Milo said, “It clarifies things.”
Del Rios removed his glasses. “A man who sees the bright side? Funny, you don’t give that impression.”
He stood. We did the same.
Milo said, “Thanks for your time, Chief.”
At the door, Del Rios said, “When I figured out what you were after, the thought that my family was under suspicion annoyed me. Even though if it was my case, I’d be doing the same thing. Then I realized I couldn’t help you and I started feeling for you, son. Having to dig that far back.” Winking. “So to speak. So here’s one more tidbit that’s probably irrelevant but I don’t want you thinking J.J.’s not simpatico with a fellow officer. Before my brother Eddie became a priest, he was a car nut, an early hot-rodder, into anything with four wheels and a big engine. He even got Dad to buy him a Ford coupe that he souped up and drag-raced. Anyway, one day Eddie and I were having lunch in the city. He was working as an assistant priest at St. Vibiana on Main Street, this was before he got transferred to Santa Barbara. During the time Mom was already living with Frankie. Anyway, Eddie says, ‘Johnny, I drove by the house a few nights ago, making sure the managers were getting the lawn cut better than the last time, and you won’t believe what was parked in the driveway. A Duesie.’ ”
I said, “A Duesenberg.”
“In the flesh,” said Del Rios. “The metal. It didn’t mean much to me, I didn’t care about cars, still don’t, but Eddie was excited, going on about not just a Duesenberg but one with the big chrome supercharger pipes coming out of the side, apparently that’s a big deal. He informs me this is the greatest car ever built, they were rare to begin with, twenty years later they’re a treasure. He tells me a car like that would’ve cost more new than the house did, he’s wondering how the tenant could have that kind of money, his best guess is she’s got a rich boyfriend. Then he blushes, shuts his mouth, remembering he’s a priest, no more gossip. I laughed like hell, told him he should get himself a hot rod on the sly, it bothers him he can confess about it. Meanwhile he can lay rubber right in front of the church, worst case the cardinal has a stroke. He laughed, we had our lunch, end of topic. Okay?”
“Female tenant.”
“That’s what he said,” said Del Rios. “
“I think, sir, that you’re still at the top of your game.”
“Always have been. Okay, good, now you have to get out of here, got a hot date and at my age getting ready is a production.”
CHAPTER 7
As I drove back to the city, Milo called a DMV supervisor to find out how far back car registrations ran.
“Inactive records are deleted after a few months, Lieutenant.”
“What about paper archives?”
“Nothing like that, sir.”
“No warehouse in Sacramento?”
“No such thing, Lieutenant. What exactly are you looking for?”
Milo told her.
She said, “With a subpoena, we could give you a list of currently registered Duesenbergs. That German?”
“American,” he said.
“Really? I lived in Detroit, never heard of them.”
“They haven’t been manufactured for a long time.”
“Oh,” said the supervisor. “A historical vehicle. Would a list of current regs help?”
“Probably not, but if it’s all I can get, I’ll settle.”
“Send me the proper paper and it’s all yours, Lieutenant.”
He hung up. I said, “Auburn, Indiana.”
“What about it?”
“It’s where Duesenbergs were built. Back in the day, cars were manufactured all over the country.”
“My home state,” he said. “Never knew that. Never saw anything exotic.”
“You wouldn’t unless you had rich friends. When Duesenbergs came out, they cost the equivalent of a million bucks and Father Eddie was right, they’re prime candidates for the greatest car ever made. We’re talking massive power, gorgeous custom coachwork, every screw hand-fashioned.”
“Listen to you, amigo. What, you were once a gear-head?”
“More like a fantasizing kid.” Who’d memorized every make and model because cars represented freedom and escape. Mentally cataloging all that information was a good time-filler when hiding in the woods, waiting out a drunken father’s rage.
Milo tapped the tucked-leather passenger door. “Now that I think about it, this is kind of a classic buggy.”
My daily ride’s a ’79 Seville, Chesterfield Green with a tan vinyl top that matches her interior leather. She rolled out of Detroit the last year before GM bloated the model beyond recognition, is styled well enough to help you forget she’s Caddy froufrou over a Chevy II chassis. She loves her third engine, is dependable, cushy, and makes no unreasonable demands. I see no reason to get a divorce.
I said, “Bite your tongue. She thinks she’s still a hot number.”
He laughed. “So how many Duesenbergs were made?”
“I’d guess hundreds, not thousands. And chrome pipes means it was supercharged, which would narrow it down further.”
“So getting that subpoena might be worthwhile … but then I’d need to backtrack the history of every one I find and the most I can hope for is some guy who visited the woman who lived in the house maybe at the time the baby was buried.”
I said, “There could be a more direct way to identify her. If Father Eddie noticed the car, other neighbors probably did. Anyone who was an adult back then is likely to be deceased, but in nice neighborhoods like Cheviot, houses get passed down to heirs.”
“A kid who dug cars,” he said. “Okay, can’t postpone the legwork any longer. You have time?”
“Nothing but.”
We began with properties half a mile either way from the burial site, encountered lots of surprise but no wisdom. Returning to the Ruche house, Milo knocked on the door, rang the bell, checked windows. No one home.
I followed him to the backyard. The yellow tape was gone. The holes where air-sniffing tubes had been inserted were still open. The chair where Holly Ruche had sat yesterday had been moved closer to the felled tree sections and a woman’s sweater, black, size M, Loehmann’s label, was draped over one of the massive cylinders. A few errant blond hairs stood out on the shoulders. Beneath the chair, a paperback book sat on the dirt. What to expect during pregnancy.
I said, “She came back when everyone left, wanting to check out her dream.”
He said, “Location, location, location … okay, let’s ask around some more about the car. Haystacks and needles and all that.”
Expanding the canvass another quarter mile produced similar results, initially. But at a house well north, also Tudor but grander and more ornately trimmed than Holly and Matt’s acquisition, a small, mustachioed man in his sixties holding a crystal tumbler of scotch said, “A Duesie? Sure, ’38 SJ, blue over blue-navy over baby.”
His mustache was a too-black stripe above a thin upper lip. The few hairs on his head were white. He wore a bottle-green velvet smoking jacket, gray pin-striped slacks, black slippers with gold lions embroidered on the toes.
Milo said, “What else can you tell us about it, sir?”
