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 burritos 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?"