Milo eyed the book. “History buff?”
“School. Can I help you?”
“Police.”
The badge made Philip blink.
Milo said, “Some contraband was found in one of your units. Number fourteen fifty-five.”
“Contraband? Like dope?”
“Let’s just say something illegal. What can you tell me about that bin?”
Philip leafed through a ledger. “One four five five… that one’s vacant.”
“We know that, Mr…”
“Phil Stillway.”
“The contraband in question was obtained when the contents were auctioned off two weeks ago, Mr. Stillway.”
“I’ve only been here a week.”
Milo tapped the ledger. “Could you please check who rented the unit?”
“It’s not in here, in here is just the occupied units.”
“Occupied? You’ve got tenants living here?”
Philip gaped. “No, sir, I meant material. Belongings. No one lives here, that’s against regulations.”
Milo winked and grinned.
“Oh,” said Philip, “you were joking.”
“Who rented fourteen fifty-five and when?”
Philip walked two steps to a computer, sat down, tapped keys. “Says here it’s been in arrears for sixty days and that was… two weeks ago… um, yeah, there was an auction, everything got cleaned out.” Tap, tap. “Says here the rental agreement was… fourteen months ago. One year, paid in advance, sixty days in arrears.”
“Paid, how?”
Tap tap tap. “Says here cash.”
“Who’s the renter?”
“Says here Sawyer comma initial T.”
“Address?”
“P.O.B. 3489, Malibu, California, 90156.”
Malibu ’s zip code was 90265. Milo scowled as he copied down the information.
“What other information did Sawyer, T., give?”
Philip read off an 818 phone number.
Malibu ’s 310 but with everything cellular, logic no longer pertains.
Milo said, “Okay, let’s have a look at your security tapes.”
“Pardon?”
“The camera out front.”
“Oh, that,” said Philip. “It’s for when the gates close after eight p.m. and renters want access.”
“You lock up after eight?”
“Yeah, but they can give a deposit and apply for a twenty-four-hour card key.”
“When do the cameras get turned on?”
“When there’s no one in the office.”
“Which is?”
“At night,” said Philip. “After eight.”
“Did T. Sawyer apply for a card key?”
Philip swung back to his keyboard. “The box is checked. Yes… looks like we never got the card back, so the deposit was forfeited. Two hundred dollars.”
“Okay,” said Milo. “Let’s see those tapes. Anything before two weeks ago would be best.”
“It might be best,” said Philip, “but it’s also impossible. Everything’s recorded over after forty-eight hours.”
“Two days and gone? Tight security system you’ve got here.”
“This contraband, was it dangerous? Like toxic waste, something hazardous? My parents aren’t too cool with me working here, worried about the stuff people store.”
“Nothing toxic or radioactive,” said Milo. “Is there anyone in the company who can tell us something about Mr. Sawyer?”
“I can ask but I don’t think so. Everything we need to know is here.” Tapping the computer.
“Let’s look at the last forty-eight hours of tape.”
“Sure.” Philip reached to his left and switched on a VCR. The feed went straight to the computer and the screen turned gray. Stayed that way. “Hmm,” he said, tickling the keyboard and changing nothing.
“It’s not showing much, I don’t know…”
“Stay with it, Phil.”
A perusal of the Help menu and several false starts later, we were staring at a grainy black-and-white close-up of the storage facility gate. Static shot, but for a time register playing bingo. The camera angle was tilted to give a truncated view of the lot, maybe fifteen feet of asphalt, well short of the parking slots.
I said, “All You Wanted to Know About the Driveway But Were Afraid to Ask.”
Phil started to smile, saw the look on Milo ’s face and changed his mind.
The screen reverted to gray.
Error message.
Philip said, “Looks like it’s broken. I’d better report it.”
Milo said, “Fast-forward to make sure it’s blank.”
Philip complied. Nothing on the rest of the tape.
“Give us a key to fourteen fifty-five.”
“I guess it’s okay.”
“Think of it this way,” said Milo. “If there is something dangerous in there, we’ll be the ones who get zapped, not you.”
“I need to stay up here, anyway,” said Philip, scrounging in a drawer. “This one should work. If it doesn’t, I don’t know.”
On the way to the bin, I said, “T. Sawyer.”
“Huck’s buddy. Har dee har har.”
The facility was laid out in a series of dim, narrow hallways that right-angled and continued, a broken snake of cement block tunnel. Door after plywood door, a variety of padlocks, some of them serious.
Company key-bolt on the hasp of 1455. Milo gloved up, unlocked, pulled the door open on fifty square feet of unlit vacancy.
Floors swept clean, not a speck of dust. The smell of bleach floated to the hallway.
He rubbed his eyes, ran his penlight over every surface. “Do I bother wasting the techie’s time?”
“Depends on how much butt-covering you need to do.”
“I’ll tell ’em to luminol, maybe we’ll get lucky.”
We returned to the front office. Philip was playing a game on the company computer, some floridly colored thing featuring ninjas and space aliens and sloe-eyed women whose chests defied gravity.
“Hi,” he said, continuing to work the mouse.
Milo said, “Are vacant units generally cleaned by the company?”
“Uh-huh.”
“With bleach?”
“It’s a special solution we get from the home office,” said Philip. “Kills anything. So the next person doesn’t have to worry.”
“How considerate,” said Milo.
“Yup.” Philip, encountering a lance-wielding demon materializing out of a massive, mauve cloudburst, squinted, hunched forward, and braced himself for battle.
