“Fifty grand says he felt no guilt. Wonder if anything in San Luis got the vegan Jell-O treatment while Backer attended Cal Poly.”
“It’s Robin’s hometown, I’ll ask her.”
I instructed the voice-recognition system to “phone cutie.”
She said, “I’ve never heard of anything but I’ll ask Mom.”
Robin’s relationship with her mother is, to be kind, complicated. I said, “Selfless public service.”
She laughed. “If we keep it at serious crime, we’ll be fine.”
Milo said, “I’m in debt to you, kid.”
“Bring wine the next time I cook for you.”
“What did I give you the last time?”
“Orchid plant. Also lovely but don’t you want something you can share?”
“Find me a mansion arson in San Luis two to six years ago and I’ll bring you a case of the best Pinot I can find.”
“Back to you on that, Big Guy.”
She called back three minutes later: “Mom’s never heard of anything like that and neither has my friend Rosa, who’s lived there her entire life and knows everything. If you’d like, I can do a newspaper search.”
“I’d have to put you on regular payroll, kiddo.”
“Like you keep threatening to do with Alex?”
“Point taken,” he said. “Anyway, not necessary, I can push keys.”
“When’s my blue-eyed boy coming home?”
“Right now, if you want him.”
“I always want him, but don’t let me hinder your investigation.”
“If only there was one.”
“That bad?”
“Hey,” he said, “we’re walking, talking, breathing, I’m grateful.” Robin said, “I don’t like that kind of talk from you.”
“I shouldn’t get philosophical?”
“Not on my watch.”
Milo lapsed into that same morose silence. Back at his office, he flung his jacket atop a file cabinet and began the search for mansion arsons throughout the state. Any eco torch-jobs.
Long list. “Quite a few big houses went up during that time frame-here’s an entire luxury housing project in Colorado… animal research lab-that one was high school kids who got stopped early.” Wheeling away from the screen. “It’s all over the country, Alex, but if there’s a pattern, I’m not seeing it. And if Backer was a pro, you’d think something remotely incendiary would show up in his apartment. But the bomb dogs found zilch. Meaning (a) Backer was an architect, nothing more; (b) He did like playing with fire but put off buying his equipment until shortly before the gig; or (c) He kept a storage locker full of combustible goodies. And please don’t remind me about none of the above.”
Sean Binchy rang in from Lancaster. “Hey, Loot, those two thieving brothers are alibied clean for Borodi. Though, if you ask me, they’re still up to no good, there was a truck without tags in their driveway, they definitely didn’t want me looking at it closely. What next?”
“Go home.”
“Just forget about the truck?”
“Notify the locals and call it a day. Regards to your wife.”
“Absolutely,” said Binchy. “I’m sure she sends them back.”
Milo said, “Can’t you just see me explaining this to the brass: revenge by
I said, “If there was a Swedish girl and someone cared enough to avenge her, they might’ve also contacted the Swedish consulate about her being missing.”
He looked up the local number, had a civilized chat with a man named Lars Gustafson, who had no personal knowledge of any Swedish citizen in jeopardy two to three years ago but promised to check.
Milo phoned Moe Reed. “Find that Indonesian girl?”
“Just about to call you, Loo. I was there when they closed up but she wasn’t at work today. Hope talking to me didn’t spook her because I didn’t get a name or an address. Stupid, huh? I was trying to keep her mellow.”
“Judgment call, Moe, don’t get an ulcer.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow before they open up. Need anything else?”
“Go home.”
“Sure, there’s nothing I can do?”
“Get some sleep in case there is, Moses.”
He hung up, sighing.
I said, “What a good dad.”
Grumbling, he logged onto an online yellow pages, searched for storage facilities in L.A. County. A minority refused to divulge client information but most were surprisingly cooperative.
Call after call his torso sagged with each negative. The sum total: no units registered to Desmond Backer. Milo’s eyes closed. His breathing slowed, grew shallow, his big head flopped back in the chair, and his arms dangled.
When the snoring reached nuclear-blast level, I saw myself out.
Robin was working her laptop on the living room couch. Blanche napped on an ottoman, her little barrel chest heaving. Not up at Milo’s level, but moving some audio needles with her snuffles and snorts.
Opening one eye, she smiled, dove back into some wonderful canine dream.
The screen was full of Google hits.
“Out sounds good.”
“My soul mate. Nothing turns up in San Luis, but plenty of fireworks in other cities. Someone builds a dream, someone else can’t wait to take it down. How ugly.”
Years ago, a psychopath burned our first house to the ground. We rebuilt, agreed the net result was an improvement, neither of us talks about it anymore. But a fire station is perched at Mulholland, a short drive to the north, and another sits to the south, near Beverly Glen and Sunset, meaning a fair bit of nights are broken by sirens.
Generally, the banshee howls are short-lived, we touch feet in mutual reassurance, go back to sleep.
Sometimes, Robin sits up, shivering, and I wrap my arms around her and before long, morning’s arrived, sour and disorienting.
She closed the laptop, stood, stroked Blanche. “Okay, I’ll get dressed.”
“Chinese, Italian, Thai, Indian?”
“How about Croatian?”
“What’s Croatian cuisine?”
“Let’s fly to Zagreb and find out,” she said. “Italian’s fine, hon. Anything’s fine, long as I get out of here. Let me freshen up.”
We ended up eating fish-and-chips at a stand on PCH in Malibu, watched the sky waver between coral and lilac, soaking in the final morph into indigo as the sun went off-shift.
When we returned home, I ran a bath. The tub’s not meant for two but if someone’s careful not to bump their head on the faucet, it works out. That kind of togetherness sometimes leads to more. Tonight it didn’t and we read and watched TV and went to bed just before midnight.
