North side of Washington, two-story mock colonial wedged between an ARCO station and a flower shop, auto club badge of approval tacked above the door. Clean, white clapboard facade that I couldn’t help comparing to Jane and Mel Abbot’s house. The parking lot was sun-grayed, one-third full. The Mercedes pulled to the far left side, well away from other vehicles, and came to a short stop.
A man got out and hurried toward the motel’s glass doors. Forties, tall, slim, and sunken-chested, with long, stringy arms and kinky, graying hair. He wore a snug yellow polo shirt over pressed khakis, brown loafers, no socks, tiny eyeglasses. Carried a cardboard file case in his hands. Justin LeMoyne making a quick trip back home for paperwork? He shot a worried look over his shoulder as he shoved the doors and stepped in.
The phone booth at the ARCO station smelled of too-old burrito, but the dial tone was clear. I called Milo at the station, and before he could speak said, “Finally, something real.”
“Yeah, they’re both in there,” he said, returning to the Seville and leaning in the driver’s window. “Room two fifteen. They checked in yesterday under LeMoyne’s name.”
It had taken him a quarter hour to arrive. He’d left the unmarked on the opposite side of the lot, conferred for a couple of minutes with the desk clerk, emerged nodding.
“Cooperative fellow?” I said.
“Ethiopian fellow studying for the citizenship exam, very yessir, nosir. I promised not to bring in a SWAT army if he didn’t fuss or notify LeMoyne and Salander. He seemed duly impressed by the badge— Why should he know that justifying a warrant, let alone a G.I. Joe ground assault, is about as likely as Ghaddafi marrying Streisand.”
“Let’s hear it for TV.”
“And here I was thinking it was my commanding aura. He also volunteered that Salander just called down and asked where he could order a pizza. He directed them to Papa Pomodoro on Overland, told me they’ve got a guaranteed half hour delivery or it’s a freebie. So I’m gonna knock on the door in five minutes, and just maybe they’ll open it with pepperoni expectations.”
“And when the real delivery boy shows up?” I said.
“We’ll have a party— Thanks for noticing LeMoyne’s car, Alex.”
“Hard not to, I was right there.”
“And they say no one in L.A.’s neighborly.”
“If he checked in under his own name, LeMoyne wasn’t exactly being cagey,” I said. “Driving up to his house in broad daylight, staying this close to home? Doesn’t smell like a frantic rabbit.”
“Then what’re they doing here? Vacationing in Culver City?”
“Maybe taking a breather,” I said. “Giving Andy Salander time to figure out what to do with the information he got from Lauren.”
“Or he was Lauren’s partner in crime.”
“No sign she shared the wealth. She was the one with the wardrobe and the investment portfolio. Salander barely scraped by on his bartender’s salary. No, I think she took him in for company—nonsexual company—just like he said, and he became her confidant. Maybe she didn’t even give him details, just told him enough for him to figure things out when people started dying. Reconciling with LeMoyne couldn’t have come at a better time for him—allowed him to leave the apartment, move in with LeMoyne. He told LeMoyne of his suspicions, scared LeMoyne enough to bunk down here.”
“And he didn’t call me because …”
“Because why should he, Milo? If he’s a TV baby, how many times has he seen the old witness protection bungle story? Not to mention all those police corruption scenarios. Fictional or otherwise.”
“Untrustworthy?” he said. “Moi?” He gazed at the hotel. “Or maybe the two of them are trying to figure out how to take over the blackmail scheme.” He looked at his watch. “Okay, time to be Simon the Pie Man— Wait here, and if it’s okay for you to come up, I’ll let you know. If the delivery guy does show up, you can say the pizza’s yours and pay him.”
“Is the department going to reimburse me?”
He dipped in his trouser pocket and pulled out his wallet.
“Put that back,” I said. “Just kidding.”