Night Moves

Chapter 7

My phone conference ended early; a couple of lawyers working a contentious custody case finally serious about “emotional resolution for the sake of the children.”

I called the judge and told her.

She said, “They can say that but the real reason’s both clients are running out of money.”

“Whatever works.”

“What works for me is getting idiots off my docket.”

I hung up and called Milo. “I can come now.”

He said, “A sliver of hope on a highly flawed day.”

Daylight was kind to Evada Lane, flowers and grass jewel-toned, tree shadows prettily dappled. Despite the yellow tape, the Corvin house looked jarringly benign. No more cops guarding the property, just Milo, sitting in his unmarked.

He got out and we walked to Trevor Bitt’s house. This garden gate was seven feet of black-painted metal.

Milo said, “Exactly.”

We climbed three steps to an oak door that looked hand-hewn. Instead of a peephole, a small sliding door caged by a grid of wrought iron.

Milo rang the bell. Knocked. Rang a dozen more times. Knocked harder.

Just as we’d turned to leave, the little door slid open and a brown eye surrounded by pale skin filled the rectangle of space.

“Mr. Bitt?”

No answer.

Milo flashed his badge.

The eye stared, unblinking.

“Could you please open the door, sir. We’d like a few words.”

Nothing.

“Sir—”

A deep voice said, “Words about what?”

“There’s been a situation — a crime was committed at one of your neighbors’.”

No response.

Milo said, “A serious crime, Mr. Bitt. We’re talking to everyone on the block.”

Silence.

“Mr. Bitt—”

“Not interested.”

“It would be easier, sir, if you opened the door.”

“For you.”

“Sir, there’s no reason for you to obstruct us.”

“This isn’t obstruction. It’s privacy.” The tiny door slid shut.

Milo rang the bell another dozen times. His face was flushed. “No curiosity about what kind of crime, which neighbor. Maybe because he already knows.”

We returned to the sidewalk. He pulled out his phone. “This is gonna be a total waste of time, but.”

He got Deputy D.A. John Nguyen on the other end, described the situation, asked if there could be grounds for a warrant. I couldn’t hear Nguyen’s brief reply but Milo’s expression said it all.

He turned and stared at Bitt’s Tudor. Daylight wasn’t kind to the spiky plants. More menacing in full color.

Milo said, “Guy’s an idiot, all this is gonna do is make me dig deeper on him.” He strode back to his car and got behind the wheel. Upgraded sedan, equipped with a nifty new touchscreen that he began working.

But just as with the CCTV, technology can only carry you so far. Nothing on Trevor Bitt in the LAPD database, NCIC, the state sex offender file, or a national database operated privately.

Sitting in the passenger seat, I’d pulled up an image gallery of Bitt’s cartoons.

Dope, nudity, gore, taboos abandoned with a ferocity that sometimes seemed forced.

Mr. Backwards was a hirsute grotesque pinhead, favoring floral shirts, beads, sandals, and baggy bell-bottoms whose roominess failed to conceal frequent erections of unlikely dimensions.

When he collided with people, one eye winked and popped and drool dribbled from his slack mouth, a secretion often followed by copious productions of other body fluids.

All in all, a creepy mixture of slapstick and threat. Like the uncle you hope doesn’t show up at reunions.

Photos of Trevor Bitt showed him as anything but unconventional.

Tall, thin, and narrow-shouldered, the cartoonist wore his hair neatly trimmed and left-parted. The most recent shot was a decade old, Bitt looking like a white-haired executive as he signed books at Comic-Con International in San Diego. Sitting primly, reading glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by fans, some of whom wore hand-sewn Mr. Backwards costumes complete with crude, leering masks. A huge blowup of the character’s slavering countenance hung on the wall.

In contrast with the ecstatic faces of fans who’d avoided masks, the object of their idolatry looked as if he’d just passed a kidney stone.

Painfully shy? Social contact as torture? That could explain Bitt’s lifestyle, maybe even his refusal to cooperate with Milo. On the other hand, he had spent decades creating twisted images and dialogue and expressed no curiosity about a crime next door.

Because he already knows?

Milo logged off. “Not even a misdemeanor. Uncooperative bastard.”

I showed him the pictures. He scrolled through quickly. “Depressed-looking mope. That fit with what happened over there?” Eyeing the Corvin house.

“You know what I’m going to say, Big Guy.”

“Yeah, yeah, insufficient data to diagnose.” He called Binchy, put the phone on speaker.

“Hey, Loot, wrapping up. Only thing I got is a lady two blocks away who saw a truck driving by around eight, eight thirty p.m. She was burgled last year, claims she has her eyes peeled now, but that’s probably not true because she couldn’t be pinned down on the time, the make, or the model. She did say it was moving ‘suspiciously slow.’ Like casing the neighborhood. She meant to call it in but forgot.”

“Eyes peeled but it slips her mind?” said Milo.

“She’s around ninety and wanted to know if the department keeps a file on paranormal phenomena and when I said not to my knowledge she gave me a look like I was hiding something. Then she said her street was a target for ‘extraterrestials’ because the closer to the ocean, the easier it is for their ships to land.”

I said, “Pity the poor folk of Malibu.”

Binchy said, “That the doc?”

“Hi, Sean.”

Milo said, “Perfect witness, huh? Now you’re gonna tell me she wears Coke-bottle glasses.”

“Actually, Loot...”

“Great. Guess what, Sean, eight p.m. matches the one vehicle that looks interesting.”

“Wow,” said Binchy. “It also fits with her street not being a dead end like most of the others. Take it north four blocks and you’re back on Sunset, so it would be a good entry and exit route.”

Milo said, “If you’re landing a spaceship, who cares? She’s definite about seeing a truck?”

“So she says.”

“The weird neighbor drives an old Ram and he just refused to open his door and talk to me. I’m gonna send you a picture and see if it jogs Ms. E.T.’s memory.”

He phone-snapped Bitt’s Ram, sent the image, and paced the sidewalk.

Binchy called back. “She says maybe. Honestly, Loot, I don’t think she has any idea.”

“Honesty is a cruel mistress, Sean.”