first time I’d been here after dark, LEDs on poles and flashing bars atop cruisers had turned the cul-de-sac into a miniature theater district. No show tonight; the silence was constricted — that of a gagged victim.

I parked a block farther than this afternoon, wanting to avoid some antsy resident’s memory jog. My sneakers had the squeak long run out of them; my sweatpants and shirt were black. I could be taken for a burglar. If Moe Reed or Sean Binchy was on watch, he’d figure it out.

No sign of either detective as I made my way. Maybe because they were pros. Or the overtime budget had run out.

As my eyes adjusted, contours of rooftops suggested themselves. Where the street wasn’t as inky as my clothing, specks of purple and lilac showed like pinprick wounds. Lights on in front of Bart Tabatchnik’s house but his car was gone. If I was a burglar, I’d be interested.

Illumination appeared at only three other residences, one of them Trevor Bitt’s Tudor, where a single second-story window facing the street formed a flesh-colored rectangle.

Lights off at the Corvins’. I wondered how the kids were doing.

I covered a third of the block feeling like a prowler. Made my way halfway up with still no sign of either young D. The trunks of street trees were too thin to provide cover and I saw no obvious hiding spots unless you got uncomfortably close to houses.

Not on watch.

I kept going, planning to reach the end of the cul-de-sac, circle back, and repeat before returning home and hoping for sleep.

A sound from up the block froze me midstep.

Sound duo: a thump, then a click.

I shifted off the sidewalk onto someone’s drought-scratchy lawn, squinted and focused on the origin of the noise. Purple specks helped me, strobing movement from the side of the Corvin house.

The barest suggestion of human form emerged before flicking out of sight.

I trotted closer.

The form headed toward Bitt’s house, stopped below Bitt’s street window.

Chelsea Corvin, slightly stooped, standing there.

She did something with her arms. A yellow tongue flicked, an orange dot appeared, and the flame turned into sprinkles of earthbound stars plummeting to the ground.

A lit match flung to the ground. A cigarette end brightened under the force of a long inhalation.

Chelsea smoked it dead, tossed the butt away, let it burn itself out, and did nothing for a while. Then she moved, heading for the side of Bitt’s house that bordered hers.

I race-walked, stopped two houses away.

The scrape of feet shuffling on cement.

She coughed. A signal? Or tobacco having its way with young lungs?

She’d done this before. For all any of us knew, Bitt had no idea she preferred his property for surreptitious teenage rebellion.

Most likely, she’d sneak back home.

Two more coughs that sounded intentional. Then: faint, drum-like rapping.

Shave and a haircut six bits.

A squeal as hinges rotated.

“You’re here,” said a man’s voice. “Good.”

Squeal, hiss, clap as the door closed.

I waited a few seconds before sneaking over. The cigarette butt had landed near a patch of agave, losing the battle of survival to night-dewed succulents.

Bitt’s street window went dark. Another rectangle on the side of the house lit up, as if in compensation. A window that faced the Corvin house. Chelsea’s bedroom.

I hung around for a while and when the girl didn’t exit, I got out of there. Waiting until I’d passed Bart Tabatchnik’s house before making the call.

Milo’s semi-awake voice was a spit-clogged tuba. He recovered fast; all those years of late-night homicide calls. “Hold on, let me go to another room.”

Moments later, he was back, a saliva-free trombone. “We surveil, get zilch, you show up once. Keeping your lottery ticket in a safe place?”

“Beginner’s luck,” I said. “I didn’t spot Moe or Sean.”

“Moe just picked up his own murder and Sean’s started excavating a cold case. So she definitely went inside.”

“No doubt.”

“I knew we were right, he’s a creep. Okay, what now...” Muffled yawn. “Raiding the place just because she’s in there is a bad idea, by the time I make arrangements she’ll probably be gone. And too many unpredictables. But this should be enough for a warrant, gotta be, I’ll talk to Nguyen or go straight to find a damn judge. Only glitch I can see is your presence, you might need to be named as a police sub-agent or something along those lines.” He laughed. “You’ll get paid sooner.”

I said, “I’m fine with that but there’s another issue. As a psychologist I’m obligated to report suspected child abuse.”

“Defined how?”

“That’s the problem,” I said. “There are no clear definitions of ‘suspected,’ the rules change all the time, and whenever I try to get clarification from the state board they give me gobbledygook. If you move quickly, I can make the call at the same time. And I think Felice should know right away. She’ll get upset, might be able to open Chelsea up.”

“Complications,” he said, “but on balance, you’ve made my life simpler.”