The Murder Book (38 page)

“No.”

“The mayor approved him for a raise but the police commission has the authority and they say no way. Last few weeks, the
Times
has printed a few other less-than-complimentary comments about John G.’s management style.”

“Broussard’s on the way out?” I said.

“Good chance. He must’ve finally annoyed the wrong people.” As we neared the parking structure, his cell phone squawked and he slapped it to his ear. “Hello — hey, how’s it —
what? When?
Where are you? Okay, just stay right there — no, just stay put, I’m with Alex over at the U., we’ll be there in ten.”

He hung up and sped up to a jog. “That was Rick. Someone stole the Porsche.”

“Where?” I said, matching his pace.

“Right out of the doctors’ lot at Cedars. You know how he loves that car… he sounded shook up, c’mon let’s go.”

I broke speed laws and made it to the Cedars-Sinai complex in fifteen minutes. Rick was waiting at the corner of Beverly Boulevard and George Burns Avenue wearing a long white coat over blue scrubs. Except for surgeon’s fingers that never ceased flexing, he was motionless.

As I pulled to the curb, Milo bounded out of the Seville, rushed to Rick’s side, and listened as Rick talked. At a casual glance, they appeared to be two middle-aged men exhibiting no obvious physical affection but the bond between them was obvious to me and I wondered if anyone else could see it. Wondered about something else, too: Hot Dog Heaven, where Paris Bartlett had accosted Milo, was only a block away, and the fast-food stand’s picnic tables afforded a full frontal view of the hospital. Sometimes Milo dropped in at Cedars to have lunch with Rick, or just to say hi. Had he been watched, and if so, for how long?

Then I thought about the two cops gabbing in the ER cubicle. Supposedly unaware of Rick’s presence in the next booth. But maybe the chat about the HIV detective forced to retire
had
been for his benefit.

Throw in Bartlett’s little display, the call from LAPD Personnel, and a stolen car, and it added up to psychological warfare.

As Milo and Rick talked, I sat in the driver’s seat and looked around. All I saw was a flood of anonymous faces and cars, the usual L.A. ratio of one pedestrian to five hundred vehicles.

Rick stopped talking, slumped a bit, Milo patted his back and eyed the Seville. Rick got in back and Milo returned to the front passenger seat.

“Hey, Alex,” said Rick.

“Sorry about the car.”

He grimaced. “An alarm and a steering lock, and it’s gone.”

Milo glanced back at him. His eyes were cold, his neck cords were taut, and his mandible jutted like that of a fighting cur, straining to enter the pit.

I said, “When did it happen?”

Rick said, “I got to work at 5
A.M.
, didn’t come out until 2
P.M.
, so sometime in between.”

“He thinks he might’ve been followed,” said Milo, “driving to work.”

“It was probably nothing,” said Rick. “But that early, you don’t expect too many cars on the street and there was a set of headlights behind me when I pulled out to San Vincente and it stayed with me until I got to Third Street.”

“And you have no idea exactly when that started?” said Milo.

Rick sighed. “I told you, no. I had an emergency splenectomy at six. My focus was on getting psyched up.” Rick’s voice was steady. His fingers kept flexing. “I really don’t think it was anything, Milo. Probably some other early bird.”

“How many other cars do you usually see when you hit the early shift, Rick?”

“Usually none. But sometimes one or two — as I said, I don’t pay attention. If the Porsche hadn’t been ripped off — if you hadn’t asked me about being tailed, I’d never have given it a thought.”

“
Give
it a thought,” said Milo. “We’ve both got to think.”

“About what?”

“Watching our backs. Maybe even a temporary change of address.”

“Oh, come on,” said Rick.

“I’m serious.”

Silence. Rick said, “Well, first things first. I need a rental car. Alex, would you be so kind as to drive me over to—”

“
I’ll
take you,” said Milo. “Drop us off a block from our house, Alex.” To Rick: “You wait while I check out the premises. I’ll pick you up in the Taurus and drive you to Budget. No, let’s use another company, just to play it safe. I want to minimize any links between us.”

“You
can’t
be serious,” said Rick.

“Drive, Alex.”

“Minimize
links
?” said Rick.

“Sorry,” said Milo. “Right now putting a layer of separation between you and me is the nicest thing I can do for you.”

A
lex dropped Rick and Milo around the corner and drove off. Milo left Rick waiting under a Brazilian floss tree and walked to his house with his eyes on high beam. The rental Taurus sat alone in the driveway, and he gave it a cursory once-over. Nothing weird. Slipping behind the car, he made his way up the driveway, unholstered his gun, and unlatched the back door, feeling foolish. The alarm buzzed, a positive sign. He disarmed the system, covered each room as if stalking a suspect. Playing Robocop in his own domicile, Jesus.

Nothing had been disturbed that he could see and the junk in the spare bedroom closet was stacked just as he’d left it: on top of the movable floorboards that concealed the safe. Still, the prickly heat of paranoia coursed up and down his back. He hadn’t relaxed a bit by the time he got in the Taurus and drove back to Rick.

Rick said, “Everything okay, I assume.”

“Seems to be.”

“Milo, the Porsche probably had nothing to do with anything.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t think so?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Well given that,” said Rick, “let’s not get overly dramatic. After I get a rental, I’m going back to work, and afterward I’m coming home.”

Milo started up the Taurus but kept it in park. Rick cleared his throat, the way he did when he got impatient.

Milo said, “What’d you do this morning, work-wise?”

“Why?”

“How many surgeries did you perform?”

“Three—”

“Was I there in the O.R., telling you which scalpel to use?”

“Listen,” said Rick. Then he went silent.

Milo tapped the steering wheel.

Rick said, “Fine, I accede to your superior knowledge of the rotten side of life. But expertise doesn’t mean infallibility, Milo. If someone wanted to intimidate you, why steal
my
car?”

Because that’s the way they think.

Milo didn’t answer.

Rick said, “It was a car theft, plain and simple. You always told me if a pro wanted the Porsche, he could get it no matter what I did.”

“There are pros, and there are pros,” said Milo.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning I don’t know what really happened to the Porsche, but I do know that I want you away from my mess. So stop giving me a hard time even though you think I’m being melodramatic. Worse comes to worst, I was an idiot and you were inconvenienced. What kind of rental car do you want?”

Rick frowned. “Doesn’t matter.” He tapped the Taurus’s dashboard. “One of these will be fine.”

“Anything but one of these,” said Milo. “I don’t want you in something that could be confused with mine. How about an SUV? This city, that’s like joining the ant swarm.”

“As if I care,” said Rick, folding his arms across his chest. “Sure, an SUV. Maybe I’ll go hiking.”

“Not a bad idea. Take some time away from the city.”

Rick’s head whipped around. “You’re serious. You really want me gone.”

“I want you safe.”

“Forget it, big guy, just dismiss the thought. I’ve got a solid week of shift plus built-in overtime. We’ve got bills to pay.”

“Get real,” said Milo. “When’s the last time we worried about making the bills?”

“Not since the Porsche was paid up. But now I’ll probably need a new car and that’ll mean new monthlies and we were talking about taking some time off and going to Europe this summer, so I need to stockpile revenue.”

Milo didn’t answer.

Rick said, “You
were
serious about Europe? I’ve been organizing my entire schedule with an eye toward taking a month off.”

“I was serious.”

“Maybe we should travel right now.”

Milo shook his head.

“Why not?” said Rick. “If you’re right, why stick around and be a target?”

“The weather,” said Milo. “If I bother to lay out bucks for Europe, I want sunny weather.”

“Now you’re a meteorologist.” Rick took hold of Milo’s arm. “What if your anxiety doesn’t level off? Am I supposed to go into long-term exile?”

“It’s not a matter of anxiety. It’s my finely honed sense of threat.”

“That stupid rumor those cops were talking about? I’ve been thinking about that. For all you know, there is an HIV-positive detective in your division. Someone deep in the closet. Or those cretins were just flapping their gums the way cops do. I know, I see them all the time when they bring in suspects. Standing around drinking coffee and gabbing while we sew the poor devils up.”

“Another West L.A. gay detective,” said Milo. “Sure, that’s likely.”

“Who says he’s gay? And, what, only you can be a celebrity?”

“Yeah, that’s me, a star. Rick, it’s more than the rumor—”

“That old case, I know. Maybe it was shunted aside all these years precisely because no one
gives
a hoot. What if you’ve just built it up in your head, Milo? With Alex’s help.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you and Alex have this bizarre chemistry. The two of you put your heads together, and strange ideas start to pour out.”

“I’ve found Alex to be right more often than he’s wrong. And what’s the murder book, a schoolboy prank?”

“It’s possible.”

Milo was silent.

“Fine,” said Rick. “Let’s not talk about this anymore. Get me a rental.”

Milo drove Melrose west to Doheny then north to Santa Monica Boulevard. Past the clubs he and Rick no longer patronized.

Rick said, “Where exactly are you going?”

“Beverly Hills. The Hertz office at the Beverly Hilton.”

“As a well-known companion of mine always says, ‘Hoo-hah.’ Maybe I’ll rent a Rolls.”

“Forget it, we’ve got bills to worry about.”

Rick stared at him and he stared back and they both broke into laughter. Milo knew it was temporary tension relief, more Band-Aid than cure. But that was fine.

Milo watched Rick drive away in the rental Volvo. The counter agent had been a good-looking blond woman, and she’d taken one look at Rick, flirted outrageously, and upgraded him.

No meeting of the minds about where Rick would stay and for how long. Milo agreed to let it ride until tonight.

Alone, he drove downtown, to Skid Row. The fleabags that Vance Coury, Senior had owned twenty years ago had all been situated on a two-block stretch of Main Street. The chance that any personnel from that era remained was nil, but what did he have to lose?

The moment he drove by each of the hotels, the iota of optimism vanished. The spots where the Excelsior and the Crossley had stood were now parking lots, and the Grande Royale was the Shining Light Mission.

He made his way back to the Hall of Records and pulled property tax records on all three parcels. The parking lots were leased to a Nevada corporation, but the land was owned by Concourse Elegance, Inc., which traced to Concourse Auto Restoration on Van Nuys Boulevard. Vance Coury’s shop. Junior had inherited the buildings, torn two of them down and converted to low-hassle, income-churning asphalt.

The Shining Light Mission was interesting, though. The Shining Light Foundation was a nonprofit run by the Reverends Fred and Glenda Stephenson — a pair Milo knew because back in his uniform days he’d transported bums to their soup kitchen on San Pedro. He’d found the couple to be saints who put in twenty-hour days serving the poor. Coury probably donated the third lot as part of some sort of tax deal, in order to end up with the other two, free and clear.

Feeling like Don Quixote’s dumber brother, he moved on to death records. Sucked in his breath when he encountered unexpected success.

Luke Matthew Chapman had died in a drowning accident, twenty years ago, at the age of twenty-two.

Date of death: December 14. Six months after Janie Ingalls’s murder. Eight
days
prior to Caroline Cossack’s final day at Achievement House and nine days prior to Boris Nemerov’s execution.

He phoned the coroner’s office, got hold of one of the few friendly voices at his disposal: a morgue assistant who’d come out of the closet after learning about Milo’s travails. Milo was uncomfortable being viewed as inspirational, but the guy had come in handy from time to time.

Today, Darren asked no questions and went to pull the file. Milo wouldn’t have been surprised to encounter another vanished folder, but a few minutes later he had the relevant data jotted down in his notepad:

Luke Chapman had parked his car on PCH and gone night-swimming at Zuma Beach. An illegal dip, because state sand was off-limits after dark and Chapman had had to scale a high link fence. Chapman’s alcohol level was twice the legal limit, which made Milo wonder about his ability to climb the fence, but the coroner’s theory was that “this young, white, well-nourished male” had been caught in a riptide and lost coordination due to intoxication. Water in the lungs confirmed drowning. The corpse had washed up at the far end of Zuma, where public sand abutted Broad Beach. Multiple contusions and abrasions consistent with battery by surf and sand had been apparent. But no obvious signs of foul play.

No obvious signs unless you were prepared to interpret the bruises on Chapman’s arms and legs and back evidence of his having been forced down into the water. Knew Zuma had been one of the King’s Men’s party spots.

Milo recalled Chapman’s vacant expression. The dumb kid in the group. Participating in Janie Ingalls’s murder and sitting on the horror for months, but unable to get over it. Maybe he’d gotten loaded and blubbered the wrong thing to his buddies and made himself an extreme liability.