Ambush me twice, shame on me, as the old saying went.
Because of the safety provided by that visible police presence, Sam let himself relax enough to wander through the brightly lit little house.
And itwasa little house, especially considering what they knew about Wig-Milt’s five million dollar deposit from the Bank of Rich-Dad. The place was the tiniest of the standard California post-war bungalows: two bedrooms, one central bath, no add-ons.
Wig-Milt had set the smaller bedroom up as some kind of home studio, with sound-proofing, a reinforced door and window, and a built-in desk with shelves above it that elled around three of the walls, with a big video screen in the center. It looked as if some of the computer equipment had been grabbed, possibly to make this appear more like a burglary, which is what the police were assuming until Lindsey had spoon-fed them the connection to the gunfire-riddled destruction at Emily Johnson’s house in Van Nuys.
Now it was part of their little ongoing what-the-fuck—although Sam was pretty sure that the conversation Jules was having with the detectives out in the living room didn’t include mention of any bodies buried in the Devonshire Place garden. They had a few additional bullet-points to check off their to-do list before bringing that up with the authorities. Like, for example, grabbing a shovel and digging around in that dirt a bit... Hopefully while out of range of any additional gunmen. Quite possibly in the presence of the entire, perimeter protecting, eyes-open-and-alert Troubleshooters team, who were being selected, right that very moment, by Alyssa and their CO, Tom Paoletti, from a long and shiny list of eager volunteers.
Which was saying something, since the questionWho wants to make the ball-breaking drive up to LA in the late afternoon traffic?wasn’t usually met with an enthusiastic hand-raise andOoh, ooh, pick me!
But everyone and their highly skilled operative sister wanted in on this chance to work with Jules.
And frankly, he and Sam could use as many eyes and brains on this situation as Tom and Alyssa could spare.
Because this break-in was, absolutely, another rung on the WTF ladder.
Just like at Emily’s, there appeared to be no sign of a struggle here—which didn’t mean that an abduction hadn’t occurred. With the right equipment, it didn’t take long to bash in a door. Someone sitting at the dining nook table wouldn’t have had time to do much more than leap to their feet. And if the home-invader had a weapon, the scenario would pretty much go like:
Home-invader: Freeze! Hands where I can see ’em! Out the door! Now! Into the black SUV!
And... scene.
But there were no dishes out on the table. No half-eaten breakfast gathering flies. No crossword puzzle book dropped onto the floor.
Nowtended to meannow, and not after loading the dishwasher.
The entire place was scrupulously tidy, the kitchen zealously clean. The fridge held only a few perishables—a half-gallon of milk that was dated into next week, a few open containers of condiments, an unopened package of cheese. Sports drinks, bottled water, sealed jars of juice—and exactly zero beer. No cans, no bottles. No wine, either. No vodka in the freezer.
No alcohol in any other cabinets in the kitchen.
Which made sense in a world where three-days-after-a-bender-Wig-Milt’s alter-ego was the straight-laced sweater-guy in that photo with the cute young woman. Real-Milt apparentlyhadgotten clean in lockup.
Sam headed back to look at the bedroom that was actually a bedroom, where the bed—a queen, because the room was so small—was neatly made.
There was no twin picture of Sweater-Milt and smiling Emily on the bedside table. In fact, there were no photos of any kind anywhere.
Kinda weird since the guy’s girlfriend was a photographer.
Sam wandered into the bathroom. Nothing was out on the shiny, clean sink counter except pump-bottles of soap and lotion.
No toothbrushes or paste. No shaving gear.
Home-invader: Freeze! Hands where I can see ’em! Go grab your toothpaste and razor—hygiene is important! You’re coming with me!
So that was a probablenoon the whole abduction theory, with the most likely scenario being that Milt/Mick had left before the home-invaders’ arrival. In fact, Sam would guess that wherever he was, Emily Johnson was nearby.
It was entirely possible that Emilyhadbeen abducted—although the question there was: Did she know it, or did she just think she was off on a getaway with her boyfriend?
The tiny bathroom was as pristinely clean as the rest of the house, which was disappointing because one of their hopes and dreams in coming here was to grab some of the former Milt Junior’s DNA, to compare with the samples they’d taken from the estate earlier that day. But there was no hairbrush in the drawer, no nail clippers or collection of toenails, no trash in any of the garbage cans—not even outside in the bins.Which meant that Milt had likely been gone for several days, or at least since the last weekly trash pickup, if not longer.
A single, freshly clean towel hung neatly over the chrome handle of the 1960’s era glass sliding shower doors. The toilet gleamed, although the seatwasup.
Sam went back into the bedroom and opened the top drawer of the single bedside table—the room was so compact that only one would fit on one side of the bed. The drawer held very little. A notepad and some pens. A few sandstone drink coasters. A lot of loose change, like Milt/Mick had emptied his pockets into it, daily for the past five years.
It also held zero condoms, which seemed to work in tandem with that clue from the raised toilet seat.
Sam opened the closet door and there it was. In a sealed ziplock baggie atop a built-in dresser. Wig-Milt’s glorious wig. A larger bag held the jeans and T-shirt that the man had worn to the meeting at Harper’s office. Good call, Milt/Mick. That shit no doubt had a strong odor best kept tightly sealed up.
