The Murder Book

"You got that," said Georgie.

Knots formed along Milo's jawline as he sauntered closer to the counter. "You think he's dead, Georgie?"

Nemerov's eyes shifted to the left. "That would be nice, but why would I think that?"

"Because you never found him."

"Could be, Milo. 'Cause we're good at what we do. Maybe when it first happened we weren't. Like I said, I was a college kid, what did I know? And Mom was all torn up, you remember how the insurance companies were jerking us around- one day we're doing the funeral, the next day we're fighting to stay out of bankruptcy. So maybe Burns didn't get looked for like he should. But later I sent guys out for him, we've still got him on our list- look, I'll show you."

He got up, pushed the paneled door hard, was gone for a few moments, came back with a piece of paper that he dropped on the counter.

Wilbert Lorenzo Burns's wanted sheet. Mug shot in full face and profile, the usual necklace of numbers. Medium-dark face, well-formed features that were soft and boyish- what would have been a pleasant face but for the hype eyes. Burns's long hair protruded in wooly tufts, as if it had been yanked. His statistics put him at six-two, one-sixty, with knife-scars on both forearms and the back of the neck, no tattoos. Wanted for PC's 11375, 836.6., 187. Possession with intent to sell, escape after remand or arrest, homicide.

" 'I think of him from time to time," said Georgie, between bites of wet sandwich. "Probably he is dead. He was a hype, what's those fuckheads' life expectancies, anyway? But you learn different, call me."

CHAPTER 18

As we left the bail bond office, a meter reader's go-cart pulled up behind the Seville. Milo said, "Let's get going," and we ran for the car. The reader got out with his little computerized instrument of evil, but I peeled away before he could punch buttons.

"Close call," said Milo.

"Thought you had clout," I said.

"Clout's an ephemeral thing."

I turned the corner, headed back to the station.

He said, "So what do you think?"

"About what?"

"Georgie's demeanor."

"I don't know Georgie."

"Even so."

"He seemed to get edgy when you brought up Burns."

"He did, at that. Normally, he's even-tempered, you never hear him swear. This time he was tossing out the f-word."

"Maybe recalling his father's murder got him worked up."

"Maybe."

"You're wondering if he did take care of Burns. But you're unlikely to ever know."

"Thought you were supposed to make people feel better."

"Purification through insight," I said, pulling up near the Westside staff parking lot and letting the Seville idle. Milo remained in place, long legs drawn up high, hands flat on the seat.

"Screw Schwi

"That would be easy," I said. "If it was really about Schwi

He glared at me. "More purification?"

"What are friends for?"

A few minutes later: "Why the murder book? If he really wanted to help, all he had to do was call and give me the facts."

"Maybe there's more to the book than just Janie's photo."

"Such as?"

"I don't know, but it's worth a second look."

He didn't answer. Made no effort to leave the car.

"So," I said.

"So… I was thinking of a visit to Achievement House, maybe pick up on the latest trends in special education."

"You're still on it."

"I don't know what I am."

I took Pico east to Motor, sped past Rancho Park and into Cheviot Hills. In the daylight, Achievement House didn't look any more impressive. The light stucco I'd seen last night was baby blue. A few more cars occupied the lot, and a dozen or so adolescents hung in loose groups. When we pulled up to the curb, they paid scant notice. The kids were a varied bunch ranging from black-lipped Goths to preppy chirpers who could've been extras on the Ozzie and Harriet set.

Milo rang the bell on the gate, and we were buzzed in without inquiry. Another buzz got us through the door. The lobby smelled of room freshener and corn chips. A reception desk to the right and an office door marked ADMINISTRATION were separated by a hallway that emptied to a softly lit waiting room where no one waited. Cream walls hung with chrome-framed floral prints, plum-colored carpeting, neatly arranged magazines on teak tables, off-white, overstuffed chairs. Glass panes in the rear double doors provided a view of more corridor and bursts of gawky adolescent movement.

The receptionist was a young Indian woman in a peach sari, surprised, but untroubled, by Milo's badge.

"And this is about?" she said, pleasantly.

"An inquiry," said Milo, with downright good cheer. During the ride he'd been tense and silent, but all that was gone now. He'd combed his hair, tightened his tie, was coming across like a man with something to look forward to.

"An inquiry?" she said.

"A look at some student records, ma'am."

"I'll get you Ms. Baldassar. She's our director."

She left, returned, said, "This way," and showed us to the door across the hall. We entered a front office and a secretary ushered us through a door to a tidy space where an ash blond woman in her forties sat behind a desk and stubbed out a cigarette.

Milo offered the badge, and the blonde said, "Marlene Baldassar." Thin, tan, and intensely freckled, she had hollow cheeks, golden brown eyes, and a knife-point chin. Her navy blue A-line dress was piped with white and bagged on her bony frame. The ash hair was blunt-cut to midneck, bangs feathered to fringe. She wore a gold wedding band and an oversize black plastic diver's watch. Tortoise-framed glasses hung on a chain. The big glass ashtray on her desk was half-filled with lipstick-tipped butts. The rim read Mirage Hotel, Las Vegas. The rest of the desk was taken up with books, papers, framed photos. And a shiny silver harmonica.

She saw me looking at the instrument, picked it up with two fingers, tooted twice, put it down, smiling. "Tension reliever, I'm trying to quit smoking. And obviously not doing very well."

"Old habits," I said.

"Very old. And yes, I have tried the patch. All of them. My DNA's probably saturated with nicotine." She ran a finger along the edge of the harmonica. "So, what's this Shoba tells me about a police inquiry? Has one of our alumni gotten into trouble?"

"You don't seem surprised by that possibility," said Milo.

"I've worked with kids for going on twenty years. Very little surprises me."

"Twenty years here, ma'am?"

"Three, here, seventeen with the county- Juvenile Hall, community mental health centers, gang-violence prevention programs."

"Welcome change?" I said.

"For the most part," she said. "But county work could even be fun. Lots of futility, but when you do come across a gem in the trash pile, it's exciting. Working here's extremely predictable. By and large, the kids are a decent bunch. Spoiled but decent. We specialize in serious learning disabilities- chronic school failure, severe dyslexia, kids who just can't get it together educationally. Our goal's specific: try to get them to a point so that when they get hold of their trust funds they can read the small print. So if your inquiry is about one of my current charges, I'd be surprised. We steer away from high-risk antisocials, too much maintenance."

Milo said, "Are the kids confined twenty-four hours a day?"

"Heavens no," she said. "This isn't prison. They go home on weekends, earn passes. So what do you need to know and about whom?"

"Actually," said Milo, "this is more of a historical venture. Someone who was here twenty years ago."

Marlene Baldassar sat back, fooled with her eyeglasses. "Sorry, I'm not free to talk about alumni. An emergent situation with a current student would be something else- someone in the here and now posing a danger to themselves and/or others. The law would require me to work with you on that."