The Murder Book (24 page)

Back during pony-ride days, the dirt track had been a favorite weekend visitation hangout for divorced dads and their kids. Hot Dog Heaven had thrived peddling nitrites to lonely men who smoked and hung around the low-slung corral, watching their progeny go round and round. Where did displaced dads go now? Not the mall. The last thing kids at the mall wanted was proximity to their parents.

Milo ordered two jumbo chili cheese dogs with extra onions, and I got a knockwurst. We filled out the bill with two large Cokes and sat down to eat as traffic roared by. It was late for lunch and early for dinner and only two other tables were occupied, an old woman reading the paper and a tall, long-haired youth in hospital blues — probably a Cedars-Sinai intern.

Milo wolfed the first chili dog without the aid of respiration. After tweezing every scrap of cheese from the wax paper with his fingers, he gulped Coke and got to work on the second. He finished that one, too, sprang up, and bought a third. My wurst tasted fine, but it was all I could do to feign hunger.

He was counting his change when a bronze Jeep Cherokee parked in front of my Seville and a man got out and walked past me toward the counter. Black suit, pearl shirt, soot-colored tie. Smiling. That’s what made me notice him. A big, wide, toothy grin, as if he’d just received terrific news. I watched him stride quickly to the counter and come to a stop just behind Milo, where he waited, bouncing on his heels. His black suede loafers were lifted by two-inch heels. Without them he was an easy six feet. He stood close to Milo, kept bouncing. Milo didn’t seem to notice. Something made me put down the wurst and keep my eyes on both of them.

Smiley was thirty or so, with dark hair gelled and combed back, curling over his collar. Big-jawed face, prominent nose, golden tan. The suit was well cut — Italian or pretending to be, and it looked brand-new, as did the suede shoes. The gray shirt was satin-finish silk, the tie a bulky knit. Dressed for an audition as a game show host?

He edged even closer to Milo. Said something. Milo turned and answered.

Smiley nodded.

Milo picked up his food and returned to the table.

“Friendly sort?” I said.

“Who?”

“The guy behind you. He’s been smiling since he left that Jeep.”

“So?”

“So what’s to smile about?”

Milo allowed his own mouth to curl upward. But he let his eyes drift back to the counter, where the smiling man was now conversing with the counter girl. “Anything other than that bother you about him?”

“He was standing close enough to you to smell your cologne.”

“If I wore any,” he said, but he continued to watch the goings-on at the counter. Finally sat back and sank his teeth into the third chili dog. “Nothing like health food.” He regarded my half-finished wurst. “What’s with the anorexia?”

“Just out of curiosity, what did he say to you up there?”

“Oh, boy…” He shook his head. “He wanted to know what was good, okay? I told him I liked anything with chili. Heavy-duty intrigue.”

I smiled. “Or flirting.”

“Me?”

“Him.”

“Oh, sure, strangers always come up and hit on me. The old fatal charm and all that.”

But he hazarded another glance at the counter where Smiley was still gabbing with the girl as he paid for his dog. Plain, no chili. He sat down at the table closest to ours, unfolded a napkin over his lap, flipped his hair, beamed at Milo, said. “Chickened out on the chili.”

“Your loss.”

Smiley laughed. Tugged at his lapel. Took a bite. A dainty little bite that didn’t alter the shape of the hot dog.

I mumbled, “Fatal charm.”

Milo said, “Enough,” and wiped his face.

Smiley continued to nibble without making much progress. Dabbed his chin. Showed off his dental work. Made several attempts at catching Milo’s eye. Milo moved his bulk around, stared at the ground.

Smiley said, “These really
are
a mouthful.”

I fought back laughter.

Milo nudged my arm. “Let’s go.”

We stood. Smiley said, “Have a nice day.”

He got to his feet as we reached the car and jogged toward us, sandwich in one hand, the other waving.

“What the hell,” said Milo and his hand sidled under his coat.

Smiley reached into his own jacket and all at once Milo had interposed himself between the stranger and me. A flesh barrier, immense; tension seemed to enlarge him. Then he relaxed. Smiley was still waving, but the something in his hand was small and white. A business card.

“Sorry for being so forward, but I… here’s my number. Call me if you’d like.”

“Why would I do that?” said Milo.

Smiley’s lips drew back, and his grin morphed into something hungry and unsettling. “Because you never know.”

He dangled the card.

Milo stood there.

Smiley said, “Oh, well,” and placed the card on the hood of the Seville. His new face was serious, vulpine, purposeful. He trotted away from us, tossed the uneaten hot dog in the trash, got into the Jeep, and sped away as Milo hustled to copy down his license plate. He picked the card off the hood, read it and handed it to me.

Off-white vellum with a faintly greasy feel, engraved letters.

Paris M. Bartlett
Health Facilitator

Below that, a cell phone number.

“ ‘Because you never know,’ ” said Milo. “Health facilitator. Do I look sick?”

“Other than stains on your shirt you look perfectly put-together.”

“Health facilitator,” he repeated. “Sounds like something from the AIDS industry.” He pulled out his cell phone and jabbed in Paris Bartlett’s number. Frowned again. “No longer in service. What the hell…”

“Time to DMV the plates?” I said.

“DMV’ing is illegal when I’m on vacation. Using departmental resources for personal reasons, big no-no.”

“John G. would disapprove mightily.”

“Mightily.” He made the call to State Motor Vehicles, recited the plate, waited a while, wrote something down. “The plates belong to a two-year-old Jeep, so that’s kosher. Registered to the Playa del Sol Corporation. The address is right here in West Hollywood. I recognize it. Parking lot of the Healthy Foods market on Santa Monica. There’s a post–office box outlet there. I know because I used to rent there myself.”

“When?”

“Long time ago.”

A safe. A POB. All the new things I was learning about my friend.

“Dead number, shadow address,” I said. “Playa del Sol could be nothing more than a cardboard box in someone’s apartment, but it does have the ring of a real estate outfit.”

“As in the Cossacks.” He studied the card. “That and the call about my vacation time. Right after we talk to Marlene Baldassar. Maybe she
can’t
be trusted.”

Or maybe he hadn’t covered his trail. I said, “It could be just a pickup attempt.” But I knew that was wrong. Paris Bartlett had bounded out of his car with clear intention.

He slipped the card in his pocket. “Alex, I grew up in a big family, never got much attention, never developed a taste for it. I need some alone time.”

I drove him back to his place, and he hurtled out of the Seville, mumbled something that might’ve been, “Thanks,” slammed the door, and loped toward his front door.

I made it to my own front door thirty-five minutes later, told myself I’d be able to walk right past the phone. But the red blinking 1 on the answering machine snagged me, and I stabbed the message button.

Robin’s voice: “Looks like I missed you again, Alex. There’s another change in schedule, we’re adding an extra day in Vancouver, maybe the same in Denver. It’s crazy around here, I’ll be in and out.” Two-second delay, then several decibels lower: “I love you.”

Obligatory add-on? Unlike Pierce Schwinn, I didn’t need drugs to prime the paranoia pump.

I phoned the Four Seasons Seattle again and asked for Ms. Castagna’s room. This time if they gave me voice mail, I’d leave a message.

But a man answered. Young, one of those laughing voices. Familiar.

Sheridan. He of the ponytail, the cheerful outlook, and the Milk-Bone for Spike.

“Robin? Oh hi. Yeah, sure.”

Seconds later: “This is Robin.”

“And this is Alex.”

“Oh… hi. Finally.”

“Finally?”

“Finally we connect. Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s peachy,” I said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“What — oh, Sheridan? No, we were just finishing up a meeting. A bunch of us.”

“Busy busy.”

“I’ve got time, now. So how
are
you? Busy yourself?”

This was too much like small talk, and it depressed me. “Muddling along. How’s Spike?”

“Thriving. There’s a bunch of other dogs along for the ride, so there’s a nice kennel space. Spike’s getting pretty sociable. There’s an eighty-pound shepherd bitch who seems to have caught his fancy.”

“Does the kennel space include a ladder for him to reach her?”

She laughed, but sounded tired. “So…”

I said, “So are you getting in any social time?”

“I’m working, Alex. We’re putting in twelve-, thirteen-hour days.”

“Sounds tough. I miss you.”

“Miss you, too. We both knew this would be difficult.”

“Then we were both right.”

“Honey — hold on, Alex… someone just stuck their head in.” Her voice got muffled and distant; hand over the phone.
“I’ll see what I can do, give me a little time on it, okay? When’s sound-check? That soon? Okay, sure.”
Back to me: “As you can see I haven’t had much solitude.”

“I’ve had plenty.”

“I’m jealous.”

“Are you?”

“Yes,” she said. “We both like our solitude, right?”

“You can have yours back anytime.”

“I can’t exactly walk out on everyone.”

“No,” I said. “As Richard Nixon said, that would be wrong.”

“I mean I — if there was some easy — if that would really make you happy, I’d do it.”

“It would ruin your reputation.”

“It sure wouldn’t help it.”

“You’re committed,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Why the hell is Sheridan so happy?

“Alex, when I do get a minute to breathe, I think of you, wonder if I did the right thing. Then I plan all the things I’m going to tell you, but then when we finally talk… it doesn’t seem to go the way I’d planned.”

“Absence makes the heart cranky?”

“Not my heart.”

“Guess it’s me, then,” I said. “Guess I don’t do well with separation. Never got used to it.”

“Used to it?” she said. “Your parents?”

My parents were the last thing I’d thought of. Now bad old memories ignited: the wasting away of the two people who’d brought me into this world, bedside vigils, a pair of funerals in as many years.

“Alex?”

“No,” I said. “I was just talking generally.”

“You sound upset,” she said. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t do anything.”

“What did you mean by that? Never getting used to separation?”

“Random blather,” I said.

“Are you saying that even when we were together you felt abandoned? That I neglected you? Because I—”

“No,” I said. “You’ve always been there for me.”
Except for the other time you left.

Except for finding another man and — “It really was blather, Rob. Put it down to missing you.”

“Alex, if this is really bad for you, I’ll come
home
.”

“No,” I said. “I’m a big boy. It wouldn’t be good for you. For either of us.”

And I’ve got things on
my
plate
.
Little odd jobs, the kind you hate.

“That’s true,” she said. “But just say the word.”

“The word is I love you.”

“That’s three words.”

“Picky picky.”

She laughed. Finally. I uttered a few pleasantries, and she did the same. When we hung up she sounded okay, and I figured I faked it pretty well.

Milo claimed to want “alone time,” but I figured he’d be nosing around on the fringes of the LAPD bureaucracy.

If the call from Personnel and/or the encounter with the toothy Paris Bartlett did have something to do with his raking up the Ingalls case, that meant he —
we
had been tagged, were being watched.

Marlene Baldassar as the source didn’t sit right with me, and I thought about the trail we might’ve left.

My solo activities had consisted of the call to Larry Daschoff, dinner with Allison Gwynn, computer work at the Research Library. None of that was likely to attract attention.

Together, Milo and I had interviewed Marge Schwinn and Baldassar and Georgie Nemerov. I supposed either woman could’ve reported the conversation, but neither had been hostile, and I couldn’t see why they’d have bothered.

Nemerov, on the other hand, had grown antsy when talking about his father’s murder and Willie Burns’s skip. Nemerov’s bail bond business gave him close ties to the department. If John G. Broussard had been part of a fix, the department would care.

A third possibility was Milo’s solo work on Janie Ingalls had attracted attention. As far as I knew that had been limited to phone work and unearthing old files. But he’d worked at the West L.A. station, sneaked around Parker Center.

Thinking he’d been discreet but he could’ve invited scrutiny — from clerks, other cops, anyone in a position to witness him nosing. John G. Broussard had sent a clear directive to tighten up discipline among the rank and file. The new chief had also waged war on the blue code of silence — talk about irony. Maybe cops informing on cops was the new LAPD zeitgeist.

The more I thought about that, the more it made sense: Milo was a pro, but he’d taken too much for granted.

Procedurally, he’d been outed.

That made me think about his continuing vulnerability. Twenty years in the department with one of the highest solve rates in Homicide, but that wasn’t enough, would never be enough.

For two decades he’d functioned as a gay man in a paramilitary organization that would never be free of gut-level bias and still hadn’t acknowledged the existence of homosexual cops. I knew — everyone knew — that scores of gay officers patrolled the streets, but not a single one had gone public. Neither had Milo, in a strict sense, but after those first brutal years of self-torment he had stopped hiding.