“Including the Mercedes that got lifted?”

“It come with a system,” said Chacon. “They all do.”

“Was the system activated?”

Chacon’s hand left the wall and rested on the desk. His eyes floated up to the low plasterboard ceiling. “Supposed to be.”

Milo smiled. “In a perfect world?”

Gilbert Chacon said, “I’m the day supervisor, come at nine, leave at four thirty. At night, it’s up to the main lot what happens.”

“On La Cienega.”

“Yup.”

“Who has the key to the lock?”

“Me.” Chacon reached into his pocket and brought out a keychain.

“Who else?”

“The main lot. Maybe other people, I dunno. I just started working here a couple months ago.”

“So there could be copies of the key floating around?”

“That would be stupid,” said Chacon.

I said, “The lock looks new.”

Chacon said, “So?”

Milo said, “Someone did manage to unlock the chain. Boosted the Benz, put forty-three miles on it, cleaned it up, brought it back before nine, and laid the chain back in place – if it was in place when you got here.”

“It was.”

“What time was that?”

“Like I said, they want me here at nine.” Chacon’s eyes rose to the ceiling again.

“Maybe you were a little late?”

“That would be stupid.”

“So you arrived on time.”

“Yeah.”

“When you got here at nine, nothing unusual made you look twice.”

“Nope.”

“Who’s responsible for locking the chain at four thirty?”

“Me.” Chacon licked his lips. “And I did it.”

“What if a car comes back after four thirty?”

“If it’s from the main lot, they unlock and put it in.”

“That happen often?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about last night?”

Chacon got up and opened a file cabinet next to a watercooler. Miss January smiled down as he leafed through folders.

“Yesterday was no bring-backs. Right now, we only got one car out, period. Black Phantom over to the L’Ermitage on Burton. Some Arab sheik and his driver are using it for three weeks.”

“Business is slow?”

“It comes and goes.” Chacon’s eyes took another ride, this time from side to side.

Milo said, “Anyone come by recently, show interest in the cars?”

“Nope.”

“Know why we’re asking these questions, sir?”

“Nope. Sir.”

“The car was used in a murder.”

Chacon blinked twice. “You’re kidding. Who got murdered?”

“A nice old lady.”

“That’s bad.”

“Real bad,” said Milo. “She mighta been killed by a not-so-nice old man.” He described the blue-capped killer.

“No way,” said Chacon, over the music.

“You think it’s impossible an old guy would do something like that?”

“No, what I’m saying is I never saw no one like that.”

“How about anyone walking around the lot, checking out the wheels?”

Chacon shook his head. “It’s real quiet here, the only time someone comes is when a car’s broke and the main lot sends a mechanic.”

Milo turned off the music. The silence made Chacon blink repeatedly.

“No one loitered. Or just hung around? Anyone, even a homeless guy?”

“For sure no.”

“For sure?”

“There was someone I’d tell you.” Chacon reached for the radio dial. Thought better of it.

Milo said, “’Cause you want to cooperate.”

“Yeah.”

We returned to the car. Running Chacon’s name through the system brought up a Boyle Heights address, no outstanding wants or warrants. Three arrests ten years ago.

Two gang-related assaults and a burglary pled down to petty theft, all in Rampart Division.

“Old gangbanger,” I said.

“That’s who they put in charge of hot wheels.”

“He moved to a new neighborhood, works a straight job.”

“Reformed?”

“It happens.”

“But you think not,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“That question about the new lock. You’re wondering if he forgot to bolt up, found the chain down this morning, bought a replacement.”

“Mind reader,” I said. “Also, his eyes moved a lot.”

“Goddamn pinball machine. Maybe it’s worse and someone paid him to leave the chain off last night.”

“Or the killer picked it,” I said. “Cheap drugstore crap.”

He looked over at the shack. “A guy with Chacon’s past is wise to the drill, he’s got no motivation to give anything up. I get closer to the bad guy, I can come back with leverage, offer him a break on aiding and abetting.”

Once, not if.

Nice to see him thinking about the future.

The meeting with Antoine Beverly’s parents was set for noon the following day.

When I got to Milo’s office, a note on the door said A: Rm. 6.

Largest room, at the end of the corridor. An Interview in Progress: Do Not Disturb sign dangled from the doorknob.

I knocked once and went in.

A middle-aged black couple sat across the table from Milo. A wallet-sized photo of a boy was placed in front of the woman and after she appraised me, her attention returned to the image.

The man next to her wore a stiff brown suit, a white shirt, and a gold tie secured by a silver clip. An American flag pin rode his lapel. His gray hair was tight; in front it faded to skin. Under a white thread of a mustache, his smile was obligatory.

The woman had on a charcoal pantsuit. High waved hair was one shade darker than her clothes. She drew away from the photo with reluctance and placed her hands flat on the table.

Milo said, “Mr. and Mrs. Beverly, this is our psychologist, Dr. Delaware. Doctor, Gordon and Sharna Beverly.”

Gordon Beverly half stood and sat back down. His wife said, “Pleased to meet you, Doctor.”

The pressing of cool dry flesh. I sat next to Milo.

He said, “Mr. and Mrs. Beverly brought me this picture of Antoine.”

I studied the picture, maybe longer than I needed to. Smiling, clear-eyed boy with a space between his incisors. Short hair, blue shirt, plaid tie.

“Doctor, I was just explaining that you were involved because of the complexities.”

Sharna Beverly said, “We could use a psychiatrist because if it wasn’t that maniac in Texas, it was some kind of maniac. I knew it from the beginning, kept telling those other detectives.” A silver-nailed finger touched the edge of the photo. “It’s been so long. No one did anything.”

“They tried,” said her husband. “But there were no leads.”

Sharna Beverly’s stare said he’d blasphemed. She turned to me. “I’m here to tell you what Antoine was like, so you’ll understand he didn’t run away.”

Milo said, “No one suspects that, ma’am.”

“They sure did sixteen years ago. Kept telling me he’d run away, run away. Antoine liked his practical jokes but he was a good boy. Our other boys went to college and that was Antoine’s plan. He especially looked up to his biggest brother, Brent. Brent has a degree in sound engineering and works on motion pictures. Gordon Junior is an accountant at the Water and Power.”

Gordon Beverly said, “Antoine wanted to be a doctor.”

“You probably heard this a million times,” said his wife, “but not knowing is the worst. Doctor, be honest with me. Knowing what you know about maniacs, what chance is there this devil in Texas is telling the truth?”

I said, “I wish I could give you a solid answer, Mrs. Beverly. But there’s no way to know. His story’s certainly worth pursuing. Every angle is.”

“There you go,” she said. “Every angle. That’s what I told those detectives sixteen years ago. They said there was nothing more to do.”

I glanced at the picture. A boy frozen in time.

Sharna Beverly said, “They should’ve had the courtesy to answer our phone calls.”

Gordon said, “They answered them at first, then they stopped.”

“They stopped pretty quickly.” Daring her husband to argue.