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?”
Spike emitted a pulsating, froglike croak. Milo’s left hand slid across the table.
Slurp, munch.
“Finally: the lovely and outgoing Ms. Sinclair did indeed report the nighttime traffic at the house. A dozen complaints, cruisers were sent out seven times, but all the blues saw were some cars in the driveway, no dope transactions. I spoke to one of the sergeants. He considers Sinclair a crank. I have cleaned up his language.
Apparently, bitching’s her main hobby. One time she called in at two A.M. about a mockingbird in a tree she claimed was singing off-key intentionally- some bird plot to throw off her piano playing. In the warrant application I thought it best not to describe her psychological status in too much detail, called her a ‘neighborhood observer.’ But what a whack job; you guys will never be out of work.”
“Too bad Mrs. Leiber didn’t notice anything,” I said.
“Who’s Mrs. Leiber?”
“The lady with the lost dog.”
“Oh, her. All she cared about was the dog.”
“I keep thinking about the dog.”
“What do you mean?”
“His face stays with me. Don’t know why. It’s as if I’ve seen him before.”
“In a past life?”
I laughed because it was the right thing to do. Milo slipped Spike a long strip of mozzarella.
Robin came out with iced coffee and chocolate ice cream. Milo finished the pizza and joined us sipping and spooning. Soon, he’d slid down in his chair, nearly supine, eyes closed, head hanging over the back of the chair.
“Ah,” he said, “the good life.”
Then his beeper went off.
33.
“Swio,” HE SAID, returning from the kitchen.
“Someone told him about Peake’s Jesus pose,” I said, “and he’s going to make your life a living hell if you don’t stay away.”