I whistled.
“That’s the point, dude. Doing stuff no one else can do, to show you’re God. One day I’m going to find a real job.”
“How long have you been at Apex?”
“Little over three years,” he said. “Started out doing messenger shit. Which was basically bringing envelopes from one schmuck boss to another, picking up lunch, all kinds of scut. When I signed up, I figured it would be temporary. So I could save up enough and go back to school.”
“What were you studying?”
“What do you think?”
“Acting.”
He chuckled. “They taught you to detect pretty good. Yeah, I was like every fool comes to L.A., thought because I was Stanley in high school and my drama teacher loved me I could live … atop Olympus.” He shook his head. “My crib’s a barf-hole in Reseda, I’m barely getting by, and now I got cops talking to me. Maybe it’s time to go back and study something real. Like real estate. Or online poker.”
He reached for my sleeve, retracted his hand before making contact. “Please don’t screw me, dude. All I did was what I was told.”
“If that’s true, I don’t see you as having any liability, Kevin.”
“I don’t mean problems with you, I mean the job. Rule One.”
“I’ll do my best to keep you out of it.”
“The way you said that scares me.”
“Why?”
“It could mean anything.”
“What it means, Kev, is that we need each other.”
“How?”
“You don’t want me talking about you and my bosses can’t afford you telling anyone about this meeting because there’s an ongoing investigation.”
“No prob, I won’t say a word.”
“Then we’re cool.”
I held out my hand. We shook. His skin was clammy.
“Thanks for talking to me, Kev.”
“Believe me, my yap is permanently shut. But can I ask one thing? Just for my own sake?”
“What?”
“Did she do something bad with that shit? I figured it was for the kids, some sort of science project, you know? She’s always getting stuff for the kids.”
I said, “Ever hear of the Lacey Act?”
“No, what’s that?”
“Protection for endangered species.”
“That’s what this is about? Those stupid bugs were illegal?”
“Protected.” I ran a finger across my lips. “Like this communication. Have a nice day, Kevin.”
“I’ll try,” he said. “Getting harder, but I’ll try.”
CHAPTER 42
The morning after meeting Kevin Dubinsky, I dressed in sweatpants, a T-shirt, running shoes, and a Dodgers cap, was ready to leave by eight. Blanche, figuring it was time for a stroll, bounced up to me and smiled.
I said, “Sorry, honey,” fetched her a consolation strip of bacon that she regarded with sad eyes before deigning to nibble, carried her to Robin’s studio, and left the house.
I drove up Beverly Glen, turned right at Mulholland, passing the fire station near Benedict Canyon, stopping once to pick up a nice-sized branch that had fallen off an ancient sycamore. Sailing through pretty, dew-livened hills I reached the Coldwater Canyon intersection, across from TreePeople headquarters.
A little more than half a mile south of the private road that led to the Premadonny compound.
I drove two miles north of the property, found a patch of turnoff not meant for long-term stay, left the car there, anyway. Stick in hand, I returned south on foot.
Crows squawked, squirrels chittered, all kinds of animal noises became evident once you listened. I spotted a deer munching dry grass then speeding toward a McMansion that blocked far too much canyon view, came upon the desiccated remains of a gorgeous red-and-yellow-banded king snake. Juvenile, from the size of it. No signs of violence to the little reptile. Sometimes things just died.
I kept going, using the branch for a walking stick that I hoped would imply Habitual Hiker. Nice day to be out walking, if you ignored the occasional car roaring toward you, oblivious or hostile to the concept of foot travel. Fools texting and phone-yakking and a notable cretin shaving his face made the journey an interesting challenge. More than once I had to press myself against a hillside to avoid being pulverized.
I kept up a steady pace, tapped a rhythm with the stick, pretended to be caught up in pedestrian Zen. In L.A., that makes you strange. In L.A., people ignore strange.
When I reached my destination, I found a tree-shielded spot across the road and had a look at the entry to the compound. A discreet sign warned against trespassing. An electric gate ten or so yards up blocked entry. The road to that barrier was a single lane of age-grayed asphalt in need of patching, shaded by bay laurels and untrimmed ficus. A stray plastic cup lid glinted from the shrubbery. Appropriately secluded but a little on the shabby side; not a hint this was Buckingham West.
I continued walking, searched for police surveillance. None that I could see; maybe Milo hadn’t gotten around to arranging it.
I hadn’t heard from him since the meet at Melvin Wedd’s crime scene. Probably inspecting Wedd’s apartment, locating next of kin, all that logical detective procedure.
Correspondence with Wedd’s family would be an exercise in deception: prying out dirt about a victim/possible suspect under the guise of consolation. Milo was good at that, I’d seen him pull it off plenty of times. Later, he’d mutter about the power of positive hypocrisy.
I covered another mile, reversed direction, took a second look at the access road to the compound, repeated the process several times, never encountering another person on foot.
They say walking’s the best exercise, if we had time to do enough of it, we wouldn’t need to jog or run or tussle with implements of gym-torture. By the time I got back in the Seville my feet were starting to protest and I guessed I’d covered at least ten miles.
It had been a learning experience. Body and mind.
When I was minutes from home, Robin called. “Guess what, Brent’s back in town, can’t wait to talk to you.”
“Eager to do his civic duty?”
She laughed. “More like his un-civil duty. He hates them, Alex. Quote unquote. He’s lunching, guess where?”
“Spago.”
“Grill on the Alley. Karma, huh?”
“Last time I was there the company was a whole lot cuter.”
“But nowhere near this informative, baby. Good luck.”
The Grill bustles pleasantly at dinnertime. During lunch it roars, filling up with Industry testosterone, every power booth occupied by movers and shakers and those too rich to bother doing either. Each bar stool is occupied but no one gets drunk. Platters of food are transported smoothly by an army of white-jacketed waiters who’ve seen it all. Sometimes tourists and others naive enough to venture in without a reservation bunch up at the door like immigrants seeking asylum. A trio of hosts seems genuinely remorseful when they reject the unschooled.
