The Wedding Guest (Alex Delaware #34) - Jonathan Kellerman Page 0,102
Boulevard. Well-kept pink bungalow on a quiet block of similar structures all painted in pastels.
Empty driveway, drapes drawn. No mail on the ground but that didn’t mean much. The U.S. Postal Service had access to a lidded brass slot to the left of the door.
Milo lifted the lid and peered. “Too dark, can’t see. No bad smells, at least not from here.”
He checked out the property. On the right side of the house, a waist-high white wooden gate blocked access to the backyard. Locked but easy enough to get over.
He was contemplating his choices when the door to the baby-blue box next door opened and a woman stepped out holding a rolled-up newspaper.
White hair pinned high on her head, seventies, wearing a maroon sweater, mustard-colored slacks and brown boat shoes. Her free hand rested on her hip. Waiting for an explanation.
When none ensued, she said, “Can I help you?”
Milo walked toward her, flashing his badge.
She said, “The police? Bob and Marta? Something happened to them on the road?”
“I certainly hope not, Ms.—”
“Alicia Cervantes. Then why are you here?”
“Bob was involved in a case we’re working on.”
“Involved how?”
“As a source.”
“Of what?”
“Information, ma’am. We’re doing some follow-up.”
“What kind of case?”
Milo smiled. “Sorry, can’t say. So they went on a trip?”
Alicia Cervantes looked him up and down. “What kind of source could Bob be to the police?”
“I really can’t get into it, ma’am.”
“Huh.”
“He’s not in trouble if that’s what you’re asking.”
The newspaper slapped against her other hip. “Well, I know that. They’re good people. If you told me different I wouldn’t believe you.”
“When did they leave?”
“Yesterday evening. Packed up the van, I went out to say goodbye. They looked fine. Not like people involved with the police.”
“Any idea where they were headed?”
“Why?” said Alicia Cervantes. “You want to follow them on the freeway or something?”
“No, ma’am. We’re just trying to contact Bob.”
“Follow-up? Whatever that means.”
I said, “It was just the two of them traveling?”
My turn to be inspected. “Why all these questions, like they’re spies or something? No, it wasn’t just them. They took Paco and Luanne.”
Milo said, “Their kids?”
Alicia Cervantes broke into laugher. “Paco’s a black Lab, Luanne’s a tabby cat.”
I said, “Sounds like an extended trip.”
“Why?”
“Taking the pets.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Alicia Cervantes. “Whenever they travel, they take the animals. Would you leave yours? If you have any? Once they went to Desert Hot Springs and Luanne was sick so they asked me to watch her for a couple days and give her special food. Of course I said yes. Very nice cat, didn’t try to bother Fernando, that’s my lorikeet.”
Milo said, “So no idea where they’re headed.”
“Nope.”
“Okay, thanks, Ms. Cervantes.”
When we’d walked a step, she said, “Maybe Sequoia, maybe another state park. They like the parks, if they can bring the animals. So you’re not going to find them.”
* * *
—
Like Darius Cutter, she stood there as we returned to the unmarked. Unlike Cutter, she focused squarely on us.
Milo muttered, “Community relations.”
I said, “Maybe Pena looked scared and that’s why she’s protective.”
He pulled away from the curb. “First ol’ Bob takes sudden retirement, then he packs up the van and splits. Something to do with that building got to him.” Smiling at me. “At least your morbid possibility wasn’t borne out.”
“Lucky Bob,” I said. “Do you have that list of residents from the Wilshire tower here in the car?”
“It’s in the murder book.” He hooked a thumb toward the backseat.
I reached behind and retrieved the blue binder.
“I told you,” he said. “Already went over it a bunch of times.”
He’d asterisked the residents shielded by trusts and corporate entitities, making my life easy. I spotted what I’d hoped to find and showed it to him.
“High-Level, Inc.?” A nanosecond of confusion was replaced by clarity. His face turned chalky, highlighting acne pits and lumps; a lunar exploration module sweeping over the moon.
“The outfit that manages the place, shit.”
I said, “Subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subdivision et cetera.”
“Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”
“It was just a guess.”
He groaned. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“The aw-shucks modesty thing.”
“I mean it—”
“Yeah, yeah.” He smiled sourly. “It’s like that old shampoo commercial, don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful? I will not despise you because you’re intellectually gifted.”
He punched the steering wheel with the heel of a big hand. “The Brain has met his match!”
“Aw shucks.”
Barking laughter, he swerved and parked, said, “Gimme that,” and inspected the list. “Twenty-fourth-floor penthouse. Trust-fund bastard!”
CHAPTER
43
Back at his office, he chewed on an unlit cigar and