The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(68)

“Being out there at night is more dangerous than medication.”

“I challenge that idea, Haley. Vehicle traffic is infrequent and I stay away from the road.”

“But in the dark, by yourself—”

“The dark is neutral. There are no people. One time I saw a raccoon. We looked at each other and went our separate ways. I’ve also seen deer. They’re afraid of me. Even the large ones.”

“I can’t believe this—where do you go in the middle of the night?”

“Early morning. Typically I walk around our backyard. Atypically when I remain wide awake, I go outside in front and walk a few paces south or a few paces north. This was the first time I had a goal and a destination.”

I said, “Wanting to make a statement.”

“A gastrointestinal statement. At dinner, I ate a lot of fiber.” To his mother: “Remember? The chili and the salad and then cereal? You approved of my having a good appetite.”

“Oh, Crispin!”

“When I saw the parents and felt better about how pathetic he and she are, I knew it was time to change the plan. The fiber was working and I made it back here just in time and used my toilet. Then I sprayed that organic orange spray you like, Haley, and took a shower and went to bed.”

His mother rocked and placed a hand on her temple. “I feel a migraine coming on, we need to end this.”

Milo said, “Just a coupla more questions. These parents, Crispin, what did they look like?”

Blank stare.

“Son—”

Haley said, “He has no idea.”

Milo said, “Tall, short, fat, skinny—”

Blank stare.

“Hair color?”

Silence.

“Clothing?”

No response.

“Is there anything you can recall?”

Emotionless head shake.

From voluble to mute. As if the boy’s brain waves had changed.

Haley Moman got between Milo and her son. “This is over. You have to leave now.”

Crispin returned to his book.

“Out,” she said, pointing to the door and staying close behind us as we retraced toward the front of the house.

Back in the living room, she said, “You need to understand: He has zero facial recognition. By now, he’s forgotten what you look like so don’t waste your time and mine.”

She flung her front door open. “You’re not going to make troubles for him, right? He’s obviously no danger to anyone.”

Milo said, “So far so good.”

“What does that mean?”

“Now that you’re aware, I’m sure you’ll be paying close attention—”

“Like I don’t already? Like I haven’t been paying attention every single day since he started to show his differences? You people are unbelievable.”

She glared from her doorway. Held the pose as we drove away.

Milo said, “Making new friends every day. So the kid sees a man and a woman early Saturday morning right before three. The timing’s right.”

I said, “A two-person job like we thought. One of them drove the limo, the other brought a second vehicle for getaway.”

“And I’ve got an eyewitness who can’t recognize faces.” He laughed. “Some kid. What do you think about his dangerousness? I don’t see grounds for any kind of charge and now that he’s going back to homeschooling, I can’t see involving BHPD.”

“A few coded messages and no weapons in the house? No action would be taken. Like you said, all she can do is keep an eye on him.”

A mile later, he said, “There was that squirrel. Then again, he and the raccoon parted ways amicably. Poor thing. Her. From a beach hottie to that. But enough compassion, time to redouble on Okash and Weird Beard.”





CHAPTER


    32


We were back at my house by five forty. Twenty minutes to go for Moe Reed’s watch on Okash. As the unmarked idled, Milo phoned him.

Reed said, “No movement, L.T., her lights are still off and her car’s still here.”

He recapped the talk with Crispin. “Let Alicia and Sean know.”

“Kid probably saw the murderers,” said Reed, “but no facial recognition—that psychiatrist—Oliver Sacks—Liz gave me one of his books, he had the same thing.”

“The way my luck’s going, he’ll be my next potential witness.”

“He passed away, L.T.”

“Proves my point.”



* * *



—

Silent house, Robin working, Blanche assisting. I made coffee, drank it on my battered leather couch, and wondered if there was anything else I could do. The databases had yielded little about the woman Medina Okash had slashed but the D’s had been too busy to dig deeper, so why not give it a try?

I keyworded contessa welles. Nothing. Maybe a nickname. Or as Reed had suggested, an NYPD clerical error.

I began pairing welles with connie, constance, consuela and ran into the opposite problem: too many hits. The two most interesting were a character in a Robert B. Parker novel and a wounded Andean condor in a Peruvian bird sanctuary. Avian Connie had learned to nibble treats daintily from her keeper’s hand.