Night Moves

Chapter 48

A larger image of Trisha Bowker brought no new wisdom.

Her face fluctuated between barely pretty and plain, depending on her mood at arrest. Some shots showed her as various versions of blond. Flat, dark eyes. No identifying scars or tattoos.

Jane Average. That could be an advantage.

Al Ahearn’s failure to find any recent data on Bowker didn’t stop Milo from trying. No success.

He printed what Ahearn had sent him, included it in the murder book, went to get septic coffee from the big detective room. He returned, cell in one hand, coffee in the other, squeezed back into his chair, drinking and saying, “Why do I subject myself to swill? Reed’s not answering. I hope he kept it simple on the drive-by.”

Four sips later, Reed was knocking on the doorway jamb, shirt seams strained by musculature, ruddy and towheaded, your basic Viking raider.

“Phone ran out of juice, L.T., sorry. The house is small, oldish, in an area that’s mostly apartment buildings. For the Palisades, I’d have to say a dump. None of the vehicles we’re looking for were visible but there is an attached double garage. You wanted it simple so I only went back and forth twice, can’t tell you if anyone’s inside but there was no mail pile. So what’s the plan?”

“Don’t have one yet,” said Milo. “Other than I’m aiming for tonight.”

“I’ll stick around.”

“With lunch at four, take along snacks, Moses. We don’t want you fading.”

Reed smiled and flexed thigh-sized biceps. “No prob with nutrition, L.T. Been altering my workout, heavier weights, fewer reps, a little creatine. Also, I watch everything that goes into my mouth.”

“What was lunch?”

“Four cans of Muscle Milk.”

“I don’t even want to know what that is.”

“It actually tastes pretty good. Chocolate.”

“Would it matter if it didn’t?”

“Nope. I’ll be at my desk, let me know.”

Too late to call the school board for info on Donna Weyland. Milo tapped into county property tax records, found nothing, which fit her being a renter.

With no info on her origins, impossible to look for family.

He said, “All else fails, dig up what you have. Seven years ago, Jackie gets disappeared by Mearsheim in Santa Barbara, maybe he was already with Trisha Bowker, maybe not. Either way, with Jackie taken care of, Mearsheim looks for another victim, possibly finds one or more before he latches onto Donna. So what’s Bowker’s role in all this?”

I said, “Could be anything from confidante to full partner. If they’re working as a team, she could’ve been used as a lure. Two women just happen to meet, become friendly, one lets on she’s single and lonely, the other says, ‘I know a good guy.’ ”

“With a nice job in the school district, like Jackie. Two districts hired him, can you believe that?”

“Maybe he did his job acceptably. Some sort of technical work with minimal supervision. It does show he’s bright. Anyway, whether or not there were male victims prior to Chet, Bowker was used to seduce him. He would’ve seemed the perfect target: Mearsheim had come to despise him for the way Chet treated him and he understood Chet’s overconfidence the way we did: vulnerability.”

He shook his head. “Idiot’s unable to imagine any woman who says she loves him doesn’t mean it. Bowker’s on him like a tracking device.”

“Passion, dinner, and jewelry. Maybe they had bigger plans but Chet balked. So they killed him.”

He let out a sour laugh. “Wages of sin 101. Okay, on to real estate.”

The rented house on Evada Lane was deeded to a limited liability corporation registered as Scribble Properties. A bit of digging revealed that to be three people, two living in Seattle, one in Austin, Texas.

Bernard Leviton, Gray Winograd, Susan Minelli. Three separate social network pages but one story: a trio of TV writers, alumni of a long-running late-night show, had pooled resources by renting out their L.A. homes to leverage several Section Eight apartment buildings downtown. That in place, they moved to states with no local income tax.

Evada Lane had been Susan Minelli’s residence so Milo began with her.

Voicemail; same for Bernard Leviton in Seattle. The converted Texan, Gray Winograd, wasn’t home but his wife was.

“This is Meryl. The po-lice?” Bored voice, syllables elongated as if to prolong conversation.

Milo said, “This is about the property on Evada Lane.”

Meryl Winograd said, “That place? Something happened? What?”

“We’re doing a routine investigation.”

“That sounds like movie dialogue. What did you say your name was?”

Milo repeated his credentials.

“Hold on... I just looked you up and you seem to be the real deal. What’s your actual police phone number so I can make sure?”

Milo told her.

She said, “You sound mellow, guess I’ll believe you. So what do you want to know about that place?”

“The tenants—”

“No idea about any of Gray and his pals’ little endeavors. It all goes through the managers they hired.”

“Who are the managers?”

“Some company named Aswan, Aslan, something like that,” said Meryl Winograd. “They’re no great shakes.”

“You’ve had problems—”

“Apparently they’re a humongous outfit and Gray and his pals are teensy french fries. I keep telling Gray being a landlord is a job not a hobby.”

“You said, ‘That place,’ as if there’d been specific problems at Evada.”

“You’re reading too much into that, I don’t know details and I don’t care,” said Meryl Winograd. “The whole real estate thing isn’t my thing, they thought they’d be tycoons, meanwhile I’m in Texas. It’s kind of cute, here, good food and music, but my allergies and oh God the humidity.”

“So you’re not aware of any—”

“If there was a serious problem, Gray would be bitching about it and he’s not. So how’s the weather in L.A.?”

“Nice.”

“Figures.”

A call to Aslan Property Management brought up layers of manically paced, mostly incomprehensible button-push instructions. Multi-city company specializing in shopping centers and huge residential complexes.

Milo held the phone at arm’s length as the robotic voice on the other end continued to natter. The 0 for Operator option brought up another automaton.

He clicked off. I said, “The castle moat for when tenants complain.”

“Gimme some hot oil and a catapult.”

The rented house on Marquette Place belonged officially to no one.

Once the home of Herbert McClain, deceased at age ninety-one, it had entered into probate six months ago because McClain had died intestate.

The court-appointed trustee was an attorney named Mitchell Light with an office near the downtown court building. Maybe one of those Hill Street hangers-on who dole out holiday gift baskets to judges and wait for assignments.

That guess was kicked up to probable when Milo found Light’s garish website featuring an improbably black-haired man in a bad suit whose cap-filled smile screamed trying too hard.

Light’s dual specialties were “easing the grief burden of survivors as they enter the world of probate court” and “speedily solving the problems of accident victims wronged by insurance companies.”

Milo said, “Slip, fall, die, he’s got you covered. Here goes more nothing.”

To his shock, one of three garishly green “24 hour numbers” on Light’s site banner was picked up on the second ring.

“This is Mitch,” said a radio-announcer baritone. “What problem can I solve for you, my friend?”

Milo told him.

Mitchell Light, now subdued, said, “Police? I have no specific recollection of that property.”

“You’re the trustee, Mr. Light.”

“I’m currently shepherding numerous estates through probate. The courts are overwhelmed, everything crawls.”

“But you get your commission along the way.”

“Do you work for free?” said Mitchell Light. “No need to be implicative, Lieutenant. I’ll do my best to get you any information I have. If such information proves ultimately available and obtainable.”

“Thank you. When could you do that, sir?”

“In as timely a manner as circumstances provide. Assuming no legal roadblocks or other encumbrances materialize.”

“Could you give me an estimate, Mr. Light?”

“I’m in Cabo, right now, plan to be back in three days. The process will begin shortly after. Assuming no unforeseen circumstances.”

“Could a member of your staff check—”

“My staff is with me, Lieutenant.”

Female giggle in the background.

Milo said, “There’s nothing you can tell me? Herbert McClain, died at ninety-one—”

“Good for him,” said Light. “If he’d written a will, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Clink of glasses, more giggling.

Milo said, “How about the tenants? Can you recall anything about them?”

Silence.

“Mr. Light?”

“What tenants?”

“The place is currently occupied by—”

“That’s unacceptable,” said Mitchell Light. “I do not allow tenancy in my properties. Avoiding complications.”

My properties. If probate went on long enough, his invoice would probably buy him the deed.

Milo said, “What type of complications?”

“Some alleged heir shows up and carps about the rent or the management? I keep all my properties vacant, Lieutenant.”

“Someone’s living in that one.”

“Then you need to investigate and you need to mete out appropriate fines, penalties, whichever consequences are called for. When I return in four days, get back in touch with me. I’ll certainly be initiating eviction procedures.”

“Do I have your permission to enter the residence?”

“Well, I’d think so, Lieutenant.”

“Could you put that in writing?”

“I told you, I’m on corporate retreat.”

“How about by email?”

Long exhalation. Followed by a female murmur.

Mitchell Light said, “I will attempt that. But don’t count on it, the Internet’s sloppy, here.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Preserving the rule of law,” said Mitchell Light, “is my passion.”

I said, “Squatting made easy. Check probate records, find out who’s not paying attention, and move in.”

Milo’s desk phone jangled.

“This is Susan Minelli,” said a crisp, confident voice. “The police are asking about my old house? Why?”

Milo said, “The tenants are people of interest in a case, Ms. Minelli. What can you tell us about them?”

“Some sort of financial thing?” said Minelli.

“Can’t get into details, ma’am.”

“You just did,” she said. “Okay, a money thing. Shit. Why am I not shocked?”

“You’ve had money issues with them in the past?”

“They’ve always been late with the rent and haven’t paid a dime for the past five months. I only found out because we just got the quarterly from the management firm and there’s a big hole on that one. I demanded Aslan — the managers — deal with it. They said eviction is the only option. They’re being sloths. My partners and I had already discussed hiring someone else, now for sure, as soon as the contract’s up.”

“What a hassle, ma’am.”

“Real estate,” said Minelli. “If I only knew then. So you can’t tell me what’s going on?”

“Not right now,” said Milo. “When that changes, I’ll be sure to let you know. Meanwhile, don’t try to make contact with the Weylands.”

“That’s their name?” said Susan Minelli. “Aslan just gives them a number.”

“Either way, ma’am, please keep your distance from them.”

“They’re dangerous?”

“At this point, they’re best left alone.”

“Great, I’m renting my gorgeous Pali house to criminals. What? Drugs? Terrific. They’ll probably take the carpets and the drapes and God knows what else.”

“We’ll do our best to look out for you, ma’am.”

“Ma’am. That’s nice — like in Dragnet. Do you wear a skinny black tie?”

“On bad days.”

Susan Minelli laughed. “You sound like an okay guy. So how’s the weather in L.A.?”

“Nice.”

“Sure, why not?”

Milo put the phone down with delicacy and pulled off as much of a leg stretch as the closet allowed.

I said, “They’re squatting in both places.”

“The con’s life.”

“That kind of transience, they could be figuring to move on.”

“God forbid.” He scanned his email. “Nothing from Mr. Light of the Universe. You heard him grant me verbal authority to enter.”

“I did indeed.”

“Two squats, gotta keep my eye on both. But I’m getting the hell inside Marquette.”