He said, “It all fits but I’m still short on proof. Can’t even get a home address on Degussa. The club he works for pays him cash under the table.”
“Try the Marina,” I said. “Flora took Van Dyne there for brunch. Maybe because she’d been there with Degussa.”
“Bobby J’s—yeah, I like that, if she was gaming that would be fun for her. I’ll drop by again, flash Degussa’s mug.”
He hitched his trousers, and we left the steakhouse. He must’ve left a huge tip—cop’s tip—because the waiter followed us out to the sidewalk, thanked him, and shook his hand.
Milo told him, “Enjoy,” and we returned to the unmarked.
“With what we know now,” he said, “I should also be able to get some extra personnel for serious surveillance. This is good, Alex. Not anywhere near a slam dunk, but good.”
“Nice to see you happy.”
“Me? I’m always a ray of sunshine.” As if illustrating, he spread his lips in something that might have been a smile and switched on the police radio as he drove. Humming along, atonally, with the dispatcher’s droll recital of outrage and misery.
Midway back to the station, he said, “There’s still the matter of how Jerry Quick fits into the scam.”
“Maybe he doesn’t,” I said. “Gull knew him only as Gavin’s father, and maybe that’s the point. Jerry started following Gavin around. Because Gavin had been acting strange. Gavin didn’t know that and spotted his dad and copied down his license plate. In Gavin’s damaged mind, everyone was part of the conspiracy.”
“Gavin was paranoid?”
“Prefrontal damage can do that.”
“A concerned father would be helping us, Alex, not destroying evidence and hiding out. Quick’s been gone, what—five days. What the hell is that all about?”
“Good point,” I said.
“Just because Gull wasn’t aware of Quick’s involvement doesn’t mean Quick’s a virgin. We’ve got a guy who hires a stripper as a phony secretary, uses prepaid phone cards, leaves condoms in his luggage to rub salt in wifey’s wounds, hits on his sister-in-law, doesn’t pay his bills on time. To me that’s precisely the kind of tainted citizen who’d love something like Sentries for Justice. I’ll buy the concerned dad bit up to a point—the point where Quick supplied Gavin with Christi Marsh. Which got her killed, too. Quick knows if it all comes out, he’s in big trouble with his family, not to mention the law. So he cuts out and leaves Sheila to fend for herself. This is not Ward Cleaver.”
“I wonder how Sheila’s doing,” I said.
“Ever the shrink. Feel free to drop by and do some therapy. God knows she needs it. Meanwhile, I’m gonna earn the salary the city pays me.”
A block later: “Did I thank you for all your help?”
“More than once,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “Got to be civilized.”
CHAPTER
42
South Camden Drive at two in the afternoon was a pretty scene.
Temperate Beverly Hills weather, unfettered by seasons, nice houses, nice cars, nice gardeners mowing nice lawns. Up the block from the Quick house, an elderly man made his way along the sidewalk with the help of twin walkers and a tiny Filipina attendant. As I drove by, he smiled and waved.
Happiness had so little to do with the state of your bones.
The door to the white traditional was open, and Sheila Quick’s minivan idled in the driveway, exhaust pipe blowing delicate puffs of smoke that dissipated quickly in the warm, smooth air.
Woman’s silhouette in the front passenger seat. I got out and approached the van, found Sheila Quick sitting stiffly, looking hypnotized, her window up.
She didn’t notice me and I was about to knock on her window when a young woman came out of the house hefting an oversized blue duffel.
When she saw me she froze.
Tall, slim, dark hair drawn back in a careless ponytail. Pleasant face, less plain than in the family photo. She wore a hooded blue sweatshirt over jeans and white sneakers. Down-slanted eyes, her father’s large jaw. His slightly stooped posture, too; it made her look weary. Maybe she was.
“Kelly?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Alex Delaware. I work with the L.A. Police—”