“Beverly Hills cop?” he said, with a thick accent. “Yo, dude.”
He had a black spiky hairdo and a buttery round face. His teeth were banded with plastic braces. A bit of black down clouded his cheeks. He wore a red nylon tank top emblazoned with the legend SURF OR DIE and red-flowered shorts that reached below his knees. His board was black graphite and plastered with decals. He spun its wheels and kept smiling at us.
Milo put away the badge, said, “What’s your name, son?”
“Parvizkhad, Bijan. Six grade.”
“Good to meet you, Bijan. We’re trying to find the people next door. See them lately?”
“Mr. Gordon. Sure.”
“That’s right. And his wife.”
“They gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Trip.”
“A trip where?”
The boy shrugged. “They take suitcase- Vuitton.”
“When was this?”
“Sat-day.”
“Saturday- yesterday?”
“Sure. They go away, have cars take away. On big truck. Two Rolls-Royce, gangster whitewalls Lincoln, and radical T-Bird.”
“They put all the cars on a big truck?”
Nod.
“Was there a name on the truck?”
Uncomprehending look.
“Letters,” said Milo. “On the side of the truck. The name of the tow company?”
“Ah. Sure. Red letters.”
“Do you remember what the letters said?”
Shake of the head. “What’s their case? Coke burn? Hit man?”
Milo stifled a smile, bent, and put his face close to the boy’s. “Sorry, son, I can’t tell you that. It’s classified.”
More puzzlement.
“Classified information, Bijan. Secret.”
The boy’s eyes lit up. “Ah. Secret Service. Walther PPK. Bond. Chames Bond.”
Milo looked at him gravely.
The boy took a closer look at me. I bit my lip to keep a straight face.
“Tell me, Bijan,” said Milo. “What time Saturday were the cars taken away?”
The boy gestured with his hand, seemed to be struggling for phrasing. “Zero seven zero zero hour.”
“Seven in the morning?”
“Morning, sure. Father go to office, I bring him Mark Cross.”
“Mark Cross?”
“His briefcase,” I suggested.
“Sure,” said the kid. “Napa leather. Executive styling.”
“You brought your father his briefcase at seven in the morning and saw Mr. Gordon’s cars being taken away on a truck. So your father saw it too.”
“Sure.”
“Is your father home now?”
“No. Office.”
“Where’s his office?”
“Century City.”
“What’s the name of his business?”
“Par-Cal Developers,” said the boy, volunteering a phone number, which Milo wrote down.
“What about your mother?”
“No, she don’t see. Sleeping. Still sleeping.”
“Did anyone but you and your father see?”
“No.”
“Bijan, when the cars were taken away, were Mr. Gordon and his wife there?”
“Just Mr. Gordon. Very angry about cars.”
“Angry?”
“Always, about cars. One time I throw Spalding, hit Rolls-Royce, he get angry, scream. Always angry. About cars.”
“Did someone damage one of his cars while they were taking it away?”
“No, sure not. Mr. Gordon jump around, scream to red men, say careful, careful, idiot, don’t scratch. Angry always about cars.”
“Red men,” said Milo. “The men who took the cars away were wearing red clothing?”
“Sure. Like pit crew. Indy Five Hundred.”
“Coveralls,” muttered Milo as he scrawled.
“Two men. Big truck.”
“Okay, good. You’re doing great, Bijan. Now, after the cars were taken away on the truck, what happened?”
“Mr. Gordon go in house. Come out with Missus and Rosie.”
“Who’s Rosie?”
“The maid,” I said.
“Sure,” said the boy. “Rosie carry the Vuittons.”
“The vweet- the suitcases.”
“Sure. And one long bag for airplane. Not Vuitton- maybe Gucci.”
“Okay. Then what happened?”
“Taxi come.”
“Do you remember the color of the taxi?”
“Sure. Blue.”
“Beverly Hills Cab Company,” said Milo, writing.
“All get in taxi,” said the boy.
“All three of them?”
“Sure. And Vuittons and one maybe-Gucci in trunk. I go out and wave, but they don’t wave back.”
Milo autographed one of the boy’s Nikes, gave him a business card and a sheet of paper from his L.A.P.D. note pad. We returned his wave and left him skating up and down the empty block.
I got back into traffic on the east side of Sunset Park. The park was filled with tourists, milling around the arcing fountains, shading themselves under the floss trees. I said, “Saturday. They split the day after the Kruse murders were discovered. They knew enough to be scared, Milo.”
He nodded. “I’m gonna call the taxi company, try to find who moved the cars- see if I can trace them that way. Check the post office in the event they left a forwarding- unlikely, but you never know. Call the kid’s father, too, though I doubt he noticed as much as old Bijan. Kid was sharp, wouldn’t you say?”
“You bet your Ralph Laurens,” I said. And for the first time in a long time, we laughed.
But it faded quickly and by the time we reached home, both of us were morose.
“Fucking case,” said Milo. “Too many dead people, too long ago.”
“Vidal’s still alive,” I said. “Looking damned robust, in fact.”
“Vidal,” said Milo, grunting. “What did Crotty call him- Billy the Pimp? From that to chairman of the board. Steep climb.”
