Open Season (Alex Delaware #40)

Chapter 42

Chapter

42

The next couple of days were taken up by new court referrals and that was just fine because I’d adjusted my focus to what I’d learned in school and had nothing to offer Milo.

On the first day, he called me at eight p.m.

“Think of anything?”

“Nope.”

“Keep trying. Here’s our situation. Records haven’t come in yet and nothing earth-shattering from the surveillance. Today was a yawner. Flick lives in a rented guesthouse, there doesn’t seem to be anyone sharing the place. At eleven a.m. he drove to a Starbucks for coffee and a sandwich then on to five fancy houses. First Boykins in B.H., then two in Brentwood, one in Holmby, one in Santa Monica. Back home by five where he washed his car in the driveway, went inside, and hasn’t shown himself since.”

I said, “Westside clientele.”

“Adoring clientele. Three of the kids walked him to his car hanging on his every word. Hero worship, like you said. One of them was Keisha who seemed a little frail according to Petra. Hope her family’s innocent, not looking forward to bursting that bubble.”

“Five clients adds up to nine hundred bucks for a brief day’s work. Well compensated hero.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice setup, a helluva lot more than he’d make as a T.A. He’s not spending it conspicuously. The place is a converted garage and his rent is six hundred a month.”

“Who owns the house?”

“A nice old lady. Also smiling at Flick as he chatted with her then wheeled the garbage cans to the curb.”

“Model tenant.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Hate that kind of thing.”

—

On the second day, he called just after nine p.m. “More of the same except only four clients, all in Encino and Sherman Oaks.”

“Consolidating his Valley shift. Very efficient.”

“What a guy,” he said. “He worked from two to six p.m. and raked in another seven hundred twenty bucks. It keeps up like that, he’s making serious change. Good for the self-esteem, no?”

I said, “But not good enough.”

“For what?”

“Keeping him away from his rifle.”

—

Day Three, he called at two p.m. Different voice, brightened by a lilt.

“Finally something to report. I’ll give you the minor-league news first. Did the day shift myself with Sean. No phone data yet but Flick’s bank records came in late so I took them home and did my homework. He uses Zelle so it’s easy to pinpoint his deposits. Every single one of them is a hundred eighty bucks. His best week he put away close to four grand, his average is around twenty-five hundred.”

I said, “What does he do with the money?”

“No investment schemes if that’s what you’re asking. He lets it sit there in an account that earns about one percent, withdraws the rent money on the dot plus another eight hundred for his living expenses. He gets everything delivered—groceries, laundry, and all his restaurant tabs are takeout for one. Nothing gourmet: casual Italian, Thai, Mexican. The major-league news is that if anyone’s ever paid him for more than teaching math, it’s not showing up, though I’m sure he wouldn’t use an online service. I suppose he could be stashing evil bucks under his mattress and maybe we’ll learn something when we glom his phone. But I’m feeling more and more confident it’s what you said: He took it upon himself to go hunting. So again, Sahib, you were right.”

“Aw shucks.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Now for the all-star news. Flick started off the day with the usual—two clients in Bel Air. But then he got on the 405 and drove to a shooting range all the way up in Santa Clarita. Where wouldn’t you know, he took a camo-patterned rifle case out of his car in which was a camo-patterned Featherweight Winchester .308 that he used to inflict lethal injuries on a bunch of paper bad-guy targets. The place is interesting, clientele’s either off-duty cops or tatted-up gangbanger types.”

“Brothers-in-arms.”

“Hah. Fortunately the proprietor of the on-site gun shop’s a former deputy. I gave him gloves, he went and pulled out the bullets from the hay bales behind the targets and also retrieved the targets. Don’t need to tell you where the wounds were centered.”

“The neck, slightly off center to the right.”

“In a nice tight pattern. I’m driving everything straight to Hertzberg soon as I get off the phone with you.”

Nice enough way to cut the conversation short.

I said, “Have fun.”

“I just might.”

The moment he clicked off, I thought of something.

—

A while back, Milo had mentioned an art show where Marissa French had spent her last night alive in the company of Paul O’Brien. Rather than call for details, I ran my own search, keywording art gallery melrose along with the date.

That pulled up an exhibit titled Dots and Dashes at the Hollow Eyes Gallery.

Truth in advertising. The works on display were large unframed canvases filled with black circles and clipped gray lines. No obvious meaning to any of it. The artist someone named Damien D’Aze, the listed prices comically crazy.

None of that interested me. Fifteen publicity shots taken at the party did, posted proudly on four photo sites. I found Marissa French and Paul O’Brien in numbers six and seven. The two of them, standing together. She looking confused, he self-satisfied.

I found what I was looking for in Number Twelve.

—

Cameron Flick had tucked himself into a corner, a glass of something clear in his hand. Crowded by shoulders and faces and clearly not enjoying it. Blond hair sheathed his forehead diagonally but he’d made no attempt to block his eyes and they were different from the unremarkable orbs on his driver’s license.

Narrowed, focused, somehow darker.

The face below, tight with concentration.

The same look I’d seen on Paul O’Brien’s face at the Chanel party as he studied Vicki Saucedo.

Hungry.

Hunting.

I downloaded the photo and emailed it to Milo along with a message: Another brick.

I got my answer forty minutes later: Just got to H. Muchas gr. Keep at it. Eat fish, maybe? Supposed to be brain food.