Robin stirred. I kissed her forehead and went to the kitchen. Blanche stirred from her service-porch crate.
I opened the unlocked grate, received a somnolent lick.
After writing a note to Robin, I left.
* * *
—
When you’re compulsive, even new habits die hard.
No doubt where I was going.
Rolling down the private road topped by my house, I had to brake hard to avoid a buck with a full-on rack of antlers. He stared at me, flexed chest muscles, and bounded off into the brush. Moments later an enormous owl soared out of a pine tree and was swallowed by a lavender-black sky.
The Seville’s windows were open. Cool May air and scurry-noise blew through. I got cold and shut the window. Didn’t like the ensuing quiet and put the radio on.
KJazz. Stan Getz playing “Desafinado.” Nice and mellow but it didn’t matter.
* * *
—
The Glen was free of vehicles. I sped to Sunset, made an easy left turn, and drove toward Beverly Hills. Thinking about Crispin Moman making his way up Benedict Canyon, intent on fecal revenge.
Driven by forces he’d never understand.
Lucky him.
* * *
—
Easy to take my time on a deserted Benedict Canyon. I spotted it well in advance.
White car backed into the driveway of the blue house.
I checked the rearview, backed up illegally, turned east, and, as I had the first time I’d been here, drove to the top of the street, just out of view. Exiting the car, I walked downhill, blanketed by darkness, hoping my footsteps didn’t set off someone’s guard dog.
I descended just enough to see lights on in the blue house. A faint driveway bulb clarified the car: the Volvo. I took a few more steps.
No mail piled up in front of the door.
As I stood there, the door cracked.
I backed up and watched as a tall, silver-haired man stepped out and locked the door. Three brown-paper rectangles under his arm.
I raced back to the Seville, had rolled a few yards downhill, headlights off by the time the Volvo sped out of the driveway and turned left on Benedict.
Southward, the same direction the Rolls had taken as Crispin watched.
I kept my distance as the boxy white car rolled through the red light at Sunset and turned right.
West. The same route I’d take to go home. A strange thought flashed: What if this was a neighbor?
But at Beverly Glen, where I’d normally head north, the Volvo drove south, then west.
The car hooked south on a side street and continued halfway down the block before swinging a wide arc in the center of the road and backing up into the driveway of a house. Idling as a black-iron gate twenty feet up slid open. Behind it another car facing the street; the unmistakable imperial verticality of a Rolls-Royce grille.
The Volvo took its place in front of its glitzier sib. The gate closed.
I got out of there, caught a red light at Beverly Glen, and used the time to text Milo.
Five a.m. Something to greet him when he woke.
No reply until seven thirty-four: his knock on my front door.
CHAPTER
44
Red-faced, red-eyed, back rounded, rolling his shoulders restlessly, my friend sat down in the living room, opened his attaché case, and yanked out his pad.
He dropped it in his lap, unopened. “Candace Kierstead’s place. Unreal.”
I said, “The guy looks like the picture of her husband.”
“She was playing me.”
“Probing the investigation.”
“And putting herself in the middle of it? That’s beyond high-risk, Alex.”
“Part of the thrill,” I said. “Like telling us that baby possum story. ‘I love animals.’ ”
“Jesus. Before I came here, I checked my notes. Don’t think I told her anything that matters.”
“You didn’t. And you can use her overconfidence—their overconfidence—against them.”
“Supportive therapy. I feel better already.”
He got a text, read, replied.
“Al Freeman, he found the Rolls’s owner. Sig Kierstead. I shot him a thanks with five exclamation points. Didn’t have the heart.”
He opened the pad. “Unlike the Clearwater house, there’s no corporate fog obscuring the Conrock deed. A little over two years ago it was bought by the marital trust of Stefan Sigmund Kierstead and Candace Walls Kierstead.”
I said, “Candace is related to Okash’s victim.”
“Gotta be. She’s the right age for an older sister. With a big grudge against Okash. Except why, then, would she become Okash’s landlady?”
“Playing with her the way a cat worries a mouse. And how better to keep tabs on her while she plans her revenge? How long have the Kiersteads owned the gallery building?”
He flipped pages. “Twenty months.”
“And Okash opened her place eight months ago. Someone able to sit with us the way Candace did has a suppressed nervous system. My bet is she enjoys the stalking as much as the kill. It’s possible meeting up with Okash was accidental but Candace saw it as confirmation. When Dugong ran into Okash at Art Basel she was chatting up potential clients. Maybe it was the Kiersteads. Maybe Okash doesn’t know who Candace is but Candace realizes what she’s been gifted with. She owns gallery space, Okash wants to have her own place, talk about karma.”
“Revenge eaten way cold,” he said. “Yeah, she’s an icy one, goddamn graham crackers, playing good citizen. But why wouldn’t Okash know who she was?”
“Sister Emeline said the Walls family had issues. It’s possible Connie never brought friends home. Candace, on the other hand, could’ve recognized Okash’s name from court documents or similar.”
“Connie gets cut, ends up sliding down hard, hangs herself in prison,” he said. “Yeah, that’s plenty to seethe about.”
“Let’s see if I can confirm the sisterly connection.”
I put my phone on speaker, punched buttons.
A melodious voice trilled, “Good morning, Saint Theresa’s!”
“Sister Emeline, this is Alex Delaware, the psychologist who came by a few days ago.”
“The police psychologist.” Wariness drained the music from her voice.