Night Moves

Chapter 35

Out on the sidewalk, Petra said, “Sorry for bringing you out for that. She kept hinting around she had more but obviously she just played me to get her solicitation ticket wiped off.”

Inside the coffee shop, a man walked up to Sarser. Ten years her senior, dark-complexioned, lazy eyelids, lizard face. He wore a black leather jacket, a flashy flowered shirt, diamond earrings in both lobes. Tattoos ran up his neck, flirting with his carotid.

“Look at this zombie-scum,” said Petra. “How many priors would you say?”

Milo scratched his chin. “Twenty, minimum.”

“I say thirty.” She stared at the newcomer, squinting, tight-jawed. Hoping he’d notice her. He didn’t. Kept talking into Sarser’s left ear. Sarser’s hands were flat on the table.

Petra said, “Pathetic. Next time I hear about her, she could be my client.” She turned away. “Okay, guys, let’s get some sleep. Wish it had made a difference.”

Milo said, “Nothing to be sorry for, kid. We learned plenty.”

“What?” she said.

“The woman with Chet wasn’t the caller, making her likely collateral damage, maybe dumped along with the Range Rover, so let’s keep our eyes out for the vehicle. Also nothing we just heard budges Bitt off the radar. The whole Bitt-and-Felice thing is nuts. Old boyfriend moves next door?”

Movement from inside the coffee shop caught our eyes. Iguana Man had looped one arm over Sarabeth Sarser’s shoulder. Smiling slackly, ripe with entitlement.

His mouth got close enough to her left ear to insert his tongue. Maybe that’s what he did. Maybe he just spoke. Either way, she squirmed.

His other arm moved, dangling over her meth-shrunk bosoms.

He began eating her pie.

Petra went in and said something to him. He bristled but slithered out of the booth and left the coffee shop. Making sure to avoid Milo and me.

Petra returned with her phone out, read a text and smiled. “Aww, Eric claims to miss me. I’m straight home, guys.”

She walked away, alert, gracefully athletic. To outward appearances a good-looking woman far too stylish for this section of Hollyweird. One hand rested near the gun beneath her jacket. We watched her slender form melt into the darkness, then headed for our cars.

At the Seville, Milo said, “No more bullshit, tomorrow before Felice takes the kids to school, I’m calling her to see if she can convince Bitt to talk to me. She doesn’t want to cooperate, I’ll inform her there’ll be police banging on his goddamn door day in day out, the press will find out, the entire Westside’s gonna know she’s been in a sneaky relationship with someone who draws obscene, violent cartoons.”

“The kids will be impacted.”

“Got something better?”

“Let me call and ask her.”

“That would work because...”

“I began something this morning, maybe I can build on it.”

“Building rapport through psychological sensitivity,” he said.

“That would be the hope.”

“Rather than the spontaneous invasion of the Visigoth-Mongol-Hun known as me.”

I laughed. “Yes, Attila.”

He ran his hand over his face. “Fine. You get one try. Also, thanks. From the depths of my insensitive heart.”