“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.