The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(13)
“All I know was what Ricky said. White, black, Mexican, Chinese. Whichever fish were biting.”
CHAPTER
6
When we returned to the car, noon had passed. “Next closest is Mr. Roget. I’ll try his number.”
No answer, no voicemail. Milo started up the engine. “Damn. If he lives alone, I’ll need a victim’s warrant.”
He drove east on Arizona.
I said, “If there’s no one to talk to, maybe Leon Creech can help.”
“Why him?”
“They’re both older guys who drove livery independently.”
We’d met Creech last year, the driver of a hundred-year-old victim as well as her murderers. Informative, courtly, professional.
“Leon, there’s a gent for you,” said Milo.
“It’s worth a try.”
“Sure, why not, but first let’s see if Solomon Roget lives with someone I can traumatize.”
* * *
—
He didn’t.
No answer at Roget’s first-floor flat in a well-kept Spanish duplex on Hi-Point north of Olympic. A single vehicle sat far up a driveway that had been swept clean recently, under a gray canvas cover. Generous vacant space behind it. Enough for Roget’s limo.
Milo lifted a canvas corner. Black Cadillac.
“Wait here for a second.” He walked around the left side of the building, disappeared for a few seconds, returned. “No one in the backyard, no answer at the service door. I’ll push paper once we’re through spreading gloom.”
As he turned to leave, the door to the second-floor unit opened. A young, sweat-suited blond woman with a left-arm sleeve tattoo stepped out to the landing. In her arms was a swaddled baby. Long, stringy hair, droopy fatigued eyes.
“Hi,” said Milo.
“What’s going on?”
“Police.”
“For him?” said the woman. “Oh, shit, don’t tell me he’s a bad guy or something. We just moved in.”
“You’re talking about Mr. Roget.”
“Don’t know his name, just that he gets to keep two cars in the driveway ’cause the landlord likes him so we have to pay for a night permit.” She pointed to a dusty red minivan across the street.
“Tough deal,” said Milo. “Mr. Roget live with anyone?”
The woman’s eyes rounded. “He is a bad guy?”
“Not at all,” said Milo. “Does he live alone?”
“Why?”
“Something bad happened to him.”
“Oh.” Unimpressed.
“Anybody live with him?”
She shrugged. The baby bounced. “Never saw anyone.”
“How long have you been living here?”
“A month,” she said. “It’s not fair. The parking thing.”
“Big problem for you,” said Milo.
“I mean, is that legal?”
“Don’t see why not.”
The woman’s mouth dropped open. Milo headed for the car, muttering: “Milk of human kindness.”
When she thought we weren’t looking, she flipped us off. Or maybe she didn’t care.
* * *
—
No answer at Leon Creech’s house, either.
Milo pulled out his cell. “Happen to remember the street?”
I said, “Wooster.”
He stared at me. “I was kidding. You remember everything that goes into that brain of yours?”
“I try to filter.”
“Not even gonna ask. Let’s cruise by.”
* * *
—
Creech’s mint-grin stucco traditional was one of the few single dwellings on a block of duplexes and apartment buildings. He owned the property, a traditionalist holding out.
We spotted him from a hundred yards away, dusting off his navy-blue Town Car. Tall, stooped, a human crane, filmy white hair flying away as he worked. Dressed for something important in an olive-green cardigan over a pink golf shirt, immaculate seersucker pants, white New Balance running shoes.
Concentrating on the car, stepping back to check his reflection in the paint.
We parked and crossed the street. Milo said, “Mr. Creech.”
“Lieutenant! Long time.”
“How’s everything been going?”
“Passed my driving test with flying colors.” Creech gave a thumbs-up. “When I see you it reminds me I served, too. Brings back my MP days in Seoul.”
Same thing he’d mentioned the first time we interviewed him.
“And, Doctor, how are you?”
“Fine.”
“That’s good. So what’s up? Another idjit doing something criminal? Not at that dump, the Aventura, they closed it down, got cranes digging up everything.”
“Nope, somewhere else, sir. Do you know a livery driver named Solomon Roget?”
“Solly? What’s up—” Creech’s lips quivered. His long face lost definition. “Oh, no.”
“Afraid so, Mr. Creech.”
“Solly?” said Creech. He touched his chest. “Oh, my my. Solly and I go way back, he was driving when I was still working for the school district. Solly Roget? Really? Haitian, salt of the earth, couldn’t find a nicer guy. When? Where?”