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“Maybe referred by Hoffgarden.”
“Life coaching goes bad?” he said. “Not much of a motive for murder, Alex. Then there’s Slope. He did Hoffgarden’s divorce, tried to foist Cordi off as an expert, workedoutat Hoffgarden’s new gym in the desert, where he got his hair cut by Montag and ended up strangled in bed. There’s something going on, Alex, but it feels out of reach.”
“Get Montag or the twins in the box,” I said. “If it’s the twins, interview them separately.”
“Yeah, okay—hold on, Moses is calling in.”
Dead air for a couple of minutes before he returned. “Mom ate a kiwi, got an itchy throat, doc gave her a shot, she’s okay, he’s on the way back. Turns out he knows the twins. Used to work out at the same gym and spotted them a few times when they bench-pressed. Simultaneously. They always lift simultaneously. Wonder if they wipe each other’s bottoms.”
I made my voice plummy. “There does seem to be a blurring of identities. Moe ever see signs of violence in them?”
“The opposite, he was surprised to hear about the Tabashes’ priors, said they’re dumb as blocks of cheddar and mild-mannered, except when they’re pumping. We’ve got nothing on them but appearing on Montag’s pages and being big, so it could be another dud. In any event, Moses no longer uses that gym, too crowded, but he’s pretty sure they do, it’s close to their apartment.”
“He’s been to their place?”
“He’s seen them walking home.”
“Speaking of which, what do they drive?”
“Hold on…no registered vehicles.”
I said, “How old are they?”
“Twenty-five.”
“The Uber generation.”
He said, “No one wants to take the wheel…but Montag does. Six-year-old Ford Explorer.”
I said, “Plenty of room for a passenger or two. And a captive.”
He said, “I’m gonna drive by her place right now.”
“If you want, pick me up.”
“I want.”
CHAPTER
29
Lisette Montag lived on Brooks Avenue off Sixth Street in the converted garage of a twenties bungalow spray-stuccoed Pepto-Bismol pink. Like the main building, a box with a low-peaked tar-paper roof. What a preschooler might produce when asked to draw a house.
A thoughtful conversion: separate driveway perpendicular to the lot, three windows dressing up the front, an eight-foot redwood fence shielding the guesthouse from the rest of the property.
Privacy that could be used all kinds of ways.
Milo said, “I don’t see her shooting anyone but you never know.” He slipped his hand under his jacket, unsnapped the holster of his Glock. We got out, breathed a curious mix of ocean brine and motor oil, and headed for the driveway where a gray Ford Explorer sat. The SUV’s nose was a couple of feet from the door. As we edged around it, Milo touched the hood. “Cold.”
He patted the bulge above his right hip and rapped on the door.
No response but a second try produced footsteps and a female voice.
“Who is it?”
“Police, ma’am. Incident in the neighborhood.”
“What kind of incident?”
