Milo said, “When you say ‘the facility,’ we’re talking another Academo setup?”
Cutter nodded. “I went to Sacramento State, got a degree in engineering, got hired by the physical plant on campus—alternative emergency hookups during brownouts, coordinating power feeds. Couple of years ago, Academo built a place up there—bigger than this one—and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
I said, “Good employer.”
“Competitive salary, good benefits. But I grew up here, my mom lives in Mid-Wilshire, so moving back was fine.”
“Good job, good benefits,” said Milo. “Wonder why Pena would give that up.”
“You’d have to ask him,” said Darius Cutter. “Who knows why people do the things they do? Is there something I need to know about?”
“Not really.”
“Not really? That sounds kind of worrisome.”
“Let’s leave it at Mr. Pena being a person of interest to us.”
“The company never mentioned anything sketchy, just that he quit. Should I be worried about him?”
“Nah,” said Milo. “He’s a pussycat. Can we get his contact information?”
“If I can find it,” said Cutter. “Come on in.”
CHAPTER
42
We followed Cutter to the office Pena had occupied. No change to the furniture but the desk was barer. An Adidas athletic bag sat in a corner. Cutter said, “If I have time, I’m going to the Equinox in the Village. That’s one thing Sacramento had that this place doesn’t, a gym.”
He opened a file drawer, rummaged awhile. “Nope…nope…nope…nope nothing.” Same results with the next two drawers but the fourth produced a file tabbed Management Personnel.
Cutter shuffled, scanned, pulled out a sheet of paper. “Here you go.”
Robert Edward Pena’s vital stats included his Social Security number, driver’s license, a home address in Culver City, a landline, and the cell he hadn’t responded to.
Milo copied the info. “Thanks, Mr. Cutter. As long as you’ve got that folder, is there anything on Peter Kramer?”
Cutter began shuffling. “Nope…nope…actually there’s nothing in here but Pena. Who’s Kramer?”
“Mr. Pena’s former assistant.”
Cutter frowned. “He had an assistant? They didn’t give me one.”
* * *
—
Cutter walked us back through the lobby. At the door, I said, “Your tenants are mostly students but you do have some faculty living here.”
“That’s also the way it was in Sacramento. But not a lot, mostly visiting faculty and some emeriti—old retired profs who wanted a cheap place close to campus. In terms of who’s here, I have no idea, yet. Why?”
“Routine questions,” said Milo.
“If you say so,” said Cutter.
As we walked away, he remained at the entrance to B, arms folded across his chest.
Staring, but not at us. More like gazing out into nothing.
Milo said, “We provoked some thought in him, poor guy. Funny about Pena, huh? We talk to him about Kramer and he gives up his job.”
“Or someone made the decision for him,” I said. “Like they did for Kramer.”
“Jesus. Don’t even theorize about that.”
A block later: “Let’s check out Pena’s house. You don’t really think he got offed.”
I shrugged.
“Don’t do that. Not that way.”
“What way is that?”
“Like I’m a patient and you’re trying to nudge me to insight.” He rubbed his face. Grunted. “Even though I basically am.”
* * *
—
Culver City, west of Overland and south of Culver Boulevard. Well-kept pink bungalow on a quiet block of similar structures all painted in pastels.
Empty driveway, drapes drawn. No mail on the ground but that didn’t mean much. The U.S. Postal Service had access to a lidded brass slot to the left of the door.
Milo lifted the lid and peered. “Too dark, can’t see. No bad smells, at least not from here.”
He checked out the property. On the right side of the house, a waist-high white wooden gate blocked access to the backyard. Locked but easy enough to get over.
He was contemplating his choices when the door to the baby-blue box next door opened and a woman stepped out holding a rolled-up newspaper.
White hair pinned high on her head, seventies, wearing a maroon sweater, mustard-colored slacks and brown boat shoes. Her free hand rested on her hip. Waiting for an explanation.
When none ensued, she said, “Can I help you?”
Milo walked toward her, flashing his badge.
She said, “The police? Bob and Marta? Something happened to them on the road?”
“I certainly hope not, Ms.—”
“Alicia Cervantes. Then why are you here?”
“Bob was involved in a case we’re working on.”
“Involved how?”
“As a source.”
“Of what?”
“Information, ma’am. We’re doing some follow-up.”
“What kind of case?”
Milo smiled. “Sorry, can’t say. So they went on a trip?”
Alicia Cervantes looked him up and down. “What kind of source could Bob be to the police?”
“I really can’t get into it, ma’am.”
“Huh.”
“He’s not in trouble if that’s what you’re asking.”
The newspaper slapped against her other hip. “Well, I know that. They’re good people. If you told me different I wouldn’t believe you.”
“When did they leave?”
“Yesterday evening. Packed up the van, I went out to say goodbye. They looked fine. Not like people involved with the police.”
“Any idea where they were headed?”
“Why?” said Alicia Cervantes. “You want to follow them on the freeway or something?”
“No, ma’am. We’re just trying to contact Bob.”
“Follow-up? Whatever that means.”
I said, “It was just the two of them traveling?”
My turn to be inspected. “Why all these questions, like they’re spies or something? No, it wasn’t just them. They took Paco and Luanne.”
Milo said, “Their kids?”
Alicia Cervantes broke into laugher. “Paco’s a black Lab, Luanne’s a tabby cat.”
I said, “Sounds like an extended trip.”
“Why?”
“Taking the pets.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” said Alicia Cervantes. “Whenever they travel, they take the animals. Would you leave yours? If you have any? Once they went to Desert Hot Springs and Luanne was sick so they asked me to watch her for a couple days and give her special food. Of course I said yes. Very nice cat, didn’t try to bother Fernando, that’s my lorikeet.”
Milo said, “So no idea where they’re headed.”
“Nope.”
“Okay, thanks, Ms. Cervantes.”
When we’d walked a step, she said, “Maybe Sequoia, maybe another state park. They like the parks, if they can bring the animals. So you’re not going to find them.”
* * *
—
Like Darius Cutter, she stood there as we returned to the unmarked. Unlike Cutter, she focused squarely on us.
Milo muttered, “Community relations.”
I said, “Maybe Pena looked scared and that’s why she’s protective.”
He pulled away from the curb. “First ol’ Bob takes sudden retirement, then he packs up the van and splits. Something to do with that building got to him.” Smiling at me. “At least your morbid possibility wasn’t borne out.”
“Lucky Bob,” I said. “Do you have that list of residents from the Wilshire tower here in the car?”
“It’s in the murder book.” He hooked a thumb toward the backseat.
I reached behind and retrieved the blue binder.
“I told you,” he said. “Already went over it a bunch of times.”
He’d asterisked the residents shielded by trusts and corporate entitities, making my life easy. I spotted what I’d hoped to find and showed it to him.
“High-Level, Inc.?” A nanosecond of confusion was replaced by clarity. His face turned chalky, highlighting acne pits and lumps; a lunar exploration module sweeping over the moon.
“The outfit that manages the place, shit.”
I said, “Subsidiary of a subsidiary of a subdivision et cetera.”
“Why the hell didn’t I think of that?”
“It was just a guess.”
He groaned. “Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“The aw-shucks modesty thing.”
“I mean it—”