The Murder Book

Maybe Janie's murderer had continued to pursue his grisly interests without leaving any bodies behind.

But that didn't make sense. He'd flaunted Janie's corpse twenty years ago and was likely to get more, not less, brazen.

When I got home, my message machine registered zero calls. I phoned Milo's house and Rick Silverman answered, sounding sleepy. He's an ER surgeon. No matter when I call, I seem to be waking him up.

"Alex. How's it going?" He sounded casual. So Milo hadn't told him about Robin.

"Fine, and with you?"

"I'm working, they're paying me, I'm not complaining."

"You're the only doctor who isn't."

He laughed. "Actually, I'm bitching plenty, but too much of that, and you get bored with yourself. I keep telling myself it's a good thing I'm salaried, don't have to deal with the HMOs directly. Maybe one day Milo'll pay all the bills."

"That'll be the year he heads to Paris for the big couture shows."

He laughed again but I was thinking: Paris? Where did that come from, Professor Freud?

"So you're busy," I said.

"Just came off an eighteen-hour fun-fest. Multicar collision. Daddy and Mommy having a spat in front, two kids in the back, three and five, no car seats, no belts. Daddy and Mommy survived. She may even walk again- enough of this or I'll have to pay you. The big guy's not in. Breezed by for di

"He say where he was going?"

"Nope. We had Chinese takeout and I nearly fell asleep in my moo goo. When I woke, he'd tucked me in and left a note saying he might be busy for a while. He did seem a little edgy. Is there something I should know about? You two into something new?"

"No," I said. "Everything's old."

I tried reading, watching TV, listening to music, meditating- what a joke that was, all I could focus on was bad stuff. By 10 P.M. I was ready to claw the plaster from the walls and wondering when Robin would call again.

At this hour, the Eugene concert would be in full force and she'd be backstage, wonderfully harried. Needed. All those guitar-strumming, save-the-world sonofabitch-

Rrrrring.

My "hello" was breathless.

"What, you in the middle of working out?" said Milo.

"I'm in the middle of nothing. What's up?"

"I can't locate Schwi

"First name Marge? Mecca Ranch in Oak View?" I said.

His exhalation was a protracted hiss. "Well, well, well, someone's been a busy worker bee."

"More like a drone. How'd you find her?"

"Exemplary detective work," he said. "I got hold of Schwi

"His pension checks went to the ranch?"

"For the first fifteen years after he left, they went to an address in Simi Valley. Then he switched to a post-office box in Oxnard for two years, then the ranch. He's not listed in any DMV files, but the address cross-referenced to Marge Schwi

"No DMV listing for him," I said. "Think he's dead?"

"Or he doesn't drive anymore."

"An ex-cop who doesn't drive?"

"Yeah," he said. "True."

"Suburban life in Simi followed by a two-year POB interlude before the ranch. That could be divorce, intervening lonely bachelorhood, remarriage."

"Or widowhood. His first wife was named Dorothy and she stopped being a beneficiary when he moved to Oxnard. Two years later, Marge came on." He paused. "Dorothy… I think he mentioned her name. It's getting hard to tell what I remember and what's wishful thinking. Anyway, that's it, for now."

I recounted my time in the library, what I'd learned about the Cossacks.

"Rich kids stay rich," he said. "Big surprise. I also looked for Melinda Waters. She's on no state files, and neither is her mother, Eileen. That may not mean much if she got married and/or Mom got remarried and they both changed their names. I wish I knew the name of Melinda's Navy dad, but I never learned it. The guy had shipped out to Turkey, good luck tracing that. I did locate Bowie Ingalls, and he's definitely dead. Nineteen years dead."

"A year after Janie," I said. "What happened?"

"Single-motorist vehicular accident up in the hills. Ingalls plowed into a tree and went through the windshield. Blood alcohol four times the legal limit, dozen Bud empties in the car."

"Up in the hills where?"

"Bel Air. Near the reservoir. Why?"

"Not that far from the party house."

"So maybe he was reminiscing," he said. "The facts still say drunk driver. The whole Cossack angle was pure supposition. For all I know, Janie and Melinda went to a whole other party. Or Schwi

"What's the plan with Marge Schwi

"She's got my message."

"And if she doesn't return it?"

"I'll try again."

"If Schwi

"Anything's possible, my friend."

"If you do reach her, mind if I tag along?"

"Who says I'm visiting her?"

I didn't answer. He said, "What, you've got nothing better to do?"

"Not a thing."

He humphed.

"Robin called," I said. "We talked."

"Good," he said, putting a question mark on the end of it.

I swerved back into safe territory: "By the way, did you have time to run the prints on the murder book?"

"Just one set that I can see."

"Mine."

"Well," he said, "I'm no ace powder man, but I have printed you, and those whorls look familiar."

"So whoever sent it wiped it clean," I said. "Interesting. Either way."

He knew exactly what I meant: a careful cop, or a fastidious, taunting killer.

"Whatever," he said. "Nighty-night."

"Have some sweet dreams, yourself."

"Oh, sure. Here come the sugarplum fairies."

CHAPTER 13

I didn't expect to hear from him anytime soon, but the following morning at eleven, he showed up at my front door, wearing a navy windbreaker over a plaid shirt and baggy jeans. Below the jacket, his gun bulged his waistline, but otherwise he looked like a guy with a day off. I was still in my robe. No call, so far, from Robin.

"Ready for fresh air?" he said. "Horse manure? All of the above?"

"The second Mrs. Schwi

"The second Mrs. Schwi

A reflexive "Ah" rose in my throat and stuck there. "I'll get dressed."

"That would be best."

He said, "The Seville's nice on long drives," and I obliged. The moment I started the engine, he threw back his head, shut his eyes, covered them with a handkerchief, let his mouth drop open. For the next hour, he dozed in the passenger seat, opening his eyes periodically to gaze out the window and appraise the world with distrust and wonder, the way kids and cops do.

I didn't feel conversational, either, and I played music for company. Some old Oscar Aleman cuts from the Buenos Aires days, Aleman wailing away on a diamond-bright, nickel-silver National guitar. The route to Oak View was north on the 405, transfer to the 101 toward Ventura, then an exit on Highway 33. Ten more miles on two lanes that sliced through pink-gray mountains but rose barely above sea level, took us toward Ojai. Ocean moisture hung in the air and the sky was cottony white above the horizon, then slate-colored strata where the sun should have been. The stifled light brought out the greens, turned the world nuclear-blast emerald.

It had been a few years since I'd been here- chasing down a psychopath bent on revenge and meeting up with an impressive man named Wilbert Harrison. I had no idea if Harrison still lived in Ojai. A psychiatrist and a philosopher, he'd taken a reflective view of life, and given the violence I'd introduced him to, I could see him moving on.