She kissed his cheek. “My brave man.”
He recrossed his legs.
I said, “So no plans to go to Europe.”
“That would be awesome, maybe one day,” said Baby. “It’s far and there’s not always sun and I need sun.”
“Ever been there?”
Dual head shakes.
I said, “Paris is pretty great.”
“You get to go to Paris?” said Baby. “On like an international case?”
“Just a vacation.”
“Well, lucky you, Mr. Policeman. Yeah, my mom says the same thing. About Paris. She’s always trying to get my dad to go back, they haven’t been in a long time, he just wants sunny places.”
Garrett allowed himself a half smile. “Hence, the Grand Caymans.”
“I know, hon, I just love it when the sun touches my skin.” Drawing a palm down a sleek arm. “When it first hits you, it’s so—it’s like a big…golden kiss. ’Course you have to wear sunscreen, my dad doesn’t, one day he’s going to get something.”
She gave Garrett’s arm a gentle punch. “You’re going to wear sunscreen, Mr. Forgetful. I don’t want that big brain of yours cooking.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I’ll do it,” said Baby. “I’ll slather you.” Tweaking his chin.
Garrett’s attention to his lap took on renewed intensity.
“Sweetie,” said his wife.
He fidgeted, made a grab for her hand, held it tight.
I said, “I’ve also heard Eastern Europe’s pretty good.”
Garrett blinked. Twice.
Baby said, “How far east? Like…Muslim places?”
“Czechoslovakia, Hungary. I’ve heard Poland’s great.”
Tight jaw and three more blinks from the groom.
The bride said, “Have you heard that, honey?”
“No. Never heard that.” Letting go of her hand, he stood and fooled with the placket of his shirt. “Got to wash up.”
“Sure, honey.”
He headed toward the rear of the apartment. Dark hallway, more wrapped gifts.
When he was gone, Baby said, “Washing up means he needs to pee. He’s like that, a real gentleman.”
CHAPTER
18
I drove to Pico, hooked a right, and drove west.
Milo said, “Ol’ Gar tightened up when you mentioned Poland.”
“He did, indeed. Where’d he go to college?”
He checked his notes. “Berkeley.”
“Eight years ago, he would’ve been twenty-one, twenty-two and still enrolled. Maybe they had a Warsaw exchange program.”
He googled. “They have one now—the history department…contours of existence…otherness…Europeanness…Jesus, when did they stop using English? I’ll try to find out if the same deal was going on eight years ago.”
He made a call. “Voicemail, but they’re always switching on and off, some sort of safety thing.”
“Who?”
“Little birdies.” Closing his eyes, he sat back.
A mile later: “How far east, Muslim places? She’s cute but no genius. And I got the feeling ol’ Gar knows it. Think it’ll last?”
“Who knows?”
He laughed. “Another classic evasion from the master. What about her bipolar comment? She was a different person, just now.”
I said, “Everyone tosses out diagnoses with no clue, blame talk shows. What I saw at the wedding was a young woman traumatized by having her dream day blown to bits. The stress level drops, she relaxes.”
“Baby’s really a sweetheart?” he said. “Guess it fits what Tomashev said, her standing up for him in school…okay, another try at the avians. I’ll switch to speaker but don’t let on you’re here.”
A sleepy-sounding male voice that I recognized said, “Yeah.” His unnamed source at Homeland Security. For years he and Milo had been trading info, each of them claiming outstanding debt.
“Sturgis.”
“I can read.”
“I need a—”
“Obviously. What?”
Milo read off Garrett Burdette’s name and birth date.
“What’s he suspected of?”
“Nothing unless he was in Poland eight years ago.”
“Something’s going on there? We haven’t heard that.”
“Nothing political. A murder.”
“You think he did it in Poland eight years ago.”
“He might’ve gotten ideas from a psycho named Skiwski who did it eight years ago.”
“Don’t spell that, I’ve already got a migraine.”
“Taking a sick day?”
“Poland,” said Sleepy. “Brace yourself: This is going to be heading in another direction. Soon.”
“What do you need?”
“Don’t talk about need, your account is far from paid up.”
“So you say. What?”
“M-13 psychos, we’ll be needing addresses. Your brain-dead state legislature says you can’t cooperate with us on illegals.”
“You want me to apologize?” said Milo.
“A little genuflection wouldn’t hurt. I’ll let you know when I find out about Poland but get ready to cough up.”
“I learn something, it’s yours. Long as you’re being saintly, run the same check for a Dennis Rapfogel. Here’s his DOB.”
“Twofer?” said Sleepy.
“We talking only one M-13er?”
Click.
Moments after we arrived at his office, an email came in from Dr. Basia Lopatinski. Her personal account, not the crypt.
She hadn’t found any California coverage of the Skiwski case but asked us to check out the attachment.
Fuzzy photocopy of a Polish newspaper article. Incomprehensible Slavic prose, small photo in the center of the story. Lopatinski had drawn an arrow in red marker and written, This is him.
The arrow tip ended at the shaved head of a gaunt, hollow-cheeked, stubble-faced man, sitting cross-legged on cobblestones, hunched over a cheap round-hole guitar. The spidery fingers of his left hand pretended to form chords. The right dangled uselessly. At that point, six strings on the instrument.
An open cardboard case sat in front of Ignacy Skiwski. A group of young people sat and stood around him. Males, females, jeans and long hair.
Students or pretending to be.
None of them were Garrett Burdette.
Milo said, “A bargain-basement Manson?”
“The power of song.”
“You recognize any of them?”
“No.”
“Me, neither. On that cheerful note, it is time for you to be normal. Have a nice rest of the day.”
* * *
—
Nothing from him on Saturday. A full week had passed since the wedding murder.
A lot of noise has been made about a crucial, near-mystical forty-eight-hour period for closing homicides. Miss that deadline and the chances of a solve plummet.
The truth is, there’s nothing magical about two days. Most murders lack mystery because they’re committed by stupid, impulsive people who make no attempt to conceal: domestics, bar fights, walk-ups and drive-bys in front of crowds of witnesses.
Toss in stupid impulsive bragging leading to anonymous tips and the detective’s job is to observe, make notes, obtain warrants, arrest and interview obvious perpetrators, all the while trying not to do anything that screws up the evidence chain.
But when a murder is preceded by thought and misdirection, actual detection is called for. Those are the ones that baffle, stretch past forty-eight and beyond, and often freeze up.
They’re the killings Milo loves, though he’d never admit it. Complaining all the way, he usually manages to slog through and attain clarity.
That and my basic makeup generally lead me to be optimistic. But this one, an entire week with possibilities widening rather than narrowing, a victim still defying identification…
By ten a.m., continued radio silence and Sunday was shaping up the same way as Saturday.
Robin and I are both designed for work so stepping away from obligation takes a conscious effort and a conversation.
Sunday, eleven a.m., she initiated both and I agreed and we set out for a drive up the coast highway, the glorious Pacific to the west, the fire-ravaged foothills of Santa Barbara County to the east.