Lindeen? Hi, it's Milo Sturgis. Right... Oh, muddling along, how 'bout you.... Well, that's terrific, yeah I've heard about those, sounds like fun, at least you get to solve something.... Uh, well, I'm not sure I have anything to... Think so? Well, okay, if I can get some free time-after I clear Dr. Argent's case.... No, wish I could say I was.... Speaking of which, does a psych tech named George Orson still work there?" He spelled the surname. "Nothing major, but I heard he might've been a friend of Dr. Argent's.... I know she didn't, but his name came up from another party, they said he worked at Starkweather and knew her.... No?" He frowned. "Could you? That'd be great."
He lowered the mouthpiece. "The name's a little familiar, but she can't connect it to a face."
"Hundred employees," I said. "What's the barter?" ,
He started to answer, moved the phone back under his mouth." Yup, still here.... Did he? When was that? Any forwarding address?" His pen was poised, but he didn't write.
"So how long was he actually on staff?" Scribble. "Any idea why he left? No, I
wouldn't call him that, just checking every lead.... What's that? That soon? I wish
I could say yes, but unless the case clears, I'm pretty- Pardon? Yeah, okay, I promise.... Yeah, it should be fun. Me, too. Thanks, Lin-deen. And listen, you don't need to bother Mr. Swig about this. I've got everything I need. Thanks again."
He hung up. "The barter is I come give a talk to some murder-mystery club she belongs to. They stage phony crimes, give out prizes for solving them, eat nachos.
She wanted me next month but I deferred to their big bash at Christmas."
"Playing Santa?"
"Ho ho fucking ho."
"I tell you it's the musk."
"Yeah, next time I'll shower first.... The deal on Orson is, he joined Starkweather fifteen months ago, left after ten months of full-time employment."
"Five months ago," I said. "A month after Claire got there. So they had plenty of time to get acquainted."
"The brunette in the car," he said. "Itatani's three-second observation isn't much, but with this... maybe. Orson's file says he worked primarily on the fifth floor, with the criminal fakers-how's mat for a match made in hell? But he did do some overtime down on the regular wards, so that gives him access to Peake. No infractions, no problems, he quit voluntarily. His photo's missing from me file, but
Lindeen thinks she might remember him-maybe he had light brown hair. Probably being overly helpful. Or the guy's got a wig collection."
"Little dip into the costume box," I said. "He produces, directs, and acts. Five months ago is also shortly after Richard Dada's murder. Right when Orson closed up shop at Shenan-doah, packed up the machine shop. He keeps himself a moving target.
Saves money on rent and gets off on the thrill of the con."
"His relationship with Claire. You think it could've gone beyond an interest in
Peake?"
"Who knows? Castro said he wasn't very smooth in Miami, but he's had time to polish his act. For all her love of privacy, Claire might've been lonely and vulnerable.
And we know she could be sexually aggressive. Maybe her interest in pathology went beyond the workday. Or Orson promised to put her in pictures."
He knuckled his eyes, let out air very slowly. "Okay, let's check out that Pico address."
As we left the building, I said, "One thing in our favor, he may trip himself up.
Because there's rigidity and childishness to his technique. The way he scripted his
Miami con. I'll bet he's done the same here. The way he stays in comfort zones, dumping Claire near one of his addresses, Richard near another. He sees himself as some creative wizard, but he always returns to the familiar."
"Sounds about right," he said, "for a showbiz guy."
Mailbox Heaven. Northeast corner of a scruffy strip mall just west of Barrington, a stuffy closet lined with brass boxes and smelling of wet paper. A young woman came out from the back room, redheaded, bright-eyed, brightening as Milo showed her his badge. Opining that police work was "cool."
George Orson's box had been rented to someone else for over a year and she had no records of the original transaction.
"No way," she said. "We don't keep stuff. People come and go. That's who uses us."
We got back in the unmarked. On the way to the station, we passed the spot where
Richard Dada's VW had been abandoned. Small factories, auto mechanics, spare-parts yards. Just another industrial park-a cleaner, more compact version of the desolate stretch presaging Starkweather.
Comfort zones...
We sat, parked at the curb, not talking, watching men with rolled-up sleeves hauling and driving, loafing and smoking.
No gates around the enclosure. Easy entry after hours. Empty, dark acres: the perfect dump site. A flatbed full of aluminum pipe rumbled past. A catering truck with rust-specked white sides sounded a clarion and men marched forward for bur-ritos of dubious composition.
The noise had never abated, but now I heard it for the first time. Compressors snapping and popping, metal clanging against cement, whining triumph as saw blades devoured wood...
I accompanied Milo as he visited shop after shop, asking questions, encountering boredom, confusion, distrust, occasional overt hostility.
Asking about a tall, thin, bald man with a bird face who did woodwork. Maybe a wig, black or brown, curly or straight. A yellow Corvette or an old VW. Two hours, and all the effort bought were lungfuls of chemical air.
Milo drove me back to the station and I headed home, thinking, suddenly and inexplicably, of a missing dog with a nice smile.
Nighttime can be so many things.
Shortly after eight P.M., Robin and I were eating pizza on the deck, tented by a starless purple sky. Just enough dry heat had lingered to be soothing. The quiet was merciful.
Robin had driven up an hour before. Feeling guilty about returning to Starkweather without informing her, I'd filled her in.
"No need for confession. You're here in one piece."
She'd looked tired, soaked in the tub while I drove into Westwood to get the pizza.
I took the truck, playing Joe Satri-ani very loud. Not minding the traffic, not minding much of anything at all. A couple of beers when I got back didn't raise my anxiety. The bath had refreshed Robin, and staring at her across the table as she worked on a second slice seemed a great way to pass the time.
I'd allowed myself to feel pretty good by the time the unmarked zoomed up in front of the house.
The headlights made my head hurt. Tonight, Marie Sinclair and I were kindred spirits.
The car stopped. Spike barked. Robin waved. I didn't budge.
Milo stuck his head out the passenger's window. "Oh. Sorry. Nothing earth-shattering. Call me tomorrow, Alex."
Spike had cranked up the volume, and now he was baying like an insulted hound. Robin got up and leaned over the railing. "Don't be silly. Come up and eat something."
"Nah," he said. "You lovebirds deserve some quality time."
"Up, young man. Now."
Spike hurled himself down the stairs, sped to the car, stationed himself at Milo's
door and began jumping up and down.
"How do I interpret this?" said Milo. "Friend or foe?"
"Friend," I said.
"You're sure?"
"Psychologists are never sure," I said. "We just make probability judgments."
"Meaning?"
"If he pees on your shoes, I was wrong."
He claimed to have grabbed a sandwich, but one and a half beers later, he started to observe the pizza with interest. I slid it over to him. He got down four slices, said, "Maybe it's good for me-the spice, cleanses the body."
"Sure," I said. "It's health food. Detoxify yourself."
He got to work on a fifth slice, Spike curled at his feet, lapping the scraps that fell from his dangling left hand, Milo maintaining a poker face, thinking Robin and
I weren't noticing the covert donations.
Robin said, "Dessert?"
"Don't put yourself out-"
She patted his head and went into the house.
I said, "So what's not earth-shattering?"
"Found four more George Orson bank accounts. Glendale, Sylmar, Northridge, downtown.
All the same pattern: he plants cash for a week, withdraws right after writing checks."
"Checks for what?"
"Haven't been able to look at them yet. After a certain amount of time-no one seems to know how long-bad paper's destroyed and the data's sent to some computer in the home office."
"In Minnesota," I said.
"No doubt. These guys are addicted to paperwork, don't seem to wanna help themselves."
"Glendale, Sylmar, Northridge, downtown," I said. "Orson's spreading himself all over the city. It might also mean he's a restless driver. Consistent with a fun-killer. Anyone remember him?"
"Not a one. The crimes were duly documented, police reports were filed, but no one bothered to check for similars, no one spent much energy following up. Next item: the lab has complete HLA typing from the stains in the garage. I sent over samples of Richard's blood for comparison. Nothing showed up in the rest of the house. Too many cleanings by Mr. Itatani-where are negligent slumlords when you need them?"
Spike emitted a pulsating, froglike croak. Milo's left hand slid across the table.
Slurp, munch.
"Finally: the lovely and outgoing Ms. Sinclair did indeed report the nighttime traffic at the house. A dozen complaints, cruisers were sent out seven times, but all the blues saw were some cars in the driveway, no dope transactions. I spoke to one of the sergeants. He considers Sinclair a crank. I have cleaned up his language.
Apparently, bitching's her main hobby. One time she called in at two A.M. about a mockingbird in a tree she claimed was singing off-key intentionally- some bird plot to throw off her piano playing. In the warrant application I thought it best not to describe her psychological status in too much detail, called her a 'neighborhood observer.' But what a whack job; you guys will never be out of work."
"Too bad Mrs. Leiber didn't notice anything," I said.
"Who's Mrs. Leiber?"
"The lady with the lost dog."
"Oh, her. All she cared about was the dog."
"I keep thinking about the dog."
"What do you mean?"
"His face stays with me. Don't know why. It's as if I've seen him before."
"In a past life?"
I laughed because it was the right thing to do. Milo slipped Spike a long strip of mozzarella.
Robin came out with iced coffee and chocolate ice cream. Milo finished the pizza and joined us sipping and spooning. Soon, he'd slid down in his chair, nearly supine, eyes closed, head hanging over the back of the chair.
"Ah," he said, "the good life."
Then his beeper went off.
33.
"Swio," HE SAID, returning from the kitchen.
"Someone told him about Peake's Jesus pose," I said, "and he's going to make your life a living hell if you don't stay away."
"On the contrary. He offered a personal invitation to come over. Now."
"Why?"
"He wouldn't say, just 'Now.' Not an order, though. A polite request. He actually said please."
I looked at Robin. "Have fun."
She said, "Oh, please. You'll be pacing the house, end up having one of your sleepless nights." To Milo: "Take care of him, or no more beer."
He crossed his heart. I kissed her and we hurried down to the car.
As he sped down to the Glen and headed south, I said, "Were you shielding Robin, or did he really not say?"
"The latter. One thing I didn 't say in front of her. He sounded scared."
Ten P.M. The night was kind to the industrial wasteland. A hospital security guard was waiting on the road just outside the turnoff, idly aiming a flashlight beam at the ground. As we drove up, he illuminated the unmarked's license plate and waved us forward hurriedly.
"Straight through," he told Milo. "They're waiting for you."
"Who's they?"
"Everyone."
The guard in the booth flipped the barrier arm as we approached. We drove through without being questioned.
