Night Moves

Chapter 38

Moments after Reed’s exit, Marlin Moroni came thundering down the stairs. “Can I talk in front of him?”

“Go,” said Milo.

“Did a second sweep, zip.” To Bitt: “That picture on the easel, you did it?”

“Work in progress.”

“You’re pretty good.”

“I try.”

Milo said, “Marlin, go next door and see how Tyrell’s doing.”

I said, “Just thought of something — the son, Brett, may also be there.”

Moroni said, “Check it out,” and made his exit.

Trevor Bitt said, “I imagine the boy’s having a tough time.”

Milo said, “Why’s that?”

“Chet was his father.”

“How’d Brett relate to you?”

“If we passed on the street, he’d sometimes make a face at me. I assumed Chet had told him things about me. Or maybe he’s just that kind of kid.”

I said, “You were seen having a confrontation with Chet Corvin.”

“I was?” said Bitt.

“Up the block, shortly after the body dump.”

Bitt squinted. “Oh, that. Someone saw it?”

“What happened?”

“It was nothing.”

Milo said, “Tell us anyway.”

“I’d bought Chelsea some chocolate candy. The second time, the first was for her birthday, Christmas. I told her to keep the box hidden for obvious reasons. She was careful the first time but forgot the second time and left it on her desk. Chet browbeat her and she told him I’d bought it. I was taking a walk and he came after me.”

“Because...”

“He’d gotten the wrong impression.”

“Meaning?”

“I need to spell it out?”

Milo said, “You do.”

“He implied something inappropriate was going on. I assured him that wasn’t so, I was merely helping Chelsea with her art, the chocolate was a reward for her applying herself. He told me that sounded like bullshit, she had no talent. I assured him it wasn’t. He threatened me. If anything ever did happen, I’d be sorry. At that point, I said nothing. I thought he was going to hit me, my heart was taching — beating far too rapidly. Fortunately, he left and I tried to walk it off. We never spoke again and Felice told me my contact with Chelsea would be reduced to when Chet was out of town for more than a day or two. She said Chelsea cried.”

Milo said, “Why’d you pick chocolate as a gift?”

“Because I like it,” said Bitt. “This brand is especially high-quality, I got it at a boutique in West Hollywood. One of the things that got me out of the house. She finished every piece of the first box. That’s why I got her a second box.”

I said, “How often did your contact with Chelsea take place late at night?”

Bitt sighed. “That. We thought she understood but she began sneaking out, even when Chet was home. Sometimes she’d kick the side of my house, sometimes she’d just stand around.”

I said, “How’d you respond when she kicked?”

“I tried to do nothing, Doctor. Sometimes I’d hear her crying softly and if that wasn’t bad enough, I’d be worrying Chet would find her and everything would go to hell. Luckily that never happened but I was careful to avoid any sort of face-to-face with her when Chet was in town. To the point of not leaving in the morning until after Felice had taken the kids to school.”

“You never let her in?”

“I did,” said Bitt. “A few times. She wanted to do art but I said we didn’t have time. So we’d sit and drink tea and then she’d return home.”

Milo said, “I’m going to call that cardiologist right now. If you’ve lied to me, sir, now’s the time to admit it.”

“I haven’t. Speak to the technician. Twenties, African American, strong features, especially the cheekbones. He’d be an excellent portraiture subject.”

Milo took out his phone and called Moroni back.

“Everything okay?”

“Girl’s still zip-tied but she’s quiet, mother’s cleaning up the kitchen, boy’s upstairs, when I looked at him, he flipped me off.”

“Kids,” said Milo.

“Mine did that, you know what would happen.”

Bitt hadn’t followed the conversation. Eyes shut, he rested his neck on the top roll of the sofa. Within moments, his mandible had dropped and he was snoring openmouthed.

Moroni and Milo looked at each other, then me. Interrogation 101: The guilty ones were more likely to doze.

Milo pulled out his phone and walked to another room. He came back looking as if he’d drunk a punch bowl of spit. Stepping up to Bitt, he stomped his foot hard. Bitt roused. His eyes worked to focus.

“Your lucky day, Mr. Bitt, courtesy cardiac tech Antonio Jenkins.”

He undid Bitt’s cuffs. Bitt said, “We’re finished?”

“Not quite,” said Milo. “You’re covered for the night of Chet Corvin’s murder but that doesn’t mean you weren’t involved in it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re a man of means, Mr. Bitt.”

Bitt squinted. “You’re saying I paid someone to kill Chet?”

“Did you?”

“Of course not. Why would I do that?”

“He scared you, he was mean to Chelsea, you wanted to help Felice be free of him.”

“That’s not how I deal with things,” said Bitt.

“What’s your thing?”

“Retreat,” said Trevor Bitt. His fingers fluttered on his lap. “I am, at heart, a coward.”

I said, “Dogs sometimes bite out of fear.”

“I’ve never harmed anyone or anything physically in my life. That’s why I refused to hunt with my father. That’s why I got pounded on in prep school.”

Milo said, “A vegetarian.” Leaving his favorite carnivore wisecrack unspoken: So was Hitler. “Let’s talk about the body left next door. Where were you that night?”

“Here.”

“Doing what?”

“Drawing.”

“New cartoon?”

“I don’t cartoon anymore,” said Bitt. “A sketch for a painting. A pair of parrots — follow-up to the berylline hummingbirds I’m working on. What that other officer saw on the easel.”

“Love to see it myself.”

Bitt looked puzzled. “That will verify my whereabouts?”

“Nah, but I’m into art appreciation.”

Bitt climbed unsteadily, gripping the banister, stopping every few steps to catch his breath. When we reached the landing, his chest heaved. If this wasn’t theater, he was in no shape to transport a body and drag it across a house.

Milo said, “You okay, sir?”

“I’m fine.” Bitt leaned on the banister. “The night of the first murder, I saw something. I thought it was unimportant. It probably is. A truck drove past my studio window.”

He pointed to an open door. An easel faced the front of the house, soaking in friendly southern light.

Milo said, “What time?”

“Before the hubbub — maybe an hour before? Can’t say for sure. The engine sound is what caught my attention. I was painting, looked outside and saw it. At first I thought I’d been robbed.”

Milo said, “Robbed of what?”

“My truck, Lieutenant. It resembled mine.”

“Dodge Ram.”

“I’m not saying it was the same make, just a general resemblance. About the same size and a dark color, possibly black, like mine. I went downstairs, saw that my truck was still there, and forgot about it.”

Milo looked at me. Both of us remembering Binchy’s witness spotting a pickup leaving the neighborhood.

He said, “A murder next door but you figured it wasn’t important.”

“Would another apology do any good?” said Bitt, sounding dispirited.

“What time did this take place?”

“Don’t wear a watch,” said Bitt. “Don’t pay attention to time. All I can tell you is well before the Corvins returned. I heard their engine, too, that SUV he drives rumbles. I saw them get out and go inside the house and went back to work. A while later, the light in my studio changed, the window was striped with color. Those bars atop your police cars are extremely color-saturated. Then those other lights on poles. People talking.”

“You weren’t curious enough to come out and check?”

“When I saw Chelsea leave the house — the others, as well — I assumed it was a burglary. The next day, Felice told me what had happened.”

Milo said, “Does Chelsea have a pal who drives a dark truck the same size as yours?”

Bitt’s head swung toward him. “You can’t be serious.”

“We consider everything.”

“Chelsea’s gentle.”

Milo touched the side of his eye. Bitt winced.

“I don’t know anything about Chelsea’s friends. She’s never talked about having any. But she had nothing to do with anything.”

“You know that because...”

“I know my daughter.”

“Would you be willing to release your financial records for inspection?”

The topic shift threw Bitt. Classic detective trick. When he stopped blinking he said, “What kind of inspection?”

“Unusual cash withdrawals.”

“For what — really, Lieutenant?” said Bitt. “As if I’d know how to hire some kind of assassin?”

“A look at your records could clear up the issue.”

“Be my guest, Lieutenant, but there are no records here, everything’s handled by a trustee.”

“Who’s that?”

“A management firm in Palo Alto. Swarzsteen Associates, they’ve worked with us for generations. The executive for my account is Don Swarzsteen.”

Milo said, “Spell that, please.”

Bitt recited slowly.

“So how does it work?”

“I suppose I’ll need a release. Get me a form and I’ll sign it.”

Milo said, “I meant how do you get your bills paid?”

“Swarzsteen pays them — credit card bills, utilities, taxes. For odds and ends, they send me a monthly allowance.”

“How much?”

“Two thousand a month.”

“Tight budget,” said Milo.

“Enough for me,” said Bitt. “At the end of the year, I send some of it back and Don reinvests it. That I can show you.”

We followed Bitt as he opened the door to a bedroom set up with a Chinese wedding bed, a Victorian dresser, three paintings on the three walls, and little else. He rifled in a drawer and handed Milo a computer printout.

Year-end summary below the letterhead of the investment company, most of the activity co-managed by the Palo Alto office of Chase Private Client. Current balance in an “extraneous expenses account,” $12,356.13, monthly deposits of $2,000.00 on the third of each month, slightly over half making a return trip.

Bitt said, “My needs are simple. I use it for food and art supplies.”

I said, “Speaking of art,” and headed for the studio.

Not one easel, a pair, the second positioned against a windowless section of the western wall, invisible from the doorway. The one facing the street propped a painting of two luminous, beautifully rendered emerald-breasted birds hovering in midair. The other displayed a canvas the same size filled with muddy blotches.

Bitt pulled a sketch pad out of a flat file and showed us a pencil sketch of two macaws. “What I was working on, that night.”

I said, “Why don’t you cartoon anymore?”

Bitt said, “I came to see it for what it was. Mean-spirited, seize on deformity and magnify. I had enough.” He pointed to Chelsea’s painting. “Interesting, no? Bringing order to chaos. To me, this paler section up here represents dawning clarity.”

That sounded like art-speak b.s. I saw blotches.

Love knows no bounds.

Bitt took our silence as debate.

“It’s conceptual,” he insisted. “She’s the only thing I’ve ever really conceived.”