Night Moves

Chapter 36

The following morning, Robin did her usual early rise, up at six, ready to work half an hour later. Usually, she’s way ahead of me. This morning, I was with her for coffee, had walked the dog, showered, and dressed, was ready to call Felice Corvin at seven fifteen.

Before I got to my office phone, it rang. “Dr. Delaware, I’ve got a Ms. Corvin on the line.”

I said, “How convenient.”

“Pardon, Doctor?”

“Please put her on.”

“Good morning, Felice.”

“I know it’s early but I wanted to catch you. I gave what you said a lot of thought, went over to Trevor and talked to him and he’ll speak to you.”

“The key is talking to the police.”

“I meant ‘you’ as in plural. I’d prefer it was just you, but I’m realistic. But could you be there? To monitor?”

“I don’t monitor, Felice.”

“Whatever you do, then,” she said.

“Sometimes I do nothing.”

“Well, just the fact of your presence, then. Instead of a... I don’t know, a regular police thing. Something... military.”

I chose my words. “If I’m allowed to be there, I will be. But this is a double murder case and it will be a regular police thing.”

Pause. “What I’m trying to get across is the issues are sensitive. They require a specialized approach.”

Honest concern? An attempt to manipulate?

I said, “Of course. I’ll pass that along to Lieutenant Sturgis.”

“I guess that’s all I can hope for,” she said. “Would five p.m. today work out?”

“I’ll let him know and someone will get back to you.”

“Someone,” she said. “By the book.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“I guess I understand that, Doctor. People are dead.”

People. Detached way to talk about a murdered spouse, even one you planned to divorce.

I phoned Milo.

He said, “Five today? Yeah, I can do that if Sean and Moe and a few others can.”

“Strength in numbers,” I said.

“Guy’s a nut and he’s been known to wave a firearm. She can say what she wants.”

“She wants me there.”

“For what, an encounter group? If once we’re inside it goes smoothly, yeah, you can observe. Sounds like she’s trying to run interference for him. Or interfere in order to control the situation.”

“The thought occurred to me.”

“Good. I’ll call you if it firms up. Obviously, you’re not gonna be Dr. Door-Buster.”

“Anything else happening?”

“Not unless you count two false sightings of Chet’s Range Rover and San Berdoo sheriffs not rushing over to the A-frame. I did get a call from Dave Brassing. He drove by last night, no Camaro or anything else.”

“Let’s hear it for the citizenry.”

“Love-hate relationship,” he said. “Nice when it’s love.”

The approach to Trevor Bitt’s house began at four thirty, Milo’s unmarked leading two black SUVs halfway up Evada Lane, the three vehicles parking in a row.

Early arrival because, “It’s my timetable, not theirs.”

To the uninitiated that might sound petty. On Planet Cop, anything you can control raises the odds you’ll walk away breathing.

Sunny afternoon, nowhere to hide, but no obvious reaction to the convoy from any of the neighboring houses. Bart Tabatchnik’s BMW wasn’t in his driveway, the same for Edna San Felipe’s Mercedes. The busybody factor diluted.

Milo removed two black tactical vests from his car trunk, strapped one on, gave the other to me and made sure I secured it properly. Soft armor but I felt like a turtle with a carapace. A vulnerable turtle, no way to retract head and limbs.

The same gear was worn by Sean Binchy, Moe Reed, and two burly sergeants Milo had enlisted as supplementary help. Tyrell Lincoln and Marlin Moroni had worked with him on a takedown last year. Someone had died, but not their faults. Both were veterans, attentive and unflappable. Both loved the overtime for the same reason: alimony.

We stood in back of the rear SUV and Milo began briefing. Pointing out Bitt’s Tudor, the black truck parked in front. The adjoining driveway where Felice’s Lexus had taken on dust.

Reed said, “She in her place or his?”

Milo said, “She’s supposed to stay in hers per my chat with her this morning. The plan is I call her, she takes us over to Bitt, supposedly to smooth things out. But I don’t trust either of them. He’s her daughter’s baby-daddy, lived next door for years without the husband knowing.”

“Until maybe recently,” said Binchy. “And then the husband dies.”

“Exactly.”

Moroni said, “Years, that’s freakin’ manipulative.”

Lincoln said, “Lady can keep a secret that long, she’ll never get a government job.”

Chuckles all around. Undertone of tension.

Milo said, “Like I told you all before, Bitt’s been known to flash a long gun and he’s a possible 5150.”

Citing the state regulation that enabled involuntary commitment. It’s also LAPD radio code for a mentally ill suspect. “Unless Dr. Delaware sees different.”

I said, “It pays to assume the worst.”

“Mental with a gun,” said Moroni, rolling massive shoulders.

Reed said, “A long gun and Braun’s face was full of shot.”

Milo said, “Once we know Bitt’s under control, priority is to clear his house of weapons. I’ve got a limited search warrant for firearms and edged weapons, including power saws because Braun’s hands were severed.”

Reed said, “So we check any garage or work space.”

Moroni said, “A 5150, the hands could be in a pickle jar.”

“If the jar’s in plain sight, we take that, too.”

More laughter, masculine, growing edgier.

Tyrell Lincoln looked at me. “With craziness a factor, you’re the SMART guy today, Doc?”

Not a compliment, a municipal anagram: System-Wide Mental Assessment Response Team.

Milo said, “Yeah, today we’ve got real smart instead of regular SMART.”

He told them about Bitt’s stonewalling for weeks, recounted the specifics of the cartoonist’s gun-show with Maillot Bernard.

No more levity.

Marlin Moroni said, “He doesn’t come to the door, we force entry?”

Milo said, “I wish we could but the warrant isn’t a no-knock.”

“Why not?”

“D.A. got involved.”

Lincoln said, “The caution-cooties.”

“He stonewalls,” said Reed, “we all go home.”

“Unfortunately.”

Moroni said, “That’s chickenshit. D.A. should be 5150’d.”

“The thought occurred to me, Marlin. The issue is, this level of neighborhood, they’re paranoid about something going real bad.”

Reed said, “Murder suspect with a gun? You think?”

Milo said, “We deal with reality, guys. That’s why I agreed to work with Felice Corvin, even though she twangs my antenna. She’s doing the door-knock.”

Moroni said, “Open up, honeybuns. Pu-leeeze.”

Lincoln said, “Assuming we get in, incapacitate the psycho, then search.”

Moroni said, “Discreetly, of course, Ty. This neighborhood, don’t want to mess up the interior decorating.” He glanced at the Tudor. “Cartooning can buy that?”

Milo said, “There’s family money.”

“Loony and rich? Just add water and you’ve got Entitlement Soup. I’m assuming Bitt gets cuffed.”

“Soon as possible,” said Milo.

“If we get the hell in.”

“Think positive, Marlin. One concession I did get: If there’s serious grounds to suspect something nasty, we can use the ram. I’ve got it in my car.”

Lincoln said, “We’ve got ours, too. What constitutes nasty?”

“Suspect engages in obviously threatening behavior or a hostage situation.”

Moroni said, “Or a nuclear bomb goes off.”

Lincoln said, “Nope, a bomb, we need to clear it with the ACL-Yooo.”

Milo said, “Assuming nothing happens God forbid, we’re stuck with a frontal entry because access to the back of the property is blocked by a serious gate.”

Lincoln said, “What about the rear neighbor?”

“High wall.”

Moroni sighted Bitt’s house again. “Okay if I take a look at the gate?”

Milo thought. “Make it quick.”

Moroni sprinted up the block, tucked himself into the space where Chelsea Corvin smoked. Big, thick man in his late forties but he’d held on to some college football speed. He returned seconds later. “Someone boosts me, I’m over.”

Lincoln held up a hand. “You’re not wearing golf cleats so I volunteer. Maybe I can do it just by throwing you.”

“Big talk, Stiff Knees,” said Moroni. “If there’s a turn bolt on the inside, I might let you hobble in.”

A blond woman in sky-blue yoga clothes emerged from a Greek Revival two houses up, arms folded across her chest, cellphone in one hand. As she lifted it, Milo said, “Sean, tell her to go inside and not call anyone. Tell her world peace depends on her.”

Picking Binchy because he had the softest approach.

Binchy ran over and graced the woman with his Born Again smile. His vest and gun made the woman go stiff. He slouched and did his best to look un-cop. Same relaxed stance I’d seen in old photos of his ska-punk band: Fender bass held low over the groin as he provided bottom.

By the end of a brief chat, the woman was smiling and nodding and returning inside.

Binchy returned. “Nice lady, no prob.”

Moroni said, “Hot little ass. You get her number? You don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

Binchy blushed.

Reed said, “In terms of a bad outcome, what about Bitt’s window views?”

Milo said, “Unfortunately, Moses, there’s no way to totally avoid scrutiny. Once we’re a property away, let’s shift north, stay as close to structures as we can so the angle’s restricted. When we get to Bitt’s house, keep near the front. That way he’d need to angle any weapon over a sill and shoot straight down. And once we’re in that entry alcove over the door, he can’t get to us unless he blasts through the door with an AK.”

Silence.

“I know it’s not an optimal situation but it’s what we have.”

Moroni said, “We’re doing daytime not nighttime because...”

“Too many variables after dark. At least this way we can see what’s happening.”

“Hmm... okay.”

“Any other questions? Then, I’m calling her.”

No answer at Felice Corvin’s mobile or her landline.

Reed said, “So much for cooperation. Don’t like the feel of this.”

Milo said, “Plan B. We go anyway. Unless there are other suggestions.”

Head shakes. No one cracking wise.

“One more thing,” he said, fooling with the straps on his vest. “Try not to fall in the cactus.”

Touching his weapon, he began walking, a general leading a mini-battalion of four armed men into the unknown.

One unarmed man standing back, feeling extraneous.

When we passed the yoga-blonde’s house, a curtain ruffled. Other than that, quiet and still. Moroni and Lincoln positioned themselves at opposite corners of Bitt’s house as Milo and Reed and Binchy crowded into the covered alcove, guns in hand.

I waited near the front porch of a Cape Cod Revival. Junk mail piled up near the door, no security consciousness.

Milo knocked on Bitt’s door. It opened immediately. That threw him and he stepped back. Then, Glock in hand, he stepped in.

The young D’s followed. Nothing for a moment, then Binchy came out and gave a thumbs up.

Lincoln and Moroni came forward from the flanks. Binchy said, “You, too, Doc.”

On TV and in the movies, when the crisis fritters out, hot-dog cops express regret because they crave Rambo-action. Marlin Moroni’s and Tyrell Lincoln’s shoulders dropped as they sheathed their weapons. Both of their faces were slick with sweat and when I joined them the pulses in their thick, sturdy necks were still racing.

As I followed them in, Moroni said, “Amen, Jesus.”