“That’s why I asked if he’s still in school. Maybe going through channels didn’t prove satisfying. And don’t forget the bike tire marks.”
“Boy on a ten-speed.” The light changed and he turned east, drove slowly til the traffic thinned, then made a quick right south of the boulevard. We were close to the murder street. By L.A. terms, Hope had been my neighbor. Robin had probably been thinking about that.
We sailed through the cold, black privacy of Holmby Hills, past high walls and old trees; small, hostile signs reminding us of the presence of an armed patrol. Milo rolled through a boulevard stop and continued south. The estates gave way to houses as we entered residential Westwood.
“I’ll follow up on Storm Junior,” he said. “On all three of them. Going to be making a lot of people who thought they’d put the committee behind them very unhappy.”
We sat parked near the big elm for a while, talking about the murder and other things before sinking into an aspic of silence. No movement behind the amber-lit curtains. No signs of life.
“Ready to meet him?”
“Thrilled.”
“Yeah, he’s a thrilling guy.”
Just as we were about to get out, headlights came at us and a car stopped in front of the Devane/Seacrest house, turned up the driveway, and parked behind the Volvo.
Red Mustang.
“There you go,” I said. “He does go out. Took a spin in the sports car.”
“Her sports car.” Milo stared, mouth tight, eyes tuned.
The headlights shut off and a man got out of the red car and walked up to the front door.
“That’s not Seacrest. Seacrest is taller.”
The man rang the bell. It was too dark to make out details but he was short—maybe five seven—and wore a long coat. Hands in pockets, his back to us.
A house light went on downstairs and the door opened partially. The man slipped inside.
“A pal?” I said. “Someone Seacrest lent the car to?”
“Long as he’s being hospitable, let’s partake.”
It took a lot longer for our ring to be answered. Finally from behind the door came a “Yes?”
“It’s Detective Sturgis, Professor.”
Another partial opening. Philip Seacrest was indeed taller than the man in the coat. Close to Milo’s six-three but sixty pounds lighter, with narrow shoulders and a drawn, squarish face turned grubby by a poorly trimmed gray beard. His nose was small and wide and might have been broken once. His hair was gray and unruly, puffing over his ears but skimpy on top. He wore a gray-and-green plaid shirt, gray twill slacks that had once been expensive but were shiny at the knees, felt bedroom slippers. The shirt was rolled to his elbows, exposing hairless, soft-looking arms.
One incongruity: a small anchor tattoo on his left forearm, pale blue, crudely done, probably a Navy souvenir. I knew he was fifty-five but he looked older. Maybe it was grief. Or bad genes. Or going to work every day and doing the same thing over and over without distinction.
“Detective.” He took hold of the doorpost. Quiet voice, just above a mumble. If he lectured that way the back rows wouldn’t hear him.
Behind him I could see old, clumsy furniture, floral wallpaper, a grandfather clock in the crook of a narrow staircase. Small brass chandelier. I smelled the not-quite-cooked odor of microwaved food.
On the far wall of the entry, a colonial eagle mirror’s convex lens stared back like a giant eye. No sight of the Mustang driver.
“Professor,” said Milo.
Seacrest’s eyes were big, brown, two shades darker than those of his dead wife, soft as a child’s. “What can I do for you, Mr. Sturgis?”
“Are we interrupting something, sir?”
The “we” made him notice me, but not for long.
“No.”
“May we come in?”
Seacrest hesitated for a second. “All right.” Saying it louder—warning the other man? He stayed in the doorway, then stepped aside.
No eye contact. I was already picking up the evasiveness that had alerted Milo.
Then he did look at us. But not with affection.
Sometimes cops and victims’ families bond, but there was none of that here. Quite the opposite. A coldness.