“Susan Appel and Barbara Bruno… let’s go alphabetically.” Punching numbers so fast he hit the wrong button and had to try again.
“Mrs. Appel? Lieutenant Sturgis… I’m… yes, I know it was traumatic, ma’am, so sorry it was your… no, there’ll be no need to do any further digging, that’s not what I’m… absolutely, Mrs. Appel, and we do appreciate it, but I need to ask you one more question.”
He hung up, rubbing his face. “Doesn’t know anyone named Bright, Dale, Ansell, or otherwise. Would
“Close-knit,” I said.
“They share real estate and haven’t sued each other. Might as well be conjoined. Let me try Bruno, anyway… nope, voice mail, no sense leaving a message, Appel’s bound to get to her first. Thanks for breakfast, I’m off to buy my Red Bull and sustenance, get ready for the wonders of Rodney Drive.”
“You paid for breakfast.”
“I was talking mental stimulation.”
“Want company?”
“Robin’s still busy on her project?”
“We’re catching dinner at seven, then she’s back to work.”
“So play with the dog – thanks for the offer, Alex, but doing that forty-eight-hour N.Y. turnaround is already beyond the call. Plus hanging with me when I’m brain-dead is not amusing. And don’t say you’ve already been there.”
Dinner was lamb chops, salad, beer. By nine p.m. Robin was back to carving and I was stretched on the sofa in my office reading the paper. Blanche curled next to me pretending to be interested in current affairs. At ten thirty I snapped awake, feeling itchy and too large for my skin. Blanche snored with gusto. I put her to bed, walked out back to the studio.
Robin sat at her bench, tapping and carving. “Oh, no. Poor you.”
“What?”
“You fell asleep and now you’re wired.”
“It’s that obvious?”
She put her chisel down, touched my face. “The leather couch. You’ve got marks from the seams.”
“Sherlocka,” I said.
“Want me to go with you?”
“Where?”
“One of your drives.”
“I wasn’t planning on driving anywhere.”
“No?” she said. “Okay, I’ll stop and we can play Scrabble.”
The fiddle-grain maple back of the dot-com guy’s mandolin sat on the spotless bench. Neat pile of shavings on the floor. “I do not obstruct genius.”
“Hardly,” she said. “What are you going to do?”
“Maybe I’ll join Milo. He’s watching Tony Mancusi, may haul him in for questioning.”
She smiled. “Now I know it’s really you and not some alien clone. Give me a kiss and be off.”
I phoned from the road.
He said, “Your myelin will wither.”
“Probably have too much anyway.”
“Mr. Mature.”
“Not by choice.”
He’d borrowed a dented brown Camaro from the police lot, was parked ten yards cars north of Tony Mancusi’s building, positioned so streetlight glanced the rear of the car, avoided the driver’s seat.
He saw me, unlocked the car.
The interior reeked of sweat, tobacco, and pork. Three cartons of short ribs gnawed to the bone shared the backseat with a tub specked with fried rice, a collection of little plastic cups emptied of sweet-and-sour sauce, grease-spotted napkins, used Wash’n Dris, a pair of broken chopsticks. Three Red Bull cans had been crushed to disks. In Milo ’s lap was a tartan-patterned thermos.
His face and body fused into a single dark mass. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that he’d changed into black velour sweats, a nylon shoulder holster housing his 9mm, and new-looking Keds.
“Spiffy.”
He removed the earpieces from his iPod, clicked the machine off. “You say something?”
“Just hi.”
“I’d offer you some grub, but.”
“I ate.”
“Another high-tax-bracket salad?”
“We cooked.”
“Man of the people.”
“What were you listening to?”
“Stereotype to the contrary, not Judy or Bette or Liza or Barbra. Guess.”
“Doo-wop.”
“Beethoven.
“What a classy guy,” I said.
“Rick’s iPod. I took it by accident.”
We sat for an hour. Hollywood Patrol called in. No sign of Wilson Good.
By one thirty a.m., the tedium of surveillance started to hit me. I figured I’d give it another hour, return home to crash, get my time zones back in order.
Milo said, “Long as you’re here. Punch me if anything happens.” Pushing the bucket seat as far back as it would go, he lowered his head to the seat back. Twenty minutes later, he awoke with a frighteningly guttural start and wild eyes. “What time is it?”
“Ten to two.”
“Wanna nap yourself?”
“No, thanks.”
“Wanna split?”
“Maybe in a while.”
“Tedious. Told you so,” he said. “Nighty-night.”
“Must be nice to be right once in a while,” I said. “Emphasis on
“My oh my, sleep deprivation brings out the vicious side – ” Something to his left made him turn sharply.
I followed his glance, saw nothing. Then the front door to Tony Mancusi’s building opened. As if Milo had smelled it.
A man stepped out to the street. Slumped, pudgy, shuffling gait.
Tony Mancusi walked south to his Toyota, got in, and drove toward Sunset.
Milo cranked down the driver’s window and watched. Most of my view was obstructed by parked cars but I could see the twin dots of taillights twenty yards up.
Mancusi covered a block and rolled through a stop sign.
“First violation,” said Milo, starting up his engine. “Hopefully, there’ll be others.”
The Toyota headed west on Sunset, passing Western Pediatric Medical Center and continuing through Hospital Row. At that hour, the boulevard was deserted until Vine, where the nightscape was peppered with drifters, addicts, minimum-wage workers waiting for buses.
