“Definitely,” said Galloway. “So what’s the deal?”
“We’re here for an emergency welfare check, Rudy. C’mere.” Drawing Galloway to a far corner of the covered drive, he stopped next to the phone-booth-sized valet stand and underhanded a photo of Amanda Burdette.
“Who’s that?”
“You’ve never seen her?”
For all his cop experience, Galloway couldn’t control his eyes as they ping-ponged from left to right. He knew Milo knew. “Oh, yeah—you know, you’re right, she has been here. She some sort of offender?”
“Why would you say that, Rudy?”
“You know,” said Galloway. “College kids, always with the dope.”
“She show signs of addiction when she comes to visit Mr. Nobach?”
Nobach’s name made Galloway blink. Running a finger around his collar, he licked his lips. “Naw naw, just, you know. College brats. They’re always playing around with the dope.”
“She is a college student, Rudy. So how come she visits Nobach?”
Galloway licked his lips. “Couldn’t tell you.”
“How often does she visit Mr. Nobach?”
Galloway looked relieved. A question he could answer honestly. “Not a lot—maybe I seen her…five times.”
“Over what time period?”
“Couldn’t tell you.” Resumption of eye-tennis. “It’s not like a regular thing.”
“Unlike this person.”
Underhanding a photo of Susie Koster.
Galloway’s mouth stayed shut but a gurgling noise rose from his gullet.
“Rudy?”
“Yeah, this one was regular. Kimbee. She lived here for a while. That’s why I know her name. She’d drive a little Honda down there and use one of his spaces.”
“Nobach’s.”
Nod. “What’s going on?”
“When did Kimbee live here?”
Galloway rotated his head. Scratched the ample flesh under his chin. “Look, I don’t wanna tell you something’s not true.”
“Best guess, Rudy. I won’t hold you to it.”
“A year ago? Three-quarters? They rode bikes together. That’s how I know her name. From him talking to her—turn right, Kimbee, we’ll go to Holmby. That kind of thing.”
Galloway looked at the photo again. “She wore those tight shiny bike pants. Red.” Raised eyebrows; crocodile smile.
“So she had her own card key.”
“Yup,” said Galloway. “Parked herself. When she wasn’t biking. C’mon, pal, what’s going on?”
“Like I said, a welfare check.”
“On Nobach or the kid?”
“Maybe both.”
“What, a dope thing? Shit, all I need. We’ve had them before, last year EMTs came for the grandson of one of the residents. Persian kid, maybe sixteen, friendly, you’d never know. Ambulance took him to the U.” Galloway pointed to a phone in the valet stand. “I can save you trouble, call up there and see if they’re okay.”
“Don’t,” said Milo, staying Galloway’s arm with his hand. Galloway’s eyes widened.
Milo said, “So Nobach and this girl are both up there now.”
“I couldn’t say.”
“You just said ‘They’re okay.’?”
“I was just—you said you wanted to check both of ’em, so I said I’d call about both of them.” He shrugged free of Milo’s hand. Looked at his uniform sleeve as if it had been sullied. “What the hell’s going on?”
“Rudy,” said Milo, “once a pro, always a pro, right?”
Galloway’s “Right” was more lip movement than sound.
“You been in situations. Now it’s us in a situation. One you’re not in. Okay?”
“Okay.” Galloway looked over at Binchy, in the opposite corner of the driveway. Having an apparently friendly chat with the other valet. Both of them relaxed, the thin, sallow, sixtyish man tapping a foot. Probably a discussion of music, Binchy’s favorite topic. His perfect record of never meeting a stranger unblemished.
Galloway said, “You brought three guys? There’s gonna be trouble?”
“Not if we can help it, Rudy. When’s the last time you saw Nobach?”
“Couldn’t—okay, if you don’t want exactly, I’ll estimate.”
“Do that, Rudy.”
“Let’s see.” Pretending to calculate. “Maybe two hours ago? Could be three.”
“He bike over?”
“No, came in his Bimmer.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Couldn’t tell you,” said Galloway. “I focus on what’s here. They drive in themselves and don’t call us to retrieve, it’s not my business. Also, he’s got tinted windows. Even if I looked I couldn’t see.”
Milo studied him.
He said, “That is the total truth.” Crossing himself.
“Wouldn’t assume otherwise,” said Milo. “So you’re on board.”
“With what?”
“Two things,” said Milo. “First, keep out of it—not a word to anyone. Second, tell us how to get a key to Nobach’s place without his knowing.”
Another lip-lick. “Is there gonna be…noise? It’s a big thing here. Someone’s always bitching about noise.”
“The quieter the better, Rudy. As long as you and your partner—what’s his name?”
“Charlie,” said Galloway, rolling his eyes. “Civilian. Been parking cars his whole life.”
“Can Charlie be trusted?”
“Yeah, he does what I say. He’s a little, you know.” Tapping his temple. “No rocket scientist.”
“Good. You take charge and make sure Charlie doesn’t screw up.”
Galloway frowned. “Basically, all you want is I do nothing.”
“Yeah, but a really professional nothing,” said Milo.
“Huh?”
Milo covered his eyes, ears, and mouth in rapid sequence.
“The monkey thing,” said Galloway.
“The smart thing, Rudy. Now how do we get a key?”
“The head guy, sits at the front desk.”
“Don’t see anyone at the front desk.”
“That’s ’cause he’s a lazy bastard, goes into his office, that door behind the desk, does who knows what, leaving all the crap to us. Luggage, packages, dog walking. Not in the job description. We’re supposed to load and unload but once it goes inside, him and the other inside guys are supposed to handle it.”
“Bunch of slackers, huh?”
“Wasn’t perfect before but now it’s worse,” said Galloway. “They used to have four of them. Now it’s that prick Petrie and one other and today Other’s out sick.” He laughed. “Petrie’s nephew, like he’s gonna give a shit.”
“Same old story,” said Milo.
“Same old same old,” said Galloway.
Couple of old-timers united by the pleasure of their discontent. All that was missing was beer on tap and ESPN above the bar.
Milo said, “Okay, Rudy, we’re ready to rock, appreciate your being on board.” Motioning to Binchy, who shook Charlie’s hand and ambled over.
Galloway said, “Sure, no prob. I’ll take care of the genius.” He pulled a pack of Kents and a lighter from his pant pocket, arched a thumb at the booth. “Not supposed to smoke in there, but screw it. It’s like I’m back on the job. Doing my thing, screw civilians.”
“There’s the old team spirit, Rudy.”
* * *
—
Binchy and I waited in front of a semicircular pink marble desk as Milo went behind and knocked on a rosewood door.
Laurence Petrie took a minute to emerge. Swallowing some sort of snack, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Forties, narrow-shouldered, and delicately built, Petrie had wispy peanut-butter-colored hair and a questionable beard the same color. His double-breasted blazer was well tailored and festooned with brass buttons. Gray slacks were pressed, a white-on-white shirt was starched and spotless.
All that nattiness ruined by a clip-on repp-stripe tie pretending to evoke memories of a prestigious school.
He looked us up and down and said, “Ye-es?” like one of those classical music radio hosts who talk like they stuff plum pits in their cheeks.
Milo vaulted into the hard-line approach: Compressing his eyes and mouth and advancing rapidly until he was three inches from Petrie’s now-pale face. Talking softly but fast. Telling not asking. All the while, creating an expanding loom that dwarfed the one he’d inflicted on Darius Cutter.
Petrie said, “Law enforcement? No problem, let me call my bosses.”
“Who’s that?”
“The management company.”
“No,” said Milo. “No calls to anyone. In fact, you’ll need to leave the building and surrender your cellphone.”