Racing the Light (Elvis Cole #19; Joe Pike #8)(13)

“Didn’t say we’d spoken. We haven’t traded six words since blubberboy moved in.”

Amazing and sensitive.

Mr. Charm waved at the surrounding bungalows.

“I keep an eye on these people, but I don’t socialize. You socialize, they end up taking advantage.”

Karsey hocked another loogie, looked for a target, and let fly at the hummingbirds. Missed.

I said, “Socializing aside, have you seen him in the past week or so?”

He thought about it.

“Nope. The other kid’s been around, his friend, but not the hog.”

“Ryan.”

“Whatever. I knew something was up. The cops been here a lot.”

He probably meant Wendy and Kurt.

“A big woman with a short ponytail and a bigger man? Nice suits.”

He nodded before I finished.

“Yeah, yeah, the cow and her cuck. Them, and the other two.”

I said, “The other two?”

“A scarecrow and a meatball. Sniffing around fatso’s place.”

“A man and a woman?”

“Yeah, yeah. A skinny chick and a round guy, looked like a meatball with legs.”

“How were they sniffing around?”

Karsey seemed annoyed.

“You know, sniffing. Banging on his door. Peeking in his windows. Cramping my ass. Like you.”

The woman might be Largo, but a second possibility occurred.

I pulled out my phone, opened the In Your Face link, and showed him the picture of Josh and Skylar Lawless at her opening.

Karsey leaned close and grabbed his crotch.

“Holy crap on a Twinkie! How did Jabba the Hutt score a honey like her?”

“Is this the scarecrow?”

“Nah, you kiddin’? This girl has a body. The scarecrow was skinny. Her hair was darker and a lot longer. Hung straight down, ya know?”

“Sure.”

“Dressed nice, though, like the cow.”

“And the meatball? Taller than me? Shorter?”

“Shorter, but wide. Not fat like El Blimpo, but burly.”

“They were here at night?”

“Once or twice. Hey, if you find the oinker, you get a reward?”

I put away my phone, thinking the scarecrow might be Largo and the meatball her partner.

“Nope. Flat fee. His mother hired me.”

“Too bad. If they paid by the pound, you’d be set.”

Karsey scratched his neck.

“The cow brought an old lady a couple of times. I guess she’d be the butterball’s mother.”

“Yep. Her name is Adele.”

Karsey made a grunt.

“A walking wrinkle. Well, good luck to her.”

He offered back my card, but I waved it away.

“Keep it. If you see Josh, I’d appreciate a call.”

“I’d appreciate having my damned power turned on. Think you can hook me up?”

I turned on his power, and left. I felt pretty good. I had a lead. Her name was Skylar Lawless.





7





Two gardeners in a dusty red pickup truck watched me come down the steps. The driver wore a wide straw hat and wraparound shades. His partner sported a long black ponytail and three-day stubble. They watched from the safety of their truck with the windows up and the AC blasting cold air, but they scowled like men trapped in an oven. I nodded, one potential heatstroke victim acknowledging another, but the driver turned away. Heat made people sour.

I started my car, hit the AC, and phoned Skylar Lawless.

A pleasant female voice answered.

“Hey, this is Sky. Let’s talk later, okay?”

The same voice mail as Ryan.

“Ms. Lawless, hi, my name is Jeremy Floyd. I own a gallery in Tucson, and I’d love to discuss showing your work. Perhaps we can meet for drinks? If you’re interested, and I hope you are, I can be reached at the following number.”

I recited my cell, plugged her address into my map, and waved at the gardeners as I left. Neither waved back. Sour.

Skylar Lawless lived in a lovely French Normandy apartment building two blocks south of Ventura Boulevard in an enclave of older upscale homes and boutique prewar apartment houses. Apartment #3.

I slowed when I reached her address and idled past.

Set well back from the curb behind a sycamore tree, the building with its corner turrets and black slate roof looked more like a manor home than an apartment house. A matching mailbox sat beside an entry gate. A gray tile walk led through the gate past the sycamore and a small green lawn to a courtyard. Built in the twenties when the Valley was a weekend getaway, it looked like a place where studio bosses kept mistresses and dipso screenwriters earned two grand a week slugging it out with deadline demons.

I checked the street for Schumacher’s car as I passed, but his black-on-black MINI was not observed.

I parked and went to the mailbox. Five brass doors were set in its face, each showing a nameplate and an apartment number. One, two, four, and five showed names, but not three. The nameplate was blank. I checked to see if anyone was watching, then used a Kwick Pick to open three. Three was empty. Ryan’s contact info was five months old, so Skylar might have moved. Someone else might be living in number three, or maybe the unit was empty. Then again, maybe she didn’t want her name on the plate.