The Murder Book

"Is this the dramatic moment where I'm supposed to thank you?" Milo cupped a hand to his ear. "Where's the goddamn drumroll?"

Broussard's mouth curled downward in disgust. "Suit yourself and be dense."

"I didn't need your largesse, John. When I picked that hooker up I had no idea what was going to happen, figured her for an informant."

Broussard smiled. "I believe you, Detective. I had a pretty good notion that you wouldn't participate in any backseat calisthenics with a woman."

Milo 's face grew hot.

Broussard said, "Don't get all indignant on me. I won't pretend to understand what you are, but it doesn't bother me. Life's too short for intolerance. I know what it's like to be on the outside, and I've given up on the whole idea of changing the way people feel. Let bigots feel any way they want to, as long as they don't misbehave."

"You're a paragon of tolerance."

"Not tolerance, constructive apathy. I don't care about your amusements- don't care about you, period, as long as you do your job."

"When doing the job suits your interests," said Milo.

Broussard didn't reply.

"You're an outsider, huh?" said Milo. "For an outsider, you scampered up the ladder pretty quickly."

"Hard work and persistence," said Broussard, sounding as if he'd recited it a million times before. "And good luck. Plus a good deal of yassuh-mastah posterior-kissing." He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Aiming for casual, just one of the guys. His bearing said otherwise. "Back when I worked patrol, I used to tape pictures in my locker. Photographs of men I admired. Frederick Douglass, George Washington Carver, Ralph Bunche. One day I opened my locker and the pictures were ripped to shreds and the walls were decorated with 'Die, Nigger!' and other genial messages. I pasted every one of those photos together, and if you go into my office today, you'll see them hanging behind my desk."

"I'll have to take that on faith," said Milo. "Don't expect to be invited to your office anytime soon. Unlike that other worthy soul, Craig Bosc. I'm disappointed in you, John. Choosing a lowlife like that to run your errands."

Broussard worked his lips. "Craig has his talents. He went too far this time."

"What was the idiot's assignment? Spook me into focusing on the Ingalls case, the old reverse psychology? Just in case sending Delaware the murder book wasn't enough to kick me in gear?"

"The idiot's directive," said Broussard, "was to aim you at the case and keep you focused. I thought you'd be interested, but for a while things seemed to be lagging. It has been twenty years."

"So you steal my partner's car, float HIV-retirement rumors, have Bosc hit on me and make sure I get aimed at a POB that directs me to the Larners. Then you trail Dr. Delaware and set Coury on his trail. He could've died last night, you manipulative sonofabitch."

"He didn't," said Broussard. "And I don't deal in theoreticals. As I said, Craig grew overzealous. End of story."

Milo cursed, caught his breath, bent, and caressed the top of Janie's grave. Broussard's shoulders tensed, as if the gesture was insulting.

"You buy a gravestone and think you're absolved, John. This poor little girl molders for two decades, and you've allowed yourself to grow righteous. Schwi

The chief's face returned to wooden. Milo visualized him wiping the murder book clean of prints, contemplating the "contingencies," finally deciding to forward the death shots to someone sure to pass them along. Using Alex to spook him, throw him off, wanting him to have to fight to regain his bearings, convince himself it was a noble quest.

And if Milo hadn't bitten, Broussard would've found another way. There'd never been any real choice.

"You've got a reputation," said Broussard. "As a contrarian. I thought it was wise to harness that."

He shrugged, and the easy gesture turned Milo feverish. He locked his hands together, struggled not to hit Broussard, finally found his voice. "Why'd you want the case solved now?"

"Times change."

"What changed were your personal circumstances." Milo jabbed a finger at the gravestone. "You never gave a shit about Janie or the truth. Nailing Coury and the others became important because it was in your best interest, and boy, did you succeed. Bunch of dead guys in Ojai, couple more in S.B., the Cossacks bite it in Inglewood, and there's no reason to co

Broussard stiffened.

"Esperanza, what horseshit," said Milo. "It means 'hope' and you're hoping it'll make you filthy-rich because you know you're a failure as chief, go

Broussard's eyes turned to cracks in asphalt. His lower jaw jutted forward, and Milo knew the chief was struggling not to hit him.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Detective."

"John," he said, "I watched a portable dialysis van pull up early this morning on Muirfield. Mrs. O's seriously not well. Old Barbara needs a machine to survive. Hubby's initiative is being sapped."

Broussard's hand flew to the knot of his tie. He tugged it down farther, stared off into nowhere.

Milo said, "Obey's owned the land for years, so even with his mortgages he can sell at a huge profit. He woulda tossed you a consolation prize, but basically you'd have been a controversial ex-chief forced out and looking around for a gig. Maybe some drugstore chain would hire you to oversee security."

Broussard didn't answer.

"All those years of posterior-kissing," said Milo. "All that upright behavior."

"What," said Broussard, very softly, "do you want?"

Milo ignored the question. "You shrug off that twenty-year-old directive to shaft Schwi