Milo listened and said, “Him. Why?”
“Cops have been known to use .308s.”
“On the other hand, he could just have been fired.”
“Absolutely.”
“Hmm. Lemme see what I can find out.”
Forty minutes later, he was back in touch.
“Guy worked Venice for twenty years, just like he told us. Twenty-one, to be exact. Started out on patrol then, ten years in, earned himself a motorcycle gig working Traffic near the beach. Did that until six years ago when he had an accident and hurt his back. Instead of quitting, he got himself transferred to a desk. Maybe because he liked being on the job. Or he wanted to stretch it out to get max pension plus disability.”
I said, “Add private security to all that and he’s got a good thing going money-wise. Where does he live?”
“Not some pricey place if that’s what you’re getting at. Cop Central, Simi Valley. Ran a Google Maps on his address and if he’s raking it in, he’s not spending it conspicuously. Your basic box. Camera even caught the Camaro in the driveway. Next to a minivan, so maybe he’s a family guy trying to pay bills.”
“Any excessive force complaints?”
“Nope, spotless record. Including a couple of commendations for helping accident victims. I called the private outfit—Pacific Security—and asked for him, got told he no longer worked there, they had no idea where he’d gone. So the firing thing is feeling likely. Can’t rule anything out but I don’t see a way—or a reason—to do a deep dig on him. But thanks and keep thinking.”
“Even if it hurts?”
He laughed. “Long as I have you, here’s the current situation. Or lack thereof. Petra checked out the eight serious criminals who got parking tickets and they’re all alibied, no other sightings of Hoodie Man have surfaced, and Raul’s visits to every damn pay lot fizzled to nada. Given all the less-than-zero, I’m gonna opt for the classic coping mechanism.”
“Meditation?”
“A meeting. Can you make it tomorrow around noon?”
Chapter
28
The following morning I was up early enough to have breakfast with Robin, walk Blanche, feed the fish, take a run, shower and dress, and be out of the house by ten after nine. That hour meant likely commuter traffic on the 405 North, but Waze and its cousins all agreed that the freeways remained the best way to get to Simi Valley.
Turned out pessimism wasn’t justified. The alleged fifty-minute ride boiled down to forty-two as I zipped north, switched to the 118 West, and drove the longer arm of the trip toward Walt Swanson’s address.
The sun was avid, evoking patches of glare where tree-shade failed to intervene. Leading to a curious mottling that gave the road an odd piebald look.
No street trees, these were well-established sycamore, eucalyptus, and liquidambar trees planted by homeowners on their own sod, trying to soften the character of tracts jerry-built after World War II.
I’d pulled up a photo of Swanson’s property last night but that didn’t help much because most of the houses were aspiring ranchitos like his.
Much of the northern valley shared by L.A. and Ventura countiesis like that, mile after mile of hasty construction undertaken in the fifties to accommodate the flood of aerospace workers migrating to SoCal. Back when the region had been about more than movies.
Later decades witnessed an influx of retired military plus cops and firefighters lured by the low-cost, open-space atmosphere and the distance, actual and emotional, from the mean streets they worked every day.
Back when I was in grad school, one of my classmates had rotated through a Simi clinic and returned sneering.
“Cops. Slimy Valley.”
I’d looked at her in surprise.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing.”
“Figures,” she said, with the kind of florid confidence that results when it’s based on nothing.
