Night Moves

Chapter 37

Trevor Bitt sat on a tufted living room sofa, hands cuffed in front.

Milo stood over him, Reed behind. Binchy was off to the left, next to Felice Corvin. To the right stood Moroni and Lincoln.

Bitt appeared serene. Felice’s face was tight with anger, arms rigid, hands rolled into fists.

The room was just beyond a vacant entry hall, a dim space with a vaulted ceiling crossed by beams of pseudo-antique timber.

Milo eye-cued the veteran cops and they headed for the stairs at the rear of the room.

Felice said, “Where are they going? Chelsea’s up there.”

Bitt said, “In the studio.”

Milo said, “Where’s that?”

“Right above here.”

Milo said, “She’s seventeen, guys. Be nice.”

Moroni said, “Storm troopers are always nice.”

He and Lincoln took the stairs two at a time. Seconds later, Moroni’s voice from above: “Hi, there, my name is Marlin, no one’s going to hurt you, we need to go downstairs so you can be with your mom... that’s a good girl.”

Chelsea, wearing a paint-specked artist’s smock, appeared on the landing. In one hand was a sketch pad, in the other the kind of black artist’s pencil Robin used. Moroni and Lincoln bracketed her descent. When she reached the bottom, she looked at Bitt. Saw the cuffs and stumbled and made a gagging noise.

“It’s okay, honey,” said her mother. “This will all be cleared up real soon.” Looking to Milo for confirmation.

He said, “Everyone cooperates, that’s the plan.”

Chelsea screamed, “Daddy!” and went for Milo with the pencil.

He managed to feint away from her, right eye barely avoiding a sharpened point. Inertia pitched the girl forward. She landed on the floor, flat on her back, the pad and the pencil a few feet away.

Felice Corvin said, “Now look what you people have done.”

Milo touched the outer rim of his eye socket. Moroni stood over Chelsea and extended a hand. Her head flipped side-to-side and she let out a manic “No!” Moroni edged closer to her but didn’t push it.

All the other cops were looking at Milo.

He said, “Felice, you and Chelsea need to go over to your house.”

Felice turned to Trevor.

“Now, Ms. Corvin. Or your daughter will be charged with attempted assault.”

Felice said, “Why’d you come early? This could all have been prevented.”

Milo said, “You could’ve answered your phone.”

“I had it on vibrate, didn’t hear.”

Chelsea made a pathetic bird-like sound. A chick threatened by an owl. Bitt said, “Are you hurt, Tamara?”

The girl sniffled. Lunged for the pencil.

Marlin Moroni kicked it away, caught her by one wrist, captured the other and held her fast. She struggled for a moment, then went limp.

“Cuff her?” he said.

Felice Corvin said, “She’s a child, don’t be stupid!”

Milo, still massaging the rim of his eye socket, said, “Stupid is someone gets hurt. We’re going to zip-tie her until we’re sure she’s calmed down. Anyone who doesn’t cooperate will be restrained. Officer Lincoln, take them next door and stay with them.”

Felice said,“Trevor—”

Bitt said, “I’m fine.”

Chelsea said, “Daddy.”

Bitt said, “Tamara, please listen to these guys.”

A magical incantation: The girl broke into the kind of smile you see in dreaming infants. No resistance as Lincoln zip-tied her.

Felice said, “This is shameful.” To me: “In your case, it’s malpractice.”

Moe Reed stepped in front of her. “Shameful would be your daughter blinding the lieutenant.”

Felice gave a start. “That didn’t... he’s okay, right? Obviously.”

Reed shot her a death-glare. Ditto from Moroni. Even Binchy was looking stern.

Chelsea said, “Let’s go home, Mommy.”

Lincoln propelled them out the door.

I turned to Bitt. “Why do you call her Tamara?”

“Tamara de Lempicka was a great artist.”

“Building up her confidence.”

The suggestion seemed to puzzle Bitt. “I want to encourage her.”

Milo said, “Before we got here, what were you two doing?”

“Painting,” said Bitt. “We’ve just gotten into acrylics.”

He looked down at his tethered hands. Some of the nails were nearly covered by pigment. The rest of him was pallid. He was dressed much like the last time I’d seen him: green cashmere crewneck, brown polo, the same compulsively ironed khakis, brown deck shoes with white soles.

I said, “How’s Chelsea taking to it?”

A beat. “She gets frustrated.”

He sat lower, as if betrayed by a rubbery spine. The furniture all around us was dark, heavy, overstuffed. Castoffs inherited from a maiden aunt. The paintings on the wall were a whole different flavor. Abstractions, sparsely hung on white plaster walls pretending to be the hand-troweling of an English manor.

Nice stuff. I got up and checked the signatures. Judy Chicago, Billy Al Bengston, Larry Bell, Ed Ruscha. Members of the artistic brain trust who’d worked in L.A. during the sixties and seventies. Back when they were affordable, I couldn’t afford.

Trevor Bitt had swiveled and watched as I inspected. When I returned, his eyes dropped back to his hands.

I said, “Before you moved here, did you live in L.A.?”

“Never.”

“You just like L.A. artists.”

Bitt smiled. “I’ve got a room of French fauvists in my bedroom, Hudson Valley landscape painters in the spare. Art’s an easy way to see the world.”

Milo’s hand left his eye socket. He waved a piece of paper in front of Bitt. “This is a warrant to search for firearms and edged weapons on your premises. Would you like to read it?”

“No, thanks.”

“If you tell us what you have at the outset, we can do it quicker.”

“What I have isn’t much,” said Bitt.

Milo tapped a foot.

Bitt said, “Does edged include flatware and palette knives — that’s a tool used to spread paint on a canvas.”

“If it can hurt someone, it’s included.”

“I’ve got aluminum flatware, one butcher knife that’s still sharp because I rarely use it, and three palette knives.”

“Location.”

“Kitchen, kitchen, studio.”

“Firearms,” said Milo.

“Arm singular,” said Bitt. “A Holland and Holland rifle I inherited from my father. He shot grouse with it. Or quail, some kind of defenseless little bird. I never went along, it held no interest for me.”

“But he left you the weapon.”

“Maybe he figured I’d come around.”

“Did you?”

“It’s never been loaded.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“I think I’d remember, Lieutenant.”

“You’ve never brandished it in front of anyone?”

Bitt sat back and stared at his hands.

Milo repeated the question.

“That I have, Lieutenant. More than once.”

“Under what circumstances?”

Bitt said, “Being an idiot. A long time ago.”

“What’s a long time?”

“Decades. I was a countercultural pretender and sometimes used it for dramatic effect. A prop. It’s never been loaded.”

“Why do that?”

Bitt raised his hands to form quotation marks, setting off jingles and rattles. “I wasn’t a ‘nice guy.’ My art wasn’t nice, either. I thought I was being clever and au courant but now it all seems stale.”

I said, “Has your art changed?”

“To the extent that I make any,” said Bitt.

“What do you paint, now?”

“Currently I’m tackling orchids and birds in the style of Martin Johnson Heade. He was an itinerant painter who sold door-to-door. I admire that flavor of enterprise.”

Milo said, “Back in the day, you enjoyed scaring people with your rifle.”

“When I was stoned or drunk or just being a jerk.”

“We won’t find any ammunition in your house.”

“None.”

“What about the garage?”

“There’s nothing in the garage,” said Bitt. “Literally.”

Milo motioned to Reed, who headed for the rear of the house.

“Where’s the rifle, Mr. Bitt?”

“In a burr-walnut case at the back of my bedroom closet.”

“Anything else you want to tell us about before we search?”

“In the same closet, there’s a samurai sword. Tourist junk. I received it as payment for an illustration back in... probably ’67, ’68? A concert poster, some band. When I tried to sell it I learned it was worthless.”

Milo motioned to Moroni and Binchy. Up they went.

Trevor Bitt said, “I had nothing to do with the man who was killed at Felice’s.”

Braun had been killed elsewhere. Feigning ignorance or misdirecting?

Milo said, “We’re dealing with two dead men.”

Bitt nodded. “Chet.”

“What do you think of that?”

“People getting murdered? It’s terrible.”

“Maybe not for you,” said Milo.

Bitt blinked. “I’m not following, Lieutenant.”

“With Chet Corvin gone, you’re free to be with Felice.”

No emotion on the grayish face.

“Mr. Bitt?”

“I suppose I can understand you thinking that.”

“It’s not true?”

“There’d be no... Felice and I aren’t involved romantically. Not since our relationship in San Francisco.”

I said, “The one that led to Chelsea’s conception.”

For the first time Bitt’s demeanor changed. Blinking half a dozen times, brow forming a V-crease as his lips folded inward. “Yes. But by the time I found out, we were over.”

“When was that?”

“When Felice called me five years ago.”

“And you decided to move next door.”

“That took some pondering,” said Bitt. “I moved the following year.”

Milo said, “Living next to your ex-girlfriend-baby-mama and your secret daughter.”

Bitt’s shoulders rose and fell. “It came at a time when I was ready to make a change. I’d considered Venice. Italy, not California. My aunt owns a deteriorating villa on the Grand Canal.”

“Felice’s call changed your mind.”

“After some deliberation.”

I said, “Ready for fatherhood.”

“I didn’t aim that high,” said Bitt. “I was hoping for some sort of relationship.”

“Chelsea calls you ‘Daddy.’ ”

“For the past two days.”

“Before that?”

“She called me Trevor. I tried to be her friend. To inspire her art.”

“But you hoped for more.”

Bitt blinked. Footsteps from above vibrated the ceiling.

I said, “How quickly did the relationship develop?”

“Not quickly at all,” said Bitt. “At first, I did nothing. Then I asked Felice if I might do something. She said absolutely not. She wasn’t happy I was here, had done her best to ignore me and I kept to myself. Last year, she came over, said she’d changed her mind and I could do art with Chelsea if Chelsea agreed and I swore to be discreet.”

“Just like that.”

“Just like that, Doctor.”

“Impulsive,” I said. “Like calling to tell you about Chelsea.”

“She can be that way. It’s part of why I was attracted to her back in San Francisco. I have difficulty being spontaneous.”

“Being discreet meant the man Chelsea thought was her father never knew.”

“He and everyone else, including Chelsea,” said Bitt.

“Any idea what changed Felice’s mind?”

Bitt’s fingers moved as if typing on an unseen keyboard. “She told me she told you. Her marriage had slid downhill.”

“Why?”

“You’d have to ask Felice.”

“She never explained.”

“Just that,” said Bitt. “I don’t like talking about that kind of thing.”

“Emotions.”

“Negatives.”

“Such as?”

Bitt sighed. “Infidelity.”

“Felice learned Chet had been unfaithful.”

“She’d discovered some credit card bills. I told her I didn’t want to know so that’s where it ended.”

Milo said, “A little chat.”

“That’s it.”

“Just talk?”

Bitt looked amused. “If you’re asking about sex, I don’t do sex anymore.” He patted his chest. The cuffs clinked.

“Vow of chastity?”

“Heart problems. In more ways than one.”

“Meaning?”

“I’ve never been an emotional man, have been called emotionally flat. Over the years, I’ve flattened out further.”

Milo said, “You are a stubborn man. I’ve been trying to speak with you for weeks. Why’d you stonewall me?”

“I had nothing to tell you.”

“That’s your answer.”

“All right,” said Bitt. “I do tend to one emotion.” To me: “Someone in your profession called it free-floating anxiety. Treatment would involve drugs so I’ve passed.”

Milo said, “You don’t do drugs.”

“Not anymore, Lieutenant. The result is an undercurrent of dread. I live with it and it propels me inward.”

“Doing the hermit thing.”

“In San Francisco I used to get out and do social things for business. I never enjoyed them.”

Another look at me: “It’s not agoraphobia, any kind of phobia. I don’t have panic attacks and when I need to leave the house, I can. I just don’t prefer it, so I limit my excursions.”

I said, “To what?”

“Shopping when I can’t get something delivered. Brief walks to avoid blood clots per my doctor. Doctor visits. That’s where I was the night Chet died.”

Passive word choice.

I said, “Nighttime doctor visit?”

“Hospital visit,” said Bitt. “St. John’s, for tests. They put a belt on me that monitored my heartbeat. It needed to be done at night so they could observe my sleeping patterns to make sure my system doesn’t go haywire when I’m unaware.”

“You’ve had symptoms.”

“I’d been waking up short of breath. I called my cardiologist, he scheduled the test.”

Milo took out his pad. “Name?”

“Dr. Gerald Weinblatt,” said Bitt. “Sometimes I see his partner, Dr. Prit Acharya. Neither of them was there, the procedure was done by a technician. An African American gentleman, I don’t know his name.”

I said, “When did you learn about Chet Corvin’s murder?”

“Felice came over the following day and told me what had happened.”

“What was her demeanor?”

“Her demeanor? She was upset. Used up half a box of Kleenex.”

Sean Binchy came downstairs, gloved hands holding a bronze-fitted wooden case and a cheap-looking gray cardboard box fastened by an oversized rubber band. Placing both on the floor, he undid the latches on the case and lifted the lid carefully.

The rifle lay in fitted green velvet. Same beautifully figured walnut as the case, with tarnished, hand-engraved metal tooling.

“Hand-etched, Loot, looks like thirties or forties.”

Bitt said, “Probably thirties or even the twenties. Father received it as a boy.”

Milo said, “Mr. Bitt says he’s never fired it.”

Binchy lifted the weapon, sniffed the end of the barrel. Sneezed. Coughed and sneezed three more times. “It’s full of dust and stuff, Loot.” To Bitt: “This is a valuable rifle, sir. You don’t believe in taking care of it?”

Bitt shook his head.

Binchy undid the rubber band. No velvet interior for this receptacle, just more cardboard. Inside was a dull-looking blade, pitted and corroded along the cutting edge, the handle wrapped in white twine that had browned unevenly.

Binchy said, “Looks like pot metal.” He peered at the corrosion. “Don’t see blood, but...”

Bitt said, “There is none.”

Milo said, “Test it — take it to the lab, now.”

Binchy left with both weapons.

Trevor Bitt said, “When you’re finished testing the sword, throw it out. I forgot I had it, only held on to it to remind myself not to be so trusting.”

Milo said, “You’re generally a trusting guy.”

“When I took hallucinogens, I was. Except for when I overdid and became paranoid.”

“Paranoid and brandishing a rifle,” said Milo.

“It’s nothing I’m proud of, Lieutenant.”

“No more illicit chemistry for you. Not even for your free-floating anxiety?”

“For that I use solitude.”

“Stonewalling the cops was therapeutic.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. I regret inconveniencing you.”

Milo touched the spot Chelsea’s pencil had missed. His eyes got tight and he rhino-jawed.

Sense memory leading to anger.

Bitt said, “I knew I couldn’t help you.”

Milo said, “Where were you the night the body was dumped in the Corvins’ house?”

“Dumped?” said Bitt. “What do you mean?”

“Not a complicated word, Mr. Bitt.”

“Someone put him there?”

“You didn’t know that.”

“I knew what Felice told me.”

“Which was?”

“They came home and found a dead man in Chet’s den. I assumed he’d been killed there.”

“What else did she tell you?”

“That’s it. As I said, we don’t talk much.”

“No relationship.”

“Only as it concerns Chelsea,” said Bitt. “Felice lets me spend time with Chelsea as long as she sees it being helpful to Chelsea.”

I said, “You’re on probation.”

He looked at me. Blank face, frozen eyes. “I guess you could say that, Doctor.”

Milo said, “Why’d you and Felice break up?”

“She initiated. My guess would be I was dislikable, she’d had enough.”

“You didn’t talk about that, either.”

Head shake. “She stopped taking my calls. I didn’t call for very long.”

I said, “How’d you react when she told you about Chelsea?”

“Surprise,” said Bitt. “And, I admit, some anxiety. I spent a long time fretting. What did it mean? Eventually, I began wondering if something positive might develop.”

“Did you worry about Felice making demands?”

Bitt said, “She assured me she wasn’t interested in money. Then she said she’d been wrong to draw me in, I should forget about it.”

“You didn’t.”

Bitt’s lips worked. What began as a frown ended as a smile. “As you’ve seen, I’m not always cooperative.”

Moe Reed returned. “Nothing in the garage, L.T.” A glance at Bitt. “Like he said, literally. No car, no tools, just dust. There is a toolbox under the kitchen sink, couple of Phillips, one wrench, a measuring tape. In terms of blades, he’s got flatware for two, looks pretty flimsy, and one Henckels knife with no visible blood but I’ll bag it.”

“There won’t be blood, I’m a vegetarian,” said Bitt.

Milo said, “Do it. I told Sean to drive to the lab. If he’s close enough, have him come back and add the knife.”

“There’s no blood,” Bitt repeated. “I promise.”