“Optimism, Cheryl. I’ve been told it’s healthy. For how long do you have the moving van?”
“It’s a one-day minimum.”
“You’ve got suits for those two?”
“We do.”
“Then let them earn their keep. Have them pack up everything and take it back. No need to do anything right now, just store it.”
“Makes sense,” said Najarian. Not even close to meaningit.
Back on the sidewalk, Milo walked up to the pair of movers.
“No more boredom, guys.”
“Huh?”
“Get those boxes ready.”
Both men moved their lips. No sound followed but no confusion about intention.
—
At my Seville, he said, “No Social Security on Lynne Matthias, no welfare or disability payments, which you’d expect if she’s impaired. You know what I’m thinking.”
“Homeless.”
“Just what I need.”
A while back we’d worked on multiple murders that took us into the sad, addled world of the homeless. I’d been injured. He’d suffered more than me due to guilt.
I said, “There are other possibilities. Marriage or an out-of-state name change. Out-of-the-country, for that matter.”
“Expat returns to chop off Mommy’s arms. Any insights?”
I hesitated.
“What, Alex?”
“The mutilation was precise with no evidence left behind. I’d expect more gore and disorganization from someone seriously impaired.”
“So who, then—don’t answer that. I can’t deal with the entire world as my suspect pool. And speaking of impairment, let’s segue to myotheropen case. Could you try to find out if Darren Alberts really is grokked out?”
—
I drove home and phoned Dr. Lee Falkenburg at her office in Beverly Hills. Lee’s a longtime friend and one of L.A.’s top neuropsychologists. Recently, I’d leaned on her for a favor that had strained professional boundaries.
She said, “Uh-oh.”
“This is nothing like before, Lee. I know you evaluated Darren Alberts and wanted to find out if he’s seriously impaired. It was court-ordered, so no confidentiality.”
“They found something else he did?”
“His name came up.”
“In a murder?” said Lee. “Because that’s what your cop buddy does.”
“It’s not even close to that.”
