City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(32)

Silence. “Maybe she booked on her computer—if no one messed with it, the lab will tell me.”

“Or there’s another phone.”

“Or that.” He gripped the wheel, big hands tight, mottled like lunch meat. “Jesus, why didn’t I get curious about that? I’m slipping, amigo?”

“No one can think of everything.”

He looked at me. “What’s that, supportive therapy?”

I smiled.

He said, “Jesus, your brain’s like a sponge. Yet another reason to have you ride shotgun.”



* * *



—

He drove west on Wilshire, through the immaculate canyon created by high-rises lining both sides of the boulevard.

As he approached Beverly Glen, I said, “We could talk to that neighbor again and try to get more details about the visitors. How they showed up, maybe physical descriptions. You could show him photos of Hoffgarden and Blanding.”

“Reinterview Scrooge.” He phoned Reed again, got the neighbor’s name.

“Rainer Gibbs, might as well. When do you wanna do it?”

“I’m free right now if you are.”

He said, “Westwood Ho,” leaned on the throttle, and sped past the Glen.





CHAPTER


    16


Rainer Gibbs, wearing a robin’s-egg-blue Columbia U. sweatshirt, baggy pleated gray dress slacks, and black wingtips, opened his front door and let out waves of organ music playing at thunderous volume.

Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Work of genius unfortunately rendered comical by use as a backdrop for too many old horror movies.

For all its virtues, not exactly easy listening on a sunny day.

Gibbs stared at us and scowled.

Milo showed his card.

Gibbs pursed his lips and said something that was drowned out by the music. I wondered if he was partially deaf, cranking up the volume to that level the cause of hearing loss or an effect or both.

He cocked his head the way puzzled dogs do, revealing a beige button in his right ear.

Milo said, “Sir?”

Gibbs’s lips moved silently as he gave the card another examination. Stomping inside his house, flat-footed and stiff, head extended like that of a curious turtle, he stabbed a button on a tape deck, returned to the doorway poking at his right ear.

“Lieutenant, huh? Already talked to that kid with the crew cut. Did he forget to tell you?”

Milo said, “He didn’t, sir. I was wondering if we could talk again.”

“About what?” said Gibbs.

Allergic to pleasantries. Put him in a room with Milo on a bad detective day and the planet might shift on its axis.

“May we come in, sir?”

“Hmmph.” Turning his back on us again, Gibbs stepped inside, trudged across a cramped, domed entry space and into a front room dimmed by heavy drapes and low-watt bulbs. Leaving the door open in place of an invitation. Milo closed it after me and we stepped in.

Gibbs had settled himself in a black vinyl recliner. The rest of the living room furniture was overstuffed floral chintz and delicate carved tables in that bland finish that libels pecan trees.

Doilies on chair arms. A woman’s touch once upon a time? A bottle of Bud, three empties, a bowl of nachos, and a well-squeezed tube of cheese suggested it had been a while.

Gibbs tapped his wrist, as if a watch sat there.

Milo said, “You told Detective Reed that Ms. Gannett had frequent visitors.”

“That her name? What I told him was I suspected she had a brothel going on.”

“Why’s that, Mr. Gibbs?”

“Because they showed up after dark.” Gibbs bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile. “Maybe I should be a detective.”

“Happy to put in a word with Human Resources.”

“Don’t patronize me, young man. I’ve got kids older than you.”

“No offense intended, sir,” said Milo. “Can you give an estimate of how many visitors she’d have, say in a week?”

“No, I cannot,” said Gibbs. “That would require me to have wasted my time spying and taking a count. I’m a busy man. Taking care of my investments is time consuming in and of itself.”

“What I’m trying to get at, sir, is was there a steady stream of visitors, say on a daily basis? Or occasional visits.”

“You’re still asking me to quantify and my answer’s the same.”

“No problem, sorry for bothering you.”

Milo closed his pad. Easy cue for Gibbs to get rid of us. He picked up the beer bottle, looked at us defiantly, and took a long, deep swig.

“Nectar of the gods, don’t let one of those yuppies tell you good old American brew is lacking.”

Two more swallows before the bottle joined the other empties. “Don’t go thinking I’m some sort of lush. I had a kidney stone five years ago and the doctor said beer was good for it.”

Milo smiled, “I’ll remember that, sir.”

“You’ve had a kidney stone?”

“Thankfully, no.”

“Get your calcium too high it could happen,” said Gibbs. “Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” Another evil grin. “Strike that. I would wish it on the bastard who thought he could take my wife from me. Then cancer took her first, joke was on them.”