Night Moves

Chapter 40

When we reached the stairs, he said, “How about you take this?”

“What do you want me to concentrate on?”

“Friends, social life, the Camaro, her love life — hell, anything she wants to say. Not that I’m hoping for much.”

“I’m the court of last resort, huh?”

“That’s why you get the big bucks.”

Chelsea Corvin hunched at her desk, headphones mussing her hair. She’d filled a quarter of the sheet with precise rows of raisin-sized ovals. A tongue-tip protruded between her lips.

Milo stood back. I stepped in front of the girl, ensuring I was visible.

She shifted her grip on the pencil, holding it in a curled fist, like a toddler. I stood there. Her line broke and she switched back to an adult grip and kept working. Like mother...

Keeping my eye on the graphite point, I removed the headphones.

No reaction. “Hi, Chelsea. I’d like to talk to you.”

She shifted her hand, embarked on a new row of ovals. Stub-nailed, grubby fingers tightened around the pencil.

“Chelsea—”

“About what?”

“First of all, I want to let you know Trevor’s fine.”

“Dad.”

“Dad’s fine.”

The pencil point hovered above the desk.

I pulled up a chair beside her. “Finding out he’s your dad is a big change.”

“Uh-uh.”

“It isn’t a big change?”

“No.” She finished the row.

“Chelsea, is there anything you can tell us about the man left in your house?”

“The dead guy,” she said. “Uh-uh.”

“What about what happened to — what should I call Chet?”

Silence. New row.

“Should we call him Chet, Mr. Corvin—”

A smirk stretched her lips. “Used-to-Be-Dad.”

“Used-to-Be-Dad it is.”

She gave a start. Muttered under her breath.

I said, “Pardon?”

She half turned. Hot black eyes; cigarette holes on paper. “He never liked me.”

“Never?”

“He liked Brett.”

“Any idea who killed him?”

“Someone he got mad.”

“Like who?”

She looked at me again. “Someone he got mad. That’s probably why the dead guy was in his room.”

“You think Used-to-Be-Dad was targeted.”

“He got them mad.”

“Them,” I said.

“Anyone.” Shrug. “What-ever.”

“No idea who that might be?”

“He’s not my dad,” she said.

“I know. So who might’ve targeted him?”

“He’s not my dad.” Whining. “How can I know?”

Irritation, then indifference. But no tension, no tells. I waited out two more rows.

“Chelsea, do you know anyone who drives a Camaro?”

“Nup.”

“A black Camaro?”

“Nup.”

“None of your friends drives a black Camaro.”

“I don’t got friends.” Matter-of-fact, no visible regret.

Milo’s phone beeped a text. She looked back at him, said, “Sorry. For before.”

“No prob, kid.” He read the message and frowned.

I said, “No one you know drives a Camaro.”

“Nuh.”

“Dad drives a pickup.”

“Uh-uh, a Range Rover.”

“I meant Trevor.”

She turned scarlet. Her hand faltered. “Yeah.”

I said, “Do you know anyone who drives a truck like Dad’s?”

“Him.” Hooking a thumb to the left.

“Him?”

“Him,” she said.

“Who’s that, Chelsea?”

Another leftward jab.

“I don’t get it, Chelsea.”

“Him. In that house.”

I said, “Mr. Weyland drives a truck like that? I saw him in a Taurus.”

“He got a car and a truck.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Weyland.”

“Yeah.”

“What color is it?”

“Gray.”

“Dark or light?”

“Dark.” Another row completed, she smoothed the paper with her hands. Judged herself and scowled.

“Anything else you want to tell me, Chelsea?”

Two deep breaths before she put her pencil down. She twisted clumsily in her chair and faced Milo. “Sorry. Really.”

He said, “Forget it, kiddo, no big deal.”

She mouthed, Kiddo. Smiled. Turned grave. “Sorry. Really really.”

“It’s really no prob, Chelsea. Just be careful in the future.”

“You won’t put me in jail?”

“Not a chance.”

“Mom said...” The girl shuddered.

“Mom told you I was gonna put you in jail?”

“If I don’t shape up soon, I’m in for trouble.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “I don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Hurt people.”

Like father...

Her hands fluttered. Opening a desk drawer, she took out a sheet and held it out to him. Rows of diamonds.

“For you.”

“Original art? Thanks, kiddo. Though I’m really not supposed to take gifts on the job.”

“Uh... Mom could mail it to you?”

Milo said, “No need, Chelsea, this’ll be fine.”

She hung her head, placed her palms on her cheeks. Some of the flush had faded, leaving her skin with the mottle of raspberry swirl ice cream.

I said, “We’re going to leave now. If you think of anything you want to tell us, Lieutenant Sturgis will give you his card.”

Three immediate, staccato nods. Mechanical movements, as if an unseen puppeteer was manipulating her head.

Milo handed her the card. She studied it. “Rectangle. I’m gonna draw rectangles.”