"Guess he ran out of ideas," he said. "This kind of brilliance, he definitely could've gotten a legit job at the studios."
The light changed in the room. Something yellowing the window shades.
Headlights. A car idling next to the house. In the driveway.
I thought of Marie Sinclair, cranky and paranoid. Pays to listen to everyone.
Milo moved quickly, killing the room lights, replacing the looseleaf, pulling out his gun.
The headlights dimmed; the engine dieseled for several seconds before quieting. The whoosh-and-click of the car door closing. Footsteps scraping the driveway.
Diminishing footsteps.
Milo raced through the house, made it to the front door, said something to me.
Stay put, he explained later, but I never processed it and I stayed on his heels.
He cracked the door, looked outside, flung it open, ran.
In the driveway sat a lemon-yellow Corvette.
We ran past the ficus hedge. A man was fifty feet up the street, to the north. Walking casually, arms swinging.
Tall man. Thin. A too-big head-much too big. Some kind ofhat.
Milo set out after him. Closed the gap, bellowed.
"Policefreezedon 'tmovepolicefreezefreeze!"
The man stopped.
"Stay right there hands behind your head."
The man obeyed.
"Lie down slowly face to the sidewalk-get your hands back there again-up up behind your head."
Total compliance. As the man lay down, his hat fell off.
In a flash, Milo had his cuffs out, was bending the man's arm behind his back.
That easy.
Time for someone else to have some luck.
"Where's Peake?" Milo demanded.
"Who?" High, tight voice.
"Peake. Don't fuck with me, Crimmins-"
"Who-"
Keeping his gun trained on the back of the man's head, Milo fished out the penlight and tossed it to me. "Shine it on his face-lift up your face!"
Before the man could respond, Milo grabbed a handful of hair and helped him along. The man gasped in pain. I moved around in front and aimed the beam at his face.
Thin face. Framed by long blond hair. He had hat head from the watch cap that lay a few feet away on the pavement.
A few lights went on in neighboring houses, but the street remained quiet.
Milo held the man's chin as I illuminated scared pale eyes. Weak chin, cottony with fledgling beard growth.
Pimples.
Adolescent acne.
A kid.
Chapter 37
His name was Christopher Paul Soames and he had I.D. to prove it.
An obviously phony California Identification Card and a student card from Bellflower High, dated three years ago. He'd been a sophomore then, with shorter hair and clearer skin. Had dropped out the following summer, because "it sucked and I had a job."
"Where?" said Milo. He'd dragged Soames onto the lawn behind the ficus hedge, emptied the boy's pockets.
"Lucky's."
"Doing what?"
"Box boy."
"How long did you work there?"
"Two months."
"After that?"
Soames's shrug was inhibited by the cuffs.
He had a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket, a marijuana roach, a partially crushed bag of Peanut M &M's, no driver's license. "But I know how to, my brother taught me before he went into the Marines."
Milo pointed to the Corvette. "Nice wheels."
"Yeah-can you take these off me, man?"
"Run your story by me one more time, Chris."
"Can I at least get off the grass? It's wet, I'm getting my ass wet."
Milo lifted him by a belt loop and hauled him over to the bungalow's front porch. The interrogation had been going on for nearly ten minutes. No sign of any sheriff's cars yet.
Soames shifted his shoulders. "These hurt, man. Lemme loose, I din't do nothin'."
"Didn't steal the car?"
"No way, I tole you."
"You didn't find an address in the car and drive over to rob the house?"
"Noway."
"How'd you get the keys?"
"Dude gave 'em to me, I tole you."
"But you don't know the dude's name."
"Right."
"Dude just hands you the keys to his 'Vette, just like that."
"Yeah." Soames sniffed. A bony knee started shaking.
"Where'd this fairy tale take place?" said Milo.
"Ivar and Lexington, like I tole you."
Hollywood back streets. The boy had a hollow-cheeked look that screamed too much Hollywood.
Milo said, "He just came up to you on the corner and gave you his keys."
"Right."
"What were you doing on Ivar and Lexington?"
"Nothin'. Hangin'."
"And he drove up in the 'Vette and-"
"No, he walked up. The 'Vette was parked somewhere else."
"Where?"
"Coupla blocks away."
"So you figured him for a John."
"No-I don' do that shit. That's all that happened, man."
"What'd the dude look like, Chris?"
"Don' know."
"Dude gives you his car keys, and you don't know what he looks like."
"It was dark-it's always dark there, that's why- Go look for yourself, it's always dark there."
"Dude you don't know and whose face you can't see just hands you the keys to his 'Vette, tells you to drive it home for him, gives you twenty bucks for the favor."
"That's right," said Soames.
"Why would he want to do that?"
"Ask him."
"I'm asking you, Chris."
"He had another car."
"Ah," said Milo. "Something you forgot to tell me the first time around."
"He- I-" Soames's mouth snapped shut.
"What, Chris?"
"Nothing."
"Part of the twenty was the dude told you not to say anything to anybody, right?"
Silence.
"Did he say anything about bailing you when you get busted for grand theft auto?"
Silence.
Milo got down on one knee, eye level with Soames. "What if I told you I believe you, Chris? What if I told you I know what this guy looks like? Tall, skinny, big nose like a bird's beak. Dresses all in black. Black hair, or maybe light brown. As in, wig."
Soames blinked.
"How'm I doing?"
Soames looked away.
"What if I told you you're a very lucky kid, Chris, because this is a very, very, very bad individual and you might be mixed up in something extremely heavy."
Soames's nose wrinkled. Dried snot crusted one nostril. His eyes were runny. His clothes smelled dirty, old, strangely metallic.
"Something unbelievably heavy, Chris."
"Right."
"Think I'm kidding you, Chris? How else would I know what he looks like? Why do you think I'm here at his house?"
Soames gave another abbreviated shrug.
"Accessory to murder, Chris," said Milo.
"Right."
"Hundred percent right. This guy likes to kill people. Likes to make it hurt."
"Bullshit."
"Why would I bullshit you, Chris?"
Soames said, "You-he-You better be bullshitting."
"I'm not."
Soames's eyes had turned wet. His lip was shaking.
"You know something, Chris?"
"You better be bullshitting," Soames whined. "I let him take Suzy."
Susanna Galvez. Female Hispanic, black and brown, five-two, 116. A DOB that made her fourteen years and seven months old. Missing-persons report filed eighteen months ago at the Bellflower substation.
"Parents suspect she's with her boyfriend," said Milo, pocketing his phone. "Male Caucasian, blond and blue, six to six-two, a hundred forty-five, goes by the name of Chris. No last name."
To Soames: "So, Mr. No Last Name, she ran away with you when she was twelve?"
"She's fourteen now."
Milo grabbed his collar. "You want her to make fifteen, tell me the rest of it, Chris. Now, you stupid little shit."
"Okay, yeah, yeah, I've seen the guy before, but I don' know him, that's the truth, man. Not a John, that was true, he just usually cruises. No name, he never told me no name."
"No name and he cruises Hollywood in the 'Vette," said Milo.
"No, no," Soames said impatiently. "Not the 'Vette, never saw the 'Vette before, the other car, this black Jeep. Suzy and I used to call him Marilyn, like Marilyn Manson, 'cause he's tall and weird-looking like Marilyn Manson."