As we left, I said, “Sean’s got a fake crime?”
“Car theft in Brentwood.
“Why’d he call you?”
“He thinks it might be more because there’s blood on one of the seats.”
“That sounds like more.”
“Not buckets, Alex. Maybe a spoonful.”
“Whose?”
“That’s the big hoohah mystery. Nervy kid wants my expertise. No one told him I’m a free bird until tomorrow.”
I kept my mouth shut. When he’s like that, irony is wasted.
Sean Binchy was waiting in front of a vanilla-colored house, wearing his usual dark suit, blue shirt and tie, spit-polished Doc Martens. He’s a young, gangly, redheaded Detective I, a former ska-punk bassist who’d found Jesus and the LAPD simultaneously. He’d been mentored by Milo, whisked away by the brass and transferred to Robbery, then moved to Auto Theft. Rumor said all that movement had something to do with his “lack of creativity.”
The house behind him was one of those imposing, bland, grand dream-projects starting to dominate L.A. ’s luxury districts.
This was a high-end part of Brentwood, west of Bundy, north of Sunset, where the streets narrow and sidewalks are replaced by grass. Shaggy eucalyptus hovered above much of the street. The vanilla house’s immediate neighbors were one-story ranches, sitting on residential death row as they awaited the wrecking ball.
Sean pointed to a wide stone driveway leading to twin garages. A black Bentley Arnage sedan sat in front of one of the doors.
“VIP wheels,” said Milo. “Just what I need.”
“Hi, Loot. Hi, Dr. Delaware.”
The conventional department contraction for Milo ’s rank is “Loo.” Milo is not one to deal with the small stuff.
“How was Hawaii?”
Milo said, “I got you some macadamia nuts.”
“Thanks – great shirt.”
Milo ’s eyes shifted to the Bentley. “Someone stole that and had the nerve to leave blood?”
“Or something that looks a whole lot like blood.”
“As opposed to?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s blood, Loot. Haven’t called for analysis because I wanted to see what you thought.”
“Who recovered it?”
“The owner.” Binchy thumbed his pad. “…Nicholas Heubel. Solid citizen, didn’t have to call us in the first place.”
Milo walked over to the Bentley. Unfettered sunlight bore down on a paint job so shiny it looked like molten tar. “How’d he find it?”
“Drove around and spotted it three blocks away.”
“Not much of a joyride.”
“If you think I should forget it, I will. I just want to make sure I wasn’t missing something.”
“Car unlocked?”
“Yup.”
“Give me some gloves and show me this alleged blood.”
CHAPTER 3
Several cows’ worth of premium hides, a tree or two of burl veneer.
All of it smelling like a private club in Mayfair.
The Bentley’s interior was off-white piped with black; missing the stain was impossible. The blemish in question was a smear about an inch square, on the right side of the driver’s seat. Sloping down toward the welting, at its lowest point more diluted. Rundown or someone had wiped it that way.
I supposed it could have been old ketchup, but my bet was on hemoglobin.
Milo said, “Not too impressive.”
Sean said, “There could be more, but with the carpet black it’s hard to spot anything without an up close and personal.”
“Check the trunk?”
“I popped it and did a visual scan. Looks like nothing’s ever been in there. I mean literally. There’s a couple umbrellas still rolled up and belted to the firewall. Owner says they were an option, cost eight hundred bucks and he hasn’t used them once.”
Milo stretched latex over his paws, leaned in, stuck his head close to the smear but didn’t touch it. Studying and sniffing, he checked out the carpet, the door panels, an array of glass gauges. Opening a rear door, he said, “Car smells new.”
“It’s a year old.”
“Three thousand miles on the odometer. Looks like it’s not just the umbrellas the owner doesn’t use.”
“He has a Lexus,” said Sean. “Says it’s less showy and more reliable.”
Milo examined the smear again. “Looks like blood but I’m seeing no impact, high or low velocity. Some asshole, probably a neighbor kid, took a joyride and cut himself on a chipped bong. Was the car taken from the garage?”
“From the driveway.”
“Wheels like that, owner doesn’t lock up?”
“Guess not.”
“Keys left in the ignition?”
“Owner claims no. I was going to ask him more but he had to go inside and take a call.”
Milo said, “They probably
“Makes sense.”
He turned back to Sean. “If this was a serious case, I’d canvass the area, starting with the dump site, find out who has teenagers with behavior problems. But that’s a big if.”
“So I shouldn’t pursue it,” said Sean.
“Owner pushing you to pursue it?”
“He’s rattled by the blood, but says he doesn’t want to make a big deal ’cause there’s no damage.”
“It was me, Sean, I’d tell him to get out the Meguiar’s and forget about it.”
“What’s that?”
“Premium leather cleaner.”
“Okay, I’m good with that,” said Sean.
“Have a nice day.”
As we headed for the Seville, the door to the vanilla house opened and a man hurried out.
Late thirties to early forties, six feet tall, with long, loose limbs, close-cropped brown hair graying at the temples, and tiny, oval-lens eyeglasses. He wore a gray T-shirt, blue velvet sweatpants, brown boat shoes without socks. The glasses perched atop a narrow, straight nose. His lips were tight and bunched as if someone were squeezing his cheeks.
“Lieutenant?” Bypassing Sean, he headed for us, took in Milo ’s elephant riot shirt, then my black polo and
