The Murder Book

Seventeen years old made Caroline Cossack an age peer of Janie Ingalls and Melinda Waters. A rich girl with a wild side and access to the right toys might very well have attracted two street kids.

Taking black boys home. Racism aside, that spelled rebel. Someone willing to push the envelope.

Dope, a couple of party girls venturing from Hollywood into uncharted territory… still, it came down to nothing more than rumor, and he had nowhere to take it.

He stared at the empty party house, took in Bel Air silence, shabby grace, a lifestyle he'd never attain. Feeling out of his element, every inch the ignorant rookie.

And now he had to report back to Schwi

This is a whodunit. This likes to munch on your insides, then shit you out in pellets…

The bastard's reproachful voice had crept into his head and camped there, obnoxious but authoritative.

While Milo'd spun his wheels, Schwi

A source he wouldn't identify. Not even bothering to be coy, coming right out and accusing Milo of spying for the brass.

Because he knew he was under suspicion? Maybe that's why the other D's seemed to shun the guy. Whatever was going on, Milo'd been shoved square in the middle of it… he had to push all that aside and concentrate on the job. But the job- going nowhere- made him feel inadequate.

Poor Janie. And Melinda Waters- what was the chance she was alive? What would she look like when they finally found her?

It was nearly noon and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. But he could find no reason to stop for grease. Had no appetite for anything.

CHAPTER 10

He arrived back at the station wondering if Schwi

"Who?"

"Go see for yourself. Interview Five."

Something in the guy's voice pinged Milo's gut. "Interview Five?"

"Uh-huh." The blue kept his head down, busy with paperwork.

An interrogation room. Someone being questioned- a suspect for Ingalls in custody so soon? Had Schwi

"I wouldn't keep them waiting," said the sergeant, writing something down, still avoiding eye contact.

Milo peered over the counter, saw a crossword puzzle book. "Them."

No answer.

Milo hurried down the too-bright corridor that housed the interview rooms and knocked on Five. A voice, not Schwi

He opened the door and came face-to-face with two tall men in their thirties. Both were broad-shouldered and good-looking, in well-cut charcoal suits, starched white shirts, and blue silk ties.

Corporate Bobbsey twins- except one guy was white- Swedish pink, actually, with a crew cut the color of cornflakes- and the other was black as the night.

Together they nearly spa

Pinkie hung toward the rear of the tiny room, but he was the first to speak.

"Detective Sturgis. Have a seat." Reedy voice, Northern inflection- Wisconsin or Mi

"Detective," said the black man. Offering him the suspect chair.

On the table was a big, ugly Satchell-Carlson reel-to-reel tape recorder, the same gray as the twins' suits. Everything color-coordinated- like some psychology experiment and guess who was the guinea pig…

"What's going on?" he said, remaining in the doorway.

"Come in and we'll tell you," said Pinkie.

"How about a proper introduction?" said Milo. "As in who are you and what's this all about?" Surprising himself with his assertiveness.

The suits weren't surprised. Both looked pleased, as if Milo had confirmed their expectation.

"Please come in," said Black, putting some steel into "please." He came closer, stepped within inches of Milo's nose, and Milo caught a whiff of expensive aftershave, something with citrus in it. The guy was taller than Milo- six-four or -five- and Pinkie looked every bit as big. Size was one of the few advantages Milo figured God had given him; for the most part, he'd used it to avoid confrontation. But between these guys and the Wagnerian Dr. Schwartzman it had been a bad day for exploiting body type.

"Detective," said Black. His face was strangely inanimate- an African war mask. And those eyes. The guy had presence; he was used to being in charge. That was curious. Since the Watts riots, there'd been some race progress in the department, but for the most part it was lip service. Blacks and Mexicans were despised by the brass, shunted to dead-end patrol jobs in the highest-crime segments of Newton, Southwest, and Central, with scant chance for advancement. But this guy- his suit looked like mohair blend, the stitching on the lapels, hand-sewn- what kind of dues had he paid and who the hell was he?

He stepped aside and as Milo entered the room, nodded approvingly. "In terms of an introduction, I'm Detective Broussard and this is Detective Poulse

"Internal Affairs," said Poulse

Broussard smiled. "In terms of why we want you here, it would be better if you sat down."

Milo settled on the folding chair.

Poulse

"How do you like Central Division, Detective?"

"I like it fine." Milo chose not to strain to meet Broussard's eyes, kept his attention on Poulse

"Enjoying homicide work?" said Broussard.

"Yes, sir."

"What about homicide work do you like, specifically?"

"Solving problems," said Milo. "Righting wrongs."

"Righting wrongs," said Broussard, as if impressed by the originality of the response. "So homicide can be righted."

"Not in the strict sense." This was starting to feel like one of those stupid grad school seminars. Professor Milrad taking out his frustration on hapless students.

Poulse

"Exactly-"

"Justice," said Poulse

"Yes, it is," said Broussard. "Sometimes, though, justice gets lost in the shuffle."

Slipping a question mark into the last few words. Milo didn't bite, and Broussard went on: "A shame when that happens, isn't it, Detective Sturgis?"

Poulse

He said, "I'm not getting the point of-"

"You were in Vietnam," said Broussard.

"Yes-"

"You were a medic, saw lots of action."

"Yes."

"And before that you earned a master's degree."

"Yes."

"Indiana University. American literature."

"Correct. Is there some-"

"Your partner, Detective Schwi