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“You’re still asking me to quantify and my answer’s the same.”
“No problem, sorry for bothering you.”
Milo closed his pad. Easy cue for Gibbs to get rid of us. He picked up the beer bottle, looked at us defiantly, and took a long, deep swig.
“Nectar of the gods, don’t let one of those yuppies tell you good old American brew is lacking.”
Two more swallows before the bottle joined the other empties. “Don’t go thinking I’m some sort of lush. I had a kidney stone five years ago and the doctor said beer was good for it.”
Milo smiled, “I’ll remember that, sir.”
“You’ve had a kidney stone?”
“Thankfully, no.”
“Get your calcium too high it could happen,” said Gibbs. “Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.” Another evil grin. “Strike that. I would wish it on the bastard who thought he could take my wife from me. Then cancer took her first, joke was on them.”
He rose with difficulty, padded out to an unseen kitchen, rattled around a bit, and returned with another bottle. “I’d offer you some but I know the rules.”
“Appreciate the thought, sir.”
Gibbs looked at me. “He always such a kiss-up?”
I smiled.
Gibbs said, “Like you’d say so. You probably taught him to be akiss-up. Okay, you want a number? I’ll pick one out of the air—one or two a week give or take.”
Milo said, “Always after dark.”
“If you were sneaking off for some mercenary whoopee would you want to be seen?”
But you managed to see.
Milo produced the screenshot he’d taken of Gregory Blanding’s DMV photo. “Was this individual one of the visitors?”
Gibbs snorted. “Visitors.”
He got up again, pulled open a drawer on one of the dainty tables, and returned to his recliner holding a pair of reading glasses.
“Give me that.” He took the phone and studied the photo. “Can’t say yes and can’t say no.”
Milo reached for the phone. Gibbs hesitated for a moment before returning it. For all his curmudgeonly loner stance, glad to break routine and reluctant to let go of the merest novelty.
Milo repeated the process with Tyler Hoffgarden’s headshot.
Rainer Gibbs said, “Yup, he was here. More than once.”
“Even though it was dark—”
“Are you doubting me, young man?”
“No, sir, just trying to clarify—”
“Him I remember,” said Gibbs, “because he was huge. Must’ve been six…five?”
“Six-four,” said Milo.
“Add shoes and it’s exactly what I said, six-five.” Gibbs crossed skinny, sun-spotted forearms across a pigeon chest.
