“Nothing like self-loathing to stoke rage,” I said. “And this was a healthy, youthful seventy-three-year-old who planned to be around for a while. Meaning extended poverty for Tony.”
The unmarked’s radio kicked in with a message to call the station.
“Sturgis, I’m on my way to a… who? Okay, tell them… tomorrow. Afternoon. I’ll call them in the morning to set up a time… handle them with care.”
Click.
“Antoine Beverly’s parents dropped by the station. Downtown told them I’m on the case, they want to meet me. Feel like sitting in? It could turn out to be a situation where psychological sensitivity is called for.”
“Sure, just give me a couple hours’ notice.”
He said, “Thanks – oh, man, look at all that chrome.”
Prestige Automotive Executive Services amounted to a cracked concrete lot covered by a canvas awning. Small-print signage, two dozen vehicles crowded nose-to-bumper, and a shed-like office to one side.
“All that chrome” was a mass of Porsches, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, a mammoth Rolls-Royce Phantom, a pair of Bentley GT coupes – smaller cousins to Nicholas Heubel’s stately sedan. Up in front, three Mercedes S600s.
Two silver, one black. A vacant slot next to the black car.
Iron posts marked both edges of the driveway. Between them, a limp length of chain snaked across the cement. A key lock was looped to a ring that passed through the right-hand post. Shiny, but cheap.
Milo’s laughter lacked amusement. “A gazillion worth of wheels and they use drugstore crap. I could pick this under the influence of any number of mind-altering substances.”
In the office, a small man around thirty sat next to a folding card table and listened to reggaeton. The tag on his blue shirt said
Milo flashed the badge. The man switched off the radio. “Yeah, they told me you were coming.”
Milo said, “You’re off the beaten path, Mr…”
“Gilbert Chacon.”
“How do customers find you, Mr. Chacon?”
“We don’t rent to no customers. The rental lot’s on La Cienega. This is the ultra-luxury lot. We do calls from hotels, it’s all delivery.”
“Guest wants a car, you bring it to them.”
“Yeah,” said Chacon, “but we don’t deal with no guests, just the hotels, everything goes on the hotel bill.”
“So not much traffic here.”
“Nobody comes here.”
“Someone came here last night.”
Chacon’s mouth screwed up. “Never happened before.”
“What’s your security setup?”
“Chain and a lock,” said Chacon.
“That’s it?”
Chacon shrugged. “The police is what, a minute away? Beverly Hills, you got cops all over the place.”
“Is there a night watchman?”
“Nope.”
“Alarm system?”
“Nope.”
“All those fancy wheels?” said Milo.
Chacon reached back. His fingers grazed a clapboard wall. He must’ve liked the feel because he began stroking the wood. “The cars got alarms.”
“Including the Mercedes that got lifted?”
“It come with a system,” said Chacon. “They all do.”
“Was the system activated?”
Chacon’s hand left the wall and rested on the desk. His eyes floated up to the low plasterboard ceiling. “Supposed to be.”
Milo smiled. “In a perfect world?”
Gilbert Chacon said, “I’m the day supervisor, come at nine, leave at four thirty. At night, it’s up to the main lot what happens.”
“On La Cienega.”
“Yup.”
“Who has the key to the lock?”
“Me.” Chacon reached into his pocket and brought out a keychain.
“Who else?”
“The main lot. Maybe other people, I dunno. I just started working here a couple months ago.”
“So there could be copies of the key floating around?”
“That would be stupid,” said Chacon.
I said, “The lock looks new.”
Chacon said, “So?”
Milo said, “Someone did manage to unlock the chain. Boosted the Benz, put forty-three miles on it, cleaned it up, brought it back before nine, and laid the chain back in place – if it was in place when you got here.”
“It was.”
“What time was that?”
“Like I said, they want me here at nine.” Chacon’s eyes rose to the ceiling again.
“Maybe you were a little late?”
“That would be stupid.”
“So you arrived on time.”
“Yeah.”
“When you got here at nine, nothing unusual made you look twice.”
“Nope.”
“Who’s responsible for locking the chain at four thirty?”
“Me.” Chacon licked his lips. “And I did it.”
“What if a car comes back after four thirty?”
“If it’s from the main lot, they unlock and put it in.”
“That happen often?”
“Sometimes.”
“What about last night?”
Chacon got up and opened a file cabinet next to a watercooler. Miss January smiled down as he leafed through folders.
“Yesterday was no bring-backs. Right now, we only got one car out, period. Black Phantom over to the L’Ermitage on Burton. Some Arab sheik and his driver are using it for three weeks.”
“Business is slow?”
“It comes and goes.” Chacon’s eyes took another ride, this time from side to side.
Milo said, “Anyone come by recently, show interest in the cars?”
“Nope.”
“Know why we’re asking these questions, sir?”
“Nope. Sir.”
“The car was used in a murder.”
Chacon blinked twice. “You’re kidding. Who got murdered?”
“A nice old lady.”
“That’s bad.”
“Real bad,” said Milo. “She mighta been killed by a not-so-nice old man.” He described the blue-capped
