Night Moves

Chapter 4

Felice Corvin walked ahead of us to the Weylands’ kitchen. We sat but she remained on her feet. “I’m at a desk all day. My chiropractor tells me to get off my butt whenever I have a chance. What do you want to know?”

Milo said, “Let’s go over tonight. Your husband said you left for dinner at six fifteen.”

“If he said it, it must be true.”

We waited.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m on edge. For obvious reasons. Yes, that sounds right.”

“You arrived at Lawry’s at...”

“Whenever Chet says. I’m not a clock-watcher.”

“Out for a normal Sunday dinner.”

“Normal. Interesting word.” She tossed her hair. “Sorry, again. Yes, it was just another meal, no special occasion. We try to go out with the two of them.” She laughed. “Civilization and all that. Honestly, I’m appalled by what you just had to witness.”

I said, “They’re under a lot of stress.”

“Of course they are but I won’t kid you, this goes way back, the two of them have never gotten along. Nothing in common, not that that explains it.” She shrugged. “Brett’s a great athlete, he handles school basically okay. Chelsea...” She sighed. “She’s seventeen but still in tenth grade. There are motor issues as well as cognitive and perceptual problems, so sports are out and learning’s a challenge. That makes her an obvious target and Brett can be unkind — I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” She threw up her hands. “Probably just what you said, stress.”

Milo said, “We appreciate your taking the time—”

“Sure. Can we get on with it?”

“Of course, ma’am... so you had dinner and got back around nine. Take us through what happened then.”

“We all went upstairs then Chet went downstairs for his glasses and I heard this crazy noise. It took a second for me to realize he was screaming. Like he was in pain, last time I heard that was when he had prostatitis.”

A fact Chet had chosen to omit, emphasizing his wife’s emotionality.

“My first thought was, He’s had a heart attack. What with his weight and all the garbage he puts in his system. So I ran down, saw him standing there staring at something. Then I saw what it was.”

She shook her head. “That poor, poor man. It’s still sinking in. Our house? How insane is that?”

We gave her time. She filled it with nothing.

Milo looked at me.

I said, “After you saw—”

“Oh, God,” she said, shutting her eyes, then opening them. “I really don’t want to think about it. Don’t know if I’ll ever get the image out of my head.”

Her lids fluttered. Pretty hazel irises settled on me. “How do you people do it, day after day?”

“Time tends to—”

“So they say, I hope it’s true.” She tapped her forehead. “Because right now it’s just sitting in here like a... a... I don’t even want to fall asleep tonight, afraid of what I’m going to dream.”

She sat down, exhaled, pushed hair behind her left ear. Spotting a Kleenex box, she grabbed a tissue, wadded it, passed it from hand to hand. “Everything’s jangling.”

I said, “It’s a terrible thing to go through.”

“I think I’d like some water.”

Milo found a glass, rinsed and filled.

“Thank you.” Tentative sips, then a deep swallow. She blinked. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I said. “Can we go on?”

“Sure.”

“So you and Mr. Corvin were standing there—”

“Both of us freaking out. Chet’s color looks nasty to me, purplish, he’s got blood pressure issues. I’m thinking, Oh shit, there’ll be two dead bodies, what the hell am I going to do?”

She drank more water, dabbed sweat from the sides of her nose. “If both of us had the foresight to be quiet... but we didn’t and that brought the kids down and once I saw them, I snapped into mommy mode, not wanting them to see it. But I wasn’t fast enough. At that point, it became utter chaos, Brett’s whooping and yelling how gross it is, Chelsea’s just standing there. Meanwhile, Chet’s his usual inert self — what you just saw. Rooted in place and I’m trying to push the kids out of the room and now Brett’s had an eyeful and he’s white as a ghost. They both are, Chelsea was stunned from the get-go. As you saw, Brett recovered, he’s not one for... lingering. Chelsea, on the other hand... this is the last thing she needs.”

I said, “We can give you referrals for therapy.”

“Could you?” she said. “That’s kind, maybe at some point. But not now, Chelsea hates therapists, we tried a couple, they failed miserably. What can I say? I choose my battles.”

Same thing her husband had said about debating her.

A family that saw life as a war zone?

I said, “So you have no idea who the victim might be?”

“Of course not! Why would I?”

“We need to ask.”

“Proper procedure?” said Felice Corvin. “I get it, I work for L.A. Unified, it’s all about procedure, a lot of it downright stupid. No, I don’t have a clue. Nor can I tell you why they dumped him in our house.”

She bit her lip. “What they did to his hands — was that to hide his fingerprints?”

“Could be.”

“I hope that’s what it is. ’Cause if it’s some crazy satanic thing, that would scare me completely to death.”

I said, “Hiding evidence is the most likely reason.”

“But nothing’s guaranteed.” Strange smile. “Given tonight, that’s pretty obvious.”

I looked at Milo and he took over, covering the same ground he had with Chet. Hang-up calls, strange vehicles, anything out of the ordinary.

Identical denials from Felice. The first sign of accord between them. They’d never know.

Milo closed his pad. “So it’s pretty much a quiet neighborhood, Mrs. Corvin.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it a neighborhood. That would imply neighborliness.”

“Not a friendly place.”

“Not friendly or unfriendly, Lieutenant. Just a bunch of houses that abut each other. I grew up in Indiana and Georgia, we had block parties, no fences between the yards. Even later, up north — we used to live in Mill Valley before we came here — we knew the people around us, rode our horses together — we had equestrian zoning, it was lovely.”

“Not here,” said Milo.

“Hardly,” said Felice Corvin. “Here, you rarely see people, period. Weekends are dead.” She colored around her freckles. “Sorry, that was... what I’ve heard is that a lot of the owners have second homes. And some are renters.”

I said, “Like the Weylands.”

Felice Corvin squinted at me.

I said, “It came up in conversation with your husband. Your helping them find the place.”

“Did he call me a busybody like when it happened?”

“He said you were helpful.” Ever the therapist.

“Well,” said Felice Corvin, “I did tell them about the vacancy. I knew Donna because she’s in accounting downtown, came to our office to deliver papers, we chatted, she told me she was looking for a place. Paul I only met after they moved in. Nice people but we don’t see them much, they have no kids, do a lot of traveling.”

Milo said, “Another neighbor came up in conversation with your husband. Mr. Bitt, on the other side.”

Felice Corvin’s head drew back. “What about him?”

“Your husband said he was a bit odd.”

She drummed a granite counter. “Can’t argue with that. Was there a reason Chet brought it up? As in something he knows but has chosen not to tell me about?”

“No, ma’am,” said Milo. “We probed for anything out of the ordinary just as we did with you and Mr. Corvin said Mr. Bitt was a bit different.”

“Okay. I’d hate to think Chet was keeping something important from me. Yes, Trevor’s a bit of an odd duck. Keeps to himself, we rarely see him, though for all I know he emerges when we’re at work. I did bring him his mail once and he thanked me but that’s been the extent of it. As I said, no one around here is exactly gregarious. Except Chet, of course, he’s never met a stranger.”

Her smile was lopsided, unrelated to happiness.

“Never met a stranger, Chet,” she repeated. “I guess now he has.”

We escorted her back to the Weylands’ living room. Three people working their phones. The kids didn’t look up but Chet did.

“Got us set up at the Circle Plaza, nice and close to the 405, make your commute a cinch.”

“It’ll do,” said Felice. “We won’t be staying long, anyway.” To Milo: “Can you give me at least an educated guess as to when we can return home?”

“As I said, ma’am, it’s likely to be a crime scene through tomorrow, possibly the day after.”

“Okay, if I know, I can plan,” she said. “In terms of that cleanup company, no need, we’ll have our housekeeper do it. Get her some heavy-duty gloves.”

Chet said, “I don’t know, that’s pretty intense—”

“I know. There wasn’t much blood that I could see. Right, Lieutenant? It’s something we can handle.”

“Probably.”

“No guarantees, huh?” She laughed. To her husband: “We’ll be fine. It’s only one room.”

“My room.”

“The dy-ing room,” said Brett, not bothering to look up from his tiny screen. One hand finger-waved. “Ooooh, scary!”

Chelsea texted and ignored him.

Felice said, “We’ll pick up what we need from the twenty-four-hour Ralph’s in Brentwood, seeing as it’s close to — oh, one thing, Lieutenant. May my children get their backpacks so they have their schoolbooks?”

“Sure,” he said. “An officer will accompany one of you to get them.”

“I’ll be that one,” she said. “Thank you.”

Brett said, “Books for one day? I don’t need ’em.”

His mother said, “Enough out of you.” But she smiled and her son returned the courtesy.

Chelsea had returned to staring at nocturnal nothingness.

Milo radioed Moe Reed, who came to escort Felice as the rest of us waited outside.

Both family vehicles had been processed and released. No sign of blood, the only irregular find a silver flask of whiskey in the glove compartment of the black Range Rover.

Chet Corvin said, “I take it to the clubhouse, share some Oban with the guys.”

Milo said, “I’d keep it somewhere else, sir.” He returned the bottle, snipped the tape blocking the driveway.

“Duly noted, Lieutenant,” said Corvin. Not a trace of sincerity.

Milo said, “Soon as your wife returns, you’re good to go, sir.”

Chet Corvin said, “I’m good now. You guys wait for Mom.” Climbing into the Rover, he backed out too fast, bucked the vehicle as he shifted to Drive, and sped away. Brett and Chelsea, entranced by their phones, didn’t seem to notice his departure.

Neither did their mother, toting two backpacks. Shouting, “Turn those things off, our bars are getting low and our bill’s insane,” she headed for the gray Lexus.

When the sedan was gone, Milo studied the Tudor Revival to the left. Clumsily built, with exaggerated slope to the mock-slate roof, too much half timber crisscrossing stucco and brick.

The landscaping didn’t fit medieval England: cactus, aloe, and other sharp, spiky things bordering a C-shaped cobbled drive and fringing the bottom of the house. Drought-friendly but also human-unfriendly. A black Ram pickup, maybe twenty years old, was positioned so it blocked a view of the front door.

He said, “Too late to deal with neighbors, let alone the resident loner. Let’s see what’s going on, tech-wise.”

A voice behind us said, “May I lock up?”

Paul Weyland had come out of his house. He’d put on a bathrobe. His front door remained open.

Milo said, “Go ahead, sir. Thanks for your hospitality.”

Weyland rubbed his bald head. “I can’t exactly say it was my pleasure. But they needed somewhere to go — what a terrible situation. Are they okay?”

“Good as can be expected.”

Weyland yawned, raised a hand to cover his mouth. “ ’Scuse me. Guess I’ll try to grab some shut-eye.”

Milo said, “Long as we have you, could we ask a few questions?”

Weyland righted his eyeglasses. “Sure.”

Milo repeated the pop quiz he’d given the Corvins. Same answers.

He pointed to the Tudor. “How well do you know your neighbor over there, Mr. Bitt?”

Weyland frowned. “Not well... he’s not what you’d call friendly.”

“A loner.”

Nod. Weyland chewed his lip. “Are you saying you’ve got evidence of a problem with him?”

“Not at all, sir,” said Milo. “The Corvins described him as a loner. We’ll be talking to him along with everyone else on the block.”

“Well, good luck talking to him,” said Weyland. “He really is kind of antisocial. Shortly after we moved in, my wife happened to catch him going to his truck. Donna’s friendly, she said hi. Bitt just ignored her and drove away. She said he made her feel like she didn’t exist. She was kind of upset.”

“I can imagine.”

Weyland’s lips folded inward. “If you do suspect him, I’d sure like to know. Look how close he is to us. To them, also. I guess bringing a body from his side would be possible — not that you suspect that. Of course...” Weyland shook his head. “I don’t want to get involved in something I know nothing about... but isn’t that how it sometimes happens? The quiet ones?”

I said, “Sounds like he’s more than quiet.”

“Well, yes — I’m sure it means nothing. Please don’t quote me on anything.”

“Of course not,” said Milo.

Weyland removed his glasses. “I didn’t actually see what happened. To that man. But Chet described it. Not that I wanted him to but Chet’s kind of...”

“He does things his way,” I said.

“Exactly. Anyway... good luck, guys.”

Milo said, “Thanks for your time, sir. Try to get some sleep.”

Weyland smiled and drew his bathrobe sash tighter. “Emphasis on try.”

Inez Jonas exited the house and two coroners drivers rolled a gurney inside, wrapped, bagged, and removed the body. They were technicians in their own right, transporting with impressive speed and grace.

Jonas said, “Nice meeting you, Doctor, hope you find something psychological. ’Cause this sure is crazy.”

I said, “Do my best. Have a good night.”

“My night’s just starting, got called to Pico-Union, normally not my area but there’s no one else.”

Milo said, “Gang thing?”

“They don’t tell me but yeah, probably. Walk-by shooting, sounds like a simple one. Relatively speaking.”

We met up with Moe Reed on the upstairs landing.

He said, “Second floor is three bedrooms, two bathrooms. Nothing interesting apart from some porn in one of Mister’s dresser drawers and under Junior’s mattress. Similar stuff, looks like Junior borrowed. Missus has nothing heavier than a romance novel on her nightstand.”

“Paper-and-ink porn?” said Milo.

“You got it, L.T. Old-school. Well-used magazines that look old, nothing bloody or sadistic or freaky. Junior can access whatever he wants online but maybe he found Dad’s stash quaint. Dad sees something missing, he’s not exactly gonna complain.”

Milo laughed. “Speaking of online, how many computers are we talking about?”

“Laptops for Mom, Dad, and the boy.”

“Nothing for the girl?”

“Nope. Mom wanted to take them, I had no grounds to say no. I didn’t pick up anything hinky from her, just someone who wanted to get back to normal.”

Milo turned to me. “A kid without a computer, what’s the diagnosis?”

I said, “She’s not much of a student, her phone’s enough.”

Reed said, “Did I screw up by letting her take everything? I really couldn’t see grounds.”

“That’s ’cause there aren’t any, Moses. At this point, they’re peripheral victims, not suspects. I’m assuming no weapons up here.”

“Nope. Missus said none and she was righteous.”

“Check downstairs.”

Reed descended and Milo entered the master suite. Corn-yellow walls, matching en-suite bathroom redolent of lavender potpourri. The Corvins shared a clumsy rendition of an Edwardian sleigh bed, pale-blue bedding a bit threadbare at the corners, not even a close match to the rest of the furniture: almost-deco from the nineties.

I stood by as Milo deftly searched drawers and closets, making sure everything was replaced exactly as he’d found it. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Reed. Staying active elevates his mood.

We moved on to Brett’s and Chelsea’s rooms. Both were small and simply furnished, the boy’s space reduced further by navy-blue walls, jumbles of sports equipment, and heaps of balled-up clothing.

Chelsea’s white chamber was neat. The exception was the top of her desk, covered with pencil drawings.

Page after page filled with crude, repetitive geometric shapes.

Overlapping circles evoked a bubble-pipe gone mad. Parallel lines were so densely rendered they made the paper look like linen. Five-pointed stars and jags that might’ve been lightning bolts evoked an imploding universe.

Milo said, “What is she, autistic — the spectrum, whatever?”

“At this point, no diagnoses.”

He flipped through the artwork. “No gory stuff. Okay, she’s just an oddball.”

Moe Reed came up the stairs. “No weapons or ammo, not in here or the garage. Nothing back there that could’ve been used on those hands, either, like a band saw. The only tools they keep are the basics: screwdriver, hammer, socket wrench, set of Allen wrenches. The rest of the garage was piled high with boxes. Like two-thirds of the space is boxes. I checked a few. The ones marked clothes have clothes, same for kitchenware and books. Looks like they moved and never bothered to deal with it.”

“Books turn out to be books,” said Milo. “Don’t you just hate honesty?”

“Worst thing in the world,” said Reed.

We walked him to his unmarked. “What time tomorrow, L.T.?”

“Can you do seven a.m.?”

“I can do six.”

“But I can’t, kiddo. Meet you back here at seven, we’ll canvass with Sean and whatever uniforms I can commandeer. Before we talk to anyone, let’s look for CC cameras. We’ve got a pretty good fix on the time frame and there won’t be much traffic on the street, so fingers crossed. What shift is Sean on?”

“Not sure,” said Reed. “I do know he just closed an assault.”

“Then let’s reward him with more honest labor, Moses. He’s got kids, should be up early, anyway. Captain Brazil’s on tonight, she can be okay. I’ll make a strong case for six uniforms. She gives me a hard time, we’ll make do. But I don’t think she will. Know why?”

Reed looked at the death house. “Upscale neighborhood.”

Milo patted his shoulder. “You are socioeconomically acute, Moses.”

The young detective smiled and drove off.

I said, “I’d like to see the utility door.”

Milo said, “That can be arranged.”

We gloved up and walked the empty driveway to the Corvins’ token gate. Milo arched his hand over the rim, undid the latch, switched on his flashlight.

The backyard was a rectangular pool surrounded by a wooden deck and little else. The water was black as oil when grazed by the flashlight beam, invisible otherwise. Serious hazard if you were unfamiliar with the place.

I said so.

Milo grunted, kept walking. I followed, straining for details in the dark. Three walls of ficus hedge blocked out neighbors on all sides. A pool net and vacuum sat on the far left-hand corner of the deck. Nothing else but a couple of folding chairs and a plastic owl for scaring away pigeons, perched near the shallow end of the pool.

The wood planking fed to the French doors I’d seen at the rear of the house. Easy access. Milo tried each door. Shut solid.

“Decent latches, be a challenge without breaking the glass.” He continued to the side of the house, where concrete steps led to a plain white door.

No shreds of black plastic on the paved ground, no drag marks or footprints. He flashlit the two flanking windows. “Nailed shut, looks like for a long time. Fire department would love that.”

I got close to the door. No pry scars.

Milo tapped the wood. Hollow. “Flimsy piece of crap, ol’ Chet figured this would be the way. He may be a buffoon but a man knows his own house.”

Pulling out his wallet, he removed a credit card, bent and fiddled.

No instantaneous success; this wasn’t the movies. He worked the card into the space between door and jamb, jiggled, angled. Finally, a click sounded and the door swung open. The process had taken around a minute.

“A bit of work,” he said, “but no Houdini-deal. And with the family gone, there was plenty of time and privacy.”

He nudged the door. It creaked and swung a couple of inches. “Thing’s a joke and they don’t set the alarm.”

I said, “Didn’t you hear Chet? It’s all her fault.”

He laughed. “Yeah, he’s a prince. I wish I could say carelessness is a big clue, Alex, but back when I worked burglaries, this was business as usual and we’re talking the high-crime era. What I said before about not bothering with second-floor windows. People paying good money for a system then not using it. Even when citizens think they are being careful, there’s inconsistency, points of vulnerability, like alarm screens gone bad.”

I tapped the left-hand window. “Those boxes in the garage say they’re fine with the status quo. These were probably nailed shut before they moved in.”

“Overconfidence,” he said. “My job depends on it.”

He pushed the door wide open and we entered a beige-painted service porch. Washer, dryer, laundry basket, cheap prefab cabinets, most of which hung askew.

The floor was vinyl. Clean and shiny, no hint anything nasty had been dragged through.

I said, “Begging the question as to why the body was dumped anywhere in the house, why not just leave it here in the first place instead of dragging it clear across the house to Chet’s den?”

“He’s the target?”

“The crime feels personal, and like you said, charm isn’t his thing.”

“That’s one helluva grudge, Alex. And if someone hates him that much, why not do him? Why take it out on some other poor devil?”

“Could be a warning,” I said. “Or the poor devil had a relationship with Chet.”

“Chet was pretty convincing about not knowing the guy. He’s that good of an actor?”

“If concealing his involvement was at stake, he’d be motivated,” I said. “Maybe all that bloviating was a cover.”

“Hmm. Okay, let’s assume Chet pissed someone off big-time. His business is transportation insurance. So, what, someone lost a trainload of whatever, didn’t get paid in a timely manner? I don’t see that leading to blowing off a face and hacking off hands.”

“Maybe it was personal, not business.”

He looked at me. “As in?”

I said, “Could be lots of things.”

“Shoot ’em at me.”

“A scam with an enraged victim. An affair — or even a sexual assault. Chet’s on the road all the time, maybe a business trip went really bad. Or it’s something to do with Felice’s private life and the killer’s throwing it in Chet’s face. Or both of them are involved. I can keep going, Big Guy, but the point is, why was this house chosen? And again, why bother to schlep the body?”

“Questions,” he said. “I’m getting a headache. But thanks.” Grinning. “I mean that, you stimulate the gray cells.”

We walked across the house, reached the den. Cleared of its morbid contents, curiously clean and serene.

Back outside, I said, “What bothered you about the family?”

“Couldn’t put my finger on it,” he said, cramming his hands into his jacket pockets. “Still can’t. They’re not exactly a happy bunch but who is? They just seemed...” He shook his head. “From where I was sitting, she can’t stand him. And wanna bet he calls her something other than ‘the bride’ when talking to his pals? Or himself. Then there’s the kids, couple of jackals tearing at each other. What’s the theme, here?”

“They’re disconnected,” I said. “Less a functioning unit than four people operating independently.”

His hands came out of his pockets. One held a panatela and a book of matches. The other rubbed the side of his face. “I knew there was a reason I called you. Exactly, they’re strangers to each other. If this is the family of the future, we’re fucked.”

A finger rose to his temple. More massaging. “Not that it’s necessarily relevant.”

“It could be,” I said. “Isolation is the perfect breeding ground for secrets.”

“So I do more digging into their background?”

“I would. Start with Chet because it is his room. If nothing shows up, move on to Felice.”

“What about the kids?”

“Brett’s too young to be involved. Chelsea’s old enough to have nasty friends but if she or her peers were involved, the scene would be a lot bloodier and messier. This was a meticulous staging.”

“What about an older boyfriend, Alex? One of those disgruntled scenarios?”

“Mom and Dad disapprove so Romeo goes ballistic? This is a girl whose father seems to ignore her so I can see her looking for a substitute and gravitating toward an older man. Every time we’ve seen disgruntled, it’s the parents who are targeted, not some surrogate. But sure, can’t hurt to check Chelsea out.”

“Those drawings of hers,” he said, unwrapping the cigar. “And that thing she said — the dying room. Maybe that’s something she heard before. Maybe that’s why she ran out and heaved, she knows something. I never got to talk to her, courtesy of Mommy’s protectiveness. Maybe because Mommy knows something, too.”

He looked at the black pool water. Lit up, blew smoke rings. “Anything else back here interest you?”

“Nope.”

“Then let’s get the hell out.”

He walked me to the Seville. Crime scene tape remained up. A couple of uniforms lolled.

I got in the car and lowered the window.

“Thanks for coming out late, amigo.”

“I wasn’t doing much anyway.”

Smooth lie. I’d just finished making love to a beautiful woman, had looked forward to a long bath and an early bedtime. As the water ran, Robin and I lay in bed, her head on my chest, her curls tickling my face. She’d answered the phone, said, “Oh, hi, Big Guy,” and passed it over.

Knowing Milo and decoding his tone: Serious Business.

As I’d gotten dressed, I’d said, “Sorry, honey.”

Robin laughed off the formality, kissed me, looped her arm in mine, and walked me to the door.

I wondered if she was still up. If she was, how much I’d tell her.

Milo said, “How’s your schedule tomorrow?”

“Phone conference with some lawyers in the morning, afternoon’s clear.”

“If I get answers by then, I’ll let you know. If I don’t, I’ll probably call you. Especially if I get to him.” Indicating Trevor Bitt’s Tudor. “From what everyone says, mental health backup’s a good idea. Maybe he is the bad guy and this’ll close nice and tight. On the other hand, when has optimism been a valid concept?”