The Murder Book

This place was flat and tiny and treeless except for the bordering junipers. Two naked acres, if that. Full up with gravestones, too- an old place. Nowhere to hide, and finding Broussard was easy enough.

The chief was standing off in a corner in the lower, left quadrant of the cemetery. Second-to-last row, a snug, shady place. His back was to Milo as he faced a marker, big, dark hands laced behind his ramrod back.

Milo walked toward him, making no effort to squelch the sound of his footsteps. Broussard didn't turn.

When Milo got to the gravesite, the chief said, "What took you so long?"

The stone that had occupied Broussard was charcoal granite edged with salmon pink and carved beautifully with a border of daisies.

Jane Marie Ingalls.

MAY SHE FIND PEACE IN ETERNITY

Entry and exit dates spelled out a sixteen-year-three-month life span. A tiny smiling teddy bear had been chiseled above Janie's name.

A gray-blue juniper berry had lodged in the bevel that created the bear's left button eye. John G. Broussard stooped and plucked it out and placed it in a pocket of his jacket. The suit was double-breasted, blue with a maroon chalk stripe. Suppressed waist, high side vents, working buttonholes on the sleeves. Look, ma, I'm custom-made. Milo remembered Broussard's terrific threads and poreless skin during the interrogation twenty years ago.

The thousandth time he'd thought about that day.

Up close, the chief hadn't changed much. The graying hair, a bit of crease at the corner of his lips, but his complexion glowed with health, and his huge hands looked strong enough to crack walnuts.

Milo said, "You come here a lot?"

"When I invest in something, I like to keep an eye on it."

"Invest?"

"I bought the marker, Detective. Her father didn't care. She was going to end up in a potter's field."

"Guilt offering," said Milo.

Broussard remained still. Then he said, "Detective Sturgis, I'm going to examine you for listening devices, so relax."

"Sure," said Milo, stifling the "Yes, sir" on the tip of his tongue. No matter how hard he tried, Broussard made him feel small. He drew himself up as the chief turned, faced him, did an expert pat-down.

That figured. An ex-IA man would have experience with wires.

Finished, Broussard dropped his hands and maintained eye contact. "So what is it you want to tell me?"

"I was hoping you'd have things to tell me."

Broussard's lips didn't move, but a glint of amusement brightened his eyes. "You'd like some sort of confessional statement?"

"If that's what's on your mind," said Milo.

"What's on your mind, Detective?"

"I know about Willie Burns."

"Do you?"

"The tax rolls say the place where he hid out on 156th- where your partner Poulse

Broussard stooped and brushed dust off Janie Ingalls's headstone.

"Burns was family," said Milo.

"Was?" said Broussard.

"Very much was. It went down last night. Just like you choreographed."

Broussard straightened. "There are limits to protection. Even for family."

"What was he, a cousin?"

"Nephew," said the chief. "Son of my wife's eldest brother. His siblings were all respectable. Everyone in the family went to college or learned a trade. Willie was the youngest. Something went wrong."

"Sometimes it works out that way," said Milo.

"Now you're sounding like that shrink friend of yours."

"It rubs off."

"Does it?" said Broussard.

"Yeah. Hanging around with the right people is good for the soul. Vice versa, too. Musta been a burden, you playing by the rules, taking all that racist crap, climbing the ranks, meanwhile Willie's going on his merry way shooting and selling smack. Lots of potential for bad PR. But you did your best to help him, anyway. That's why he never served much jail time. You hooked him up with Boris Nemerov, probably went his cash bonds. And at first he came through for Nemerov, kept you looking good."

Broussard remained impassive.

Milo said, "Musta been a strain, associating with a known felon."

"I never broke the law."

Milo 's turn to keep quiet.

Broussard said, "There's always flexibility in the law, Detective. Yes, I carried him. My wife adored him- remembered him as a cute little kid. To the family he was still the cute little kid. I was the only one seemed to realize he'd metamorphosed into a reprobate junkie. Maybe I should've seen it, sooner. Or let him deal with the consequences, earlier."

The chief's posture relaxed a bit. Bastard was actually slumping.

Milo said, "Then Willie got himself in a whole new level of trouble. Witnessed a very nasty 187 and got paranoid and told you they were going to pin it on him."

"Not paranoia," said Broussard. "Reasonable apprehensiveness." He gave a cold smile. "Black junkie with a felony record versus rich white boys? No one intended to bring Willie to trial. The plan was to float rumors, plant evidence, have Willie OD somewhere, call in an anonymous tip, and close the case."

"So Willie skipped on Boris, but you paid Boris off. Then you got Poulse

"That was temporary. We were regrouping, assessing contingencies."

"None of which included going after the real killers," said Milo, surprised at the fury in his own voice. "Maybe Schwi

Broussard swiveled and faced him. "You've got it all figured out."

"I don't. That's why I'm here. Who was the fixer? Walt Obey? Janie was pimped by that piece of shit who called himself her father and used by two generations of rich scrotes, and who's richer than old Walt? Is that what doomed the investigation, John? Kindly, churchgoing Uncle Walt worried about having his nasty habits aired?"

Broussard's ebony face remained still. He stared past Milo. Let out a low, grumbling laugh.

"Happy to entertain, John," said Milo. His hands were shaking, and he rolled them into fists.

"I'm going to educate you, Detective, about matters you don't understand. I've spent a lot of time in the company of rich folk, and it's true what they say. The rich are different. Life's little bumps get smoothed out for them, no one has the temerity to deny them anything. More often than not, their kids become monsters. Malignant entitlement. But there are exceptions, and Mr. Obey's one of them. He's exactly what he claims to be: religious, straightforward, ethical, good father, faithful husband. Mr. Obey grew rich through hard work and vision and luck- he'd be the first to emphasize the luck component, because he's also a humble man. So understand this: He had nothing to do with any cover-up. You mention the name Janie Ingalls, and he'll stare at you blankly."

"Maybe I'll try that," said Milo.

Broussard's jaw set. "Stay away from that gentleman."

"Is that an official order, Chief?"

"It's sound advice, Detective."

"Then who?" said Milo. "Who the hell fixed it?"

Broussard ran a finger under his collar. Full sun had brought the sweat out on his brow, and his skin glistened like a desert highway.

"It wasn't like that," he finally said. "No one ordered the Ingalls investigation stopped, per se. The directive- and it was a departmental directive, straight from the top, the very top- was to effect damage control on Pierce Schwi