Night Moves

Chapter 47

Milo fidgeted as he raced toward Arrowhead Village. “Not sure what that accomplished.”

I said, “At least the house will finally get worked.”

Three miles passed before he spoke again. “Seven years between Jackie and Donna.”

“Good chance of someone else,” I said. “When did he marry Donna?”

“Good question. Call Moe, see if he can find out.”

I phoned Reed, got voicemail, left a message.

“Try Sean.”

Same result.

Milo said, “It’s like everything’s turned swampy and just walking’s a hassle — try Petra.”

The third time wasn’t a charm.

Without waiting for further instruction, I phoned Raul Biro.

He said, “You’re on the Loo’s phone, Doc.”

“He’s into safe driving.”

“Driving from where?”

I told him.

He said, “A cop? Oh, shit. And you think it’s the same guy who did the handyman — Weyland.”

“Best guess, so far. His real name’s Mearsheim. Maybe.”

“Whatever his name is, I might have something. When do you plan to be back?”

“Couple of hours.”

“That’ll work,” said Biro. “Got someone you’ll want to meet, listen to this.”

Fueled by the news, Milo sped well past the limit, making adventurous lane changes, and when we reached the jam near the four-level downtown interchange used the shoulder to press his way onto the 101.

Ignoring honks and dirty looks, he said, “Goddamn pretzel and they don’t even give you salt.”

Squealing exit followed by more creative driving on side streets.

When we pulled up in front of the Hollywood station on Wilcox, Biro was waiting. GQ’d as always in a light-blue suit, white shirt, Windsor-knotted paisley tie. But the look in his eyes was anything but composed. He remote-opened the staff lot and sped ahead of us as Milo sandwiched between two other sedans.

“Thanks for sticking with it, Raul.”

“Petra’s idea,” said Biro.

“How’s she feeling?”

“Sick as a dog — more like a flu than a cold.” Biro looked at his watch. “You made it unbelievably fast.”

“Luck,” said Milo.

Biro said, “I’ll bet.” His right foot moved up and down as he scanned the street. “A little late. He doesn’t show up, I know where to find him.”

A minute later, a white taxicab trimmed in blue and red approached from the south. Prestige Cabs above a medallion impressive enough for a minor European functionary.

Biro pointed the cab to the staff lot, remoted it in. By the time the cab had parked, we were at the driver’s door. A short, wide man in a gray cardigan got out. Sixties, sparse white crew cut topping a face that looked as if it had spent years in the ring, a physique designed for trudges across the steppes.

Biro said, “Hello, Mr. Grinshteyn. Thanks for coming.”

“Boris,” said the driver.

Milo extended his hand. “Lieutenant Sturgis. Thanks for taking the time, sir.”

Boris Grinshteyn hesitated before shaking, as if concerned about digit theft. His fingers were cocktail franks. “The please say come, I come.”

Bassoon voice, Russian inflection. I flashed back to a record favored by my “educated” aunt Edith. Peter and the Wolf.

Biro said, “We really appreciate it, sir. You brought what we need?”

“Yah, Lieutenant.”

“He’s the lieutenant, I’m just a lowly detective.”

Grinshteyn’s face compressed, taking on the look of a cabbage left too long in the fridge.

Milo said, “He’s being modest. He’s a commissar.”

“Hoh,” said Grinshteyn. “Commissars we don’t need.”

He key-opened his trunk, took a while finding what he was looking for among piles of laundry and Cyrillic-lettered magazines.

Finally, he handed Milo several loose sheets of paper, dog-eared and stained by what looked like tea.

Logs, written in a shaky, Old World hand.

“A week of driving I brought you,” he said. “Company made me photocopy before I give you.”

Biro said, “Is there more than one pickup for the same client?”

“No, no, one.”

“You brought all of this because...”

Grinshteyn gave a sour look. “With please, you do more than they ask.”

Milo flipped pages. “Okay, here we go.”

Pointing to the bottom of one sheet. Nine p.m. call, the night of Chet Corvin’s murder.

The client: Mr. Korabin. The destination, Whitely Avenue, just south of Franklin.

Walking distance from the Sahara.

Milo said, “Mr. Corvin.”

“Yah, Lieutenant,” said Grinshteyn.

Milo showed the driver Chet Corvin’s photo.

“Nyo.”

Out came Paul Weyland’s DMV.

“Yah.”

“You’re sure.”

“He didn’t tip me,” said Grinshteyn. “Bastards you remember.”

Milo’s attention returned to the log. Eyes widening as they found the pickup address, Marquette Place, Pacific Palisades.

Biro already had his cellphone out, preset to a map app. He fiddled, showed us the screen. Two red dots, Marquette and Evada Lane. Short drive between the two, ten minutes tops under the cover of night.

Milo said, “House or apartment?”

Biro and Grinshteyn answered in unison: “House.” Grinshteyn added: “Dump. Pacific Palisades? I expect nice.” Three derisive snorts.

I said, “The Palisades isn’t your usual route?”

“I do Brentwood, sometimes Beverly Hills. There also, you get dumps.” He threw up pudgy hands, the image of world-weary disillusion.

“That night you were in the Palisades because—”

“A guy was sick,” said Grinshteyn. “They call me, I say hokay.”

Milo said, “How did Mr. Corvin pay you?”

“Cash. Paper and stupid coins.” Another snort.

I said, “Cheapskate.”

“Bastard.”

“What else do you remember about him?”

“Nothing,” said Grinshteyn.

“Any conversation between the two of you?”

“I say good evening, he tell me where to take him. I say hokay, he say nothing. After that, I say nothing.” Three more snorts. “Bastard.”

Raul hurried to the station and returned with an LAPD mug, the blue, gold-trimmed kind given out to citizens who raise money for feel-good police projects.

Grinshteyn tensed up. “Nyo, I don’t take things.”

“It’s okay, sir.”

“It could be okay but not for me,” said the driver. “I want only what is mine. Not more.”

The Hollywood station was a jumpier place than West L.A., the detective room filled with phoning, reading, writing investigators, multiple-line desk phones blinking, human voices vying with electronic noise. A couple of Palo Alto zombie types inspected computers, others seemed lost in thought.

Milo, Biro, and I convened in an empty interview room, sitting around the kind of table pushed to the corner to prevent suspects from feeling secure.

Milo said, “Another address answers a helluva lot of questions, Raul. Like a place to stash vehicles.”

I said, “Or worse.”

“Or worse. And if Mearsheim’s there, you may have cracked the whole thing wide open. Commissar.”

“Don’t those guys wear fur hats?” said Biro. “Don’t want hat-head — it’s no big deal, had no idea Grinshteyn could actually make a positive I.D.”

I said, “How’d you find him?”

“There was nothing on the cameras so I tried taxi companies and Uber like you said, Milo. I started with taxis because Uber gets all pissy and want tons of paper.”

“He’d be less likely to use Uber,” I said. “Not wanting to be on record using the app.”

“That, too,” said Biro. “Anyway, Grinshteyn was the third driver I spoke to, I got lucky.”

Milo said, “You’re selling yourself short, Czar, but fine, let’s concentrate on business. First obvious step: Check out the address. Even if the bastard’s not there, there could be some serious evidence, so the goal is to actually get inside. I’m gonna bypass John Nguyen and his lawyerly bullshit, someone told me about a new judge, Sonia Martinez. Her brother was a cop in Oakland, got shot.”

“Heard that,” said Raul, “but haven’t used her yet.”

Milo said, “If I can pry Sean or Moe away from kiddie stuff like robberies, I’ll get a drive-by done now, just a quickie to get the lay of the land. This is not a stupid criminal so if he is there, we can’t afford to show ourselves and have him rabbit.”

Binchy was out, Reed just back from “dinner.” He said, “Sure.”

“Look for the Taurus, the Ford truck, and the Camaro.”

“No Ferraris or Bentleys? Shucks.”

Milo said, “Next time we’ll pick a dot-com bad guy.” He hung up.

Biro said, “The serious drive-by is way after dark.”

“You bet, Emperor. He makes night moves, so do we.”

Knock on the door. A Hollywood uniform said, “Detective Biro? You’ve got a call from the lab on a case.”

Raul said, “Which one?”

“Benitez.”

“Thanks.” Biro stood and buttoned his jacket. “Shooting on Argyle we got the day after Corvin. Nothing exotic, prescription drugs, this might even be the shooter wanting to turn himself in.”

“Love when they see the light,” said Milo. “Thanks again.”

“What time tonight do you figure?”

“You’re always an asset, Raul, but don’t want to take you away from the wife and kids.”

“They’re in Colorado visiting her family for two weeks,” said Biro. “First few days I tried to eat healthy and live right. Now it’s microwave crap and ESPN reruns. Take pity and call me.”

“Always happy to do a favor.”

Biro walked to the door. “You’re joking but I’m going out of my mind.”

Milo drove out of the Hollywood lot. Slowly, no risk-taking. His mind elsewhere.

I said, “Raul’s wife being away reminded me of something. Mearsheim’s story about Donna visiting her mom. Her family are likely worried by now, would want to help.”

“When we looked her up, we found nothing on social media.”

“A controlling husband could explain that. Maybe birth records? Or back to the school district to see if she listed anyone other than Paul as an emergency contact?”

“Good ideas, both of which will take time,” he said. “I’ll do it if nothing pans out at the house on Marquette.”

I said, “Be good to know who owns it. Same for the house on Evada, which, as Chet pointed out, is a rental.”

“Dick-waving with Mearsheim. Did you happen to notice how Mearsheim reacted?”

“Don’t recall that he did.”

“Guy came across so mild. Sitting there and playing everyone.”

“Part of the thrill,” I said.

“Well, let’s de-thrill him. Yeah, I’ll look for the deeds on both houses before tonight.”

His phone played four notes of Ravel’s “Bolero.” The caller I.D. made him sit up straighter. “Hey, Al, what’s up?”

Ahearn said, “Giving you a progress report. We sure can’t see any signs of excavation in the backyard. Between us and these walls, I did a little trespass over to the neighbor’s trees and nothing there, either. My cadaver dog lady is away for a couple of days, I tried someone else but no dice. So she’ll be doing the sniff when she gets back. I’ve asked for an infrared thing, should probably have that in the morning. In terms of the interior, we’re waiting for darkness to do the luminol. So far, no obvious crime scene.”

Each bit of bad news lowered Milo’s bulk, like a dirigible steadily drained. “Thanks for calling—”

“Hold on, saving the best for last,” said Ahearn. “We pulled up a usable print in the master bath. Corner of a shelf in the medicine cabinet, nice clear thumb and forefinger and Lordy-be, AFIS knows who put it there.”

“Please tell me it’s someone with a record,” said Milo.

“Nothing violent and let’s face it, we have no idea how long the print’s been there, for all we know she was a housecleaner. But so far, we can’t locate her, which makes my nose itch. In a perfect world, she’s what your doctor guessed — the new girlfriend. You want the basics on her?”

“I want everything on her. I’m driving, how about texting or emailing?”

“High-tech transfer of data,” said Ahearn. “My college kid thinks I’m a dinosaur. The other five do, also. Sure, coming your way.”

Milo handed me his cellphone. The info arrived just as we reached La Brea and headed south.

Trisha Stacy Bowker, forty-three, had a record beginning at age nineteen and stretching sixteen years. Convictions in Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Missouri for petty theft, grand theft, larceny, embezzlement, illegal appropriation of property, and fraud. She’d gone years at a time without being arrested, pled out most of the time in return for probation or minimal jail time.

Bowker’s last bust — identity theft in St. Louis — had earned her a year of probation. No violations for eight months had terminated her supervision after six months.

I re-read the record. “She’s been free and off the radar since a year before Jackie Mearsheim disappeared. Maybe she’s kept her nose clean because she hooked up with a smarter criminal.”

“Jackie’s dead, Donna’s dead, Bowker seduces Corvin but has been playing house with Mearsheim for years?”

I said, “Why not? Couple of cons working lonely hearts. They hit on a winning plan and milk it.”

“Fall for Paul, lose your money and your life. What does this princess look like?”

The mugshot photo Ahearn had sent was tiny and indistinct even under enlargement. Caucasian face topped by a thick dark mop of hair. Twenty-seven at the time.

A red light at La Brea and Beverly gave Milo a chance to examine the image.

“Damn this is small.” He put on reading glasses, squinted. “Looks like... five-five, hundred and twenty-eight. Brunette with a normal build. Could be.”

“If Bowker is Mearsheim’s girl, there was no abduction at the Sahara. All we really have on that is Sarabeth Sarser’s description. But she was scared and meth-addled, so maybe what she really saw was two people hurrying off together.”

“Or,” he said, “she saw things clearly and Mearsheim decided to upgrade his hardware.”

“Bowker’s gone, too?” I said.

“Guy like that, women are expendable, why not?”

He drummed the steering wheel with both thumbs. Sitting tall, now, green eyes ignited. “Got a lot to do. Starting with checking out ol’ Trisha on a normal-sized screen. Then I start playing keyboard Sherlock.”