Guilt (20 page)

I said, “Power of positive thinking.”

“Wanna hear positive? Time for lunch.”

“The usual?”

“No, I’m craving vegan. Just kidding.”

We drove to a steak house a mile west of the station, sawed through a couple of T-bones, and drove back to his office where he picked up replies from the remaining auto theft detectives. None of their victims recognized Qeesha but a D II named Doug Groot said, “It’s possible one of my victims lied.”

“Why do you think that?”

“The usual tells,” said Groot. “Looking everywhere but
at
me, too quick on the draw, like he’d rehearsed it. Also, he just gave me a feeling from the beginning. The car was a nice one, BMW 5 series, all tricked out, only a couple of years old, low mileage. But he didn’t seem that bugged about having it boosted. Made the right speech but no emotion—again, like he’d rehearsed.”

“Insurance thing?” said Milo.

“He filed with his carrier the day after I interviewed him.”

“When did it happen?”

“Nineteen months ago.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“Taken from his driveway sometime during the night,” said Groot. “It’s not impossible, his building’s got an open carport. But supposedly he’d left it locked with the security system set and I talked to the neighbors and no one heard any alarm go off. He seemed so hinky I actually ran a check on him. But he had no obvious ties to any scammers, no record of anything.”

“What’s this solid citizen’s name?”

“Melvin Jaron Wedd, like getting married but two ‘d’s.”

“This guy really twanged your antenna, huh?”

“You know what it’s like, El Tee. Sometimes you get a feeling. Unfortunately none of mine led anywhere. The car’s never shown up.”

“Loretta said nice red wheels might be going to the Mideast.”

“Two-year-old Bimmer’s nice,” said Groot, “but probably not nice
enough for that. Mexico or Central America, maybe. For all I know it’s being used to ferry around Zeta hit men.”

“What line of work is Wedd in?”

“Something showbizzy. Can I ask what your curiosity is about the car and this Chambers woman?”

“She might be a really bad girl,” said Milo. “Or a victim. Or neither and I’m spinning my wire wheels.”

Groot chuckled. “The job as usual. You want to follow up with Wedd?”

“Might as well.”

“Here’s his info.”

Milo copied, thanked Groot, clicked off. Seconds later, he’d pulled Melvin Jaron Wedd’s driver’s license.

Male white, thirty-seven, six two, one ninety, brown, brown, needs corrective lenses.

Wedd’s photo showed him with a pink, squarish face, smallish eyes, thin lips, a dark spiky haircut. He’d posed in a black V-necked T-shirt. Black-framed glasses gave him the hipster-geek look of any other Westside guy working a Mac at a Starbucks table.

“Doesn’t look like a warlock,” said Milo.

I said, “More like Clark Kent at leisure.”

He ran Wedd through the banks just in case something had popped up since Groot’s search. No criminal record, a scatter of parking tickets, the most recent thirty months ago. All paid in a timely fashion.

Then he switched to the DMV files and said, “Well, looky here.”

Wedd’s new registered vehicle was a black Ford Explorer, purchased brand-new, three weeks after the theft of the red BMW. “Be interesting if he jacked it way up and stuck on fancy rims.”

He shifted to the Web, called up an image of an Explorer enhanced that way, sent the picture to Heather Goldfeder, and asked if it resembled the SUV she’d seen.

Seconds later:
cud b cant say 4 sure how r u
.

He sent back a happy face emoticon.

Her instant response:
me 2 xoxoxo
.

The landline and cell phone Groot had given for Wedd were unresponsive to Milo’s calls. No message machine on either.

He said, “A fellow who likes his privacy. Let’s invade it.”

The address was an apartment west of Barrington and just north of Wilshire. Officially Brentwood, but not what you thought of when someone said Brentwood.

Quarter-hour drive from the station under the worst circumstances. Circumstances were favorable: i.e., Milo’s leaden foot. We made it in eight.

B
ack in the fifties, someone thought it was a nifty idea to erect a two-story box with the top floor cantilevered over a concrete carport, the entire structure slathered with pimply aqua stucco, the squat, expressionless face embellished by a five-foot starburst spray-painted gold and the proclamation
Dawn-Lite Apts
in that same gaudy tint.

Several decades later someone thought restoring the dingbat to its original glory was historical preservation.

As we pulled up to Melvin Jaron Wedd’s building, a white-garbed painter was regilding the star, his compadre patching thin spots of aqua.

Milo said, “Misdemeanor, maybe a felony.”

I said, “You don’t like midcentury?”

“Depends on the century.”

“Didn’t know you were into architecture, Big Guy.”

“Rick is. I imbibe through osmosis.”

We got out and inspected the carport from which the BMW had been lifted. Six stalls, one occupied by a dusty brown Acura. No tenant
names, not even a unit number. The mailbox at the foot of the grubby stairs that led up to the second story listed J. Wedd as residing in 3.

Each apartment was accessed through an open landing. Number 3 was ground-floor rear. Cheap vertical blinds blocked the single window. A dead plant in a terra-cotta-colored vinyl pot squatted near the door. So did several piles of junk mail. Milo pushed a button. The resulting buzzer sounded like flatulence.

No answer. He tried again. Rapped hard with detective-callused knuckles.

The door to the adjoining unit opened and a dreadlocked head emerged, bleached-blond with dark roots. Matted strands trailed to a black-shirted shoulder. The face below the hair was bronze, seamed, craggy, hazed by three days of dark stubble. Sagging eyes were wary. A bass voice said, “Police, right?” and the eyes turned friendly.

Milo said, “Yes, sir.”

“My brother’s a cop.” Six feet of sun-damaged sinew stepped out onto the landing. The black shirt was a body-conscious tee that said
Think: It’s Not Illegal Yet
. Below that, baggy shorts printed with leaping dolphins ended at knees enlarged by random bumps. Bare feet sported ragged nails and more protrusions. Calcium deposits, your basic surfer knots.

He looked around thirty-five, accounting for sun damage. A thumb hooked toward Melvin Jaron Wedd’s door. “He do something?”

“We’re here to talk to him.”

“He hasn’t been here for days.”

“Any idea where he’s gone?”

“He’s gone all the time. Obviously, he’s got somewhere else to crash.”

“When’s the last time you saw him, Mister …”

“Robert Sommers.” Cornrow grinned crookedly, as if his name provided unceasing amusement. “The last time was … a couple of weeks ago? I’m not good with time. Except for the tide tables.”

“Chasing waves?” said Milo.

“Whenever I can,” said Sommers.

“Follow the big ones?”

Sommers grinned. “Not to Peahi or anything like that, I’m only Laird Hamilton in my dreams. My folks have a place in Malibu, sometimes I bunk down with them.” Wider grin. “Dump some laundry, too. Mom claims she still misses me.”

“Nice to have that kind of freedom.”

“I’m a Web designer so I’m flexible.”

“We heard Wedd does something in show business.”

Sommers huffed. “That could mean he’s part of a catering crew.”

“How long have you been living next to him?”

“I’ve been here around three years, he moved in later, maybe two, two and a half. I don’t have problems with him, he keeps to himself. Not your friendly type, though. He’ll never be the first to say hi and when he answers it’s like he’s being forced to do it. Guess that makes him your basic loner. My brother says that can be a danger sign but I can’t say anything weird goes on here.”

Milo said, “Your brother a detective?”

“Malibu Sheriff, rides a cruiser up and down PCH. One time he stopped me, made like he was going to ticket me. Revenge for all those times I kicked his ass.”

Milo said, “You got a warning instead.”

Sommers flexed a muscle and laughed. “More like I warned him.”

“Do you recall when Mr. Wedd’s car was stolen?”

“So that’s what you’re here about. What, you recovered it?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh,” said Sommers. “That little Bimmer was sweet, I wouldn’t replace it with a Monstro-mobile.”

“The Explorer.”

“Explorer all ghettoed up with crazy wheels, black paint job, black windows.”

“What kind of crazy wheels?” said Milo.

“Big,” said Sommers, drawing a wide circle with his hands.
“Chromed, reversed, had to be serious cash. And the whole thing’s jacked up. Maybe he’s got hydraulics to lowride it, never seen him do it, but people get crazy with their cars.”

“Big wheels, jacked and black,” I said. “Pretty macho.”

“My ex-girlfriend says you’re secure in your masculinity, you don’t need to pimp your wheels.” Sommers laughed. “But maybe she was just making me feel good about my turdmobile.”

“Brown Acura?”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” said Sommers. “Used to be my parents’ cleaning lady’s. She got a new one, I glommed El Crappo. You guys suspect Clark of a rip-off, like an insurance scam?”

“Clark?”

“He looks just like Clark Kent plus dude’s attitude is kind of … I guess you’d say self-righteous.”

I said, “Takes himself seriously.”

“Jump in the phone booth and save Metropolis,” said Sommers.

“Who does he hang out with?”

“No bros but lots of girls. Mostly I hear them rather than see them.”

“Thin walls.”

Sommers laughed. “Not that, at least that would be entertaining. More like they talk, wake me up. Like it’s the morning and I’m hearing chick voices. I keep flexible hours because I have clients in Asia, try to catch Z’s whenever I can. When he’s here it’s like Chick Central. And chicks
talk
.”

Milo clucked sympathetically as he drew out a photo of Charlene/Qeesha. Any hint the image was a mug shot had been removed. Still, she didn’t look happy to be posing.

“Robert, ever see this girl with Wedd?”

“Not for a while.”

“But you have seen her.”

“Sure,” said Sommers. “I remember her because she was the only black chick. Also, she was pregnant, like out to here, I’m like whoa, Clark thinks he’s a superhero but he forgot the condom. I kinda felt
sorry for her because she was in and out a lot—more than the others. And he’s playing around with other chicks when she’s not here.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Hmm … maybe a half year ago? It was a while.”

“You ever see any conflict between them?”

Sommers said, “You know, one time, guess it was the last time, I heard the door slam and I looked out the blinds and saw her leaving, she’s walking real fast. But he didn’t go after her and I didn’t hear them hassling, so I don’t know, is that conflict—is that like from a mug shot?”

Milo said, “It is, Robert.”

“She’s a criminal type? Her and Clark are doing car scams together?”

“She was here more than the others?”

“Definitely. Most of the chicks you saw them once, twice.” Sommers twirled a dread. “The black chick I saw maybe … six times, seven times?”

I said, “He’s into one-night stands.”

“Guess so.” He snorted. “Playah Clark.”

Milo showed him a picture of Adriana Betts.

“Her I never saw. She part of the scam gang? Looks kinda shady.” His hand gathered up several clumps of hair. “More I think about it, more I’m pretty sure she was pissed at him—the black chick. Walking fast, like she couldn’t wait to get away from him. Maybe it was hormones, you know? Baby hormones. That happened to my girlfriend when she was with child. The bigger she got, the grumpier she turned, kind of hellish.”

“You have a kid?”

“Nope, she terminated. Her decision, she’d rather go to law school.” Sommers shrugged. “I thought it might be cool. Being a daddy. But she had to do what she had to do.”

M
ilo gave his card to Sommers, asked him to call if Wedd showed up.

Sommer said, “Sure, but like I said, he’s not here too much.”

We tried the remaining four apartments in Wedd’s building. No answers at the first three units. A woman came to the fourth door towing an I.V. line on wheels. Something clear and viscous dripped into her veins. Her hair was a gray tangle, one shade darker than her face.

“Sorry …” She paused for breath. “I never leave … don’t know anyone.”

“He lives downstairs in Three,” said Milo. “Had his car stolen a while back.”

“Oh … that.” Her jaws worked. She could’ve been any age from fifty to eighty. “People were … surprised.”

“Why’s that, ma’am?”

She inhaled twice, braced herself in the doorway. “At nights … the lights are … super-bright.”

“Anyone trying to break into a car would be conspicuous.”