The Murder Book

Baldassar hesitated. "Let me check- wait out here, please."

She reentered the building. I said, "I wonder if Michael Larner had something to do with the Cossacks trying to evict the school. After the board fired him, he wouldn't have been fond of the institution."

Milo kicked one of the Dumpsters. Another pigeon flew overhead. Then three more. "Airborne rats," he muttered. Barely audible, but the vibrations must have reached the birds, and they scattered.

Marlene Baldassar returned, another cigarette in one hand, a pink index card in another.

"No chart, all I found was this, listing the dates of her stay."

Milo took the card. "Admitted August 9, discharged December 22. But it doesn't say where she went."

"No it doesn't," said Baldassar.

"You don't hold on to old charts?"

"We do. It should be here." She studied Milo's face. "You're not shocked."

"Like you, I'm pretty much beyond being shockable, Ms. Baldassar. And I'm going to ask you to return the favor: Keep this visit confidential. For everyone's sake."

"No problem with that," said Baldassar. She took a deep drag, blew a smoke ring. "Here I thought it was going to be a lazy day, and it turned out to be heavy-duty déjà vu. Gentlemen, you brought back memories of my days with the county."

"How so?" I said.

"Problems that can't be solved with phonics and a credit card."

CHAPTER 19

"Interesting time line," I said, as we headed for the car under the now-watchful eyes of the kids in the parking lot. "Janie Ingalls is murdered in early June. Two months later, Caroline gets checked into Achievement House and Willie shows up and works there for three weeks. Willie's fired, then he's busted for dope, gets Boris Nemerov to bail him out. When was Nemerov ambushed?"

"December 23," said Milo.

"The day after Caroline leaves Achievement House- voluntarily or otherwise. Maybe Willie took his girlfriend out, then took care of her. Or, Cossack family money found both of them a nice safe place to hide out. And one more thing: Georgie could've gotten nervous when you brought up Burns not because his men finished off his dad's killer but because they didn't. Were paid off not to."

"He accepted money to let his dad's murderer off the hook? Uh-uh, not Georgie."

"He and his mother were in severe financial straits. Maybe it took more than twenty-hour days and clever negotiating to keep the business going."

"No, I can't see it," he said. "Georgie's always been a straight-ahead guy."

"You'd know."

"Yeah, I'm a font of knowledge. C'mon, let's go over to my place, have another look at that damn book."

Rick and Milo lived in a small, well-kept bungalow in West Hollywood, on a quiet, elm-darkened street further shadowed by Design Center's alarming blue bulk. Rick's white Porsche was gone and the blinds were drawn. A few years ago, L.A. suffered through a drought and Rick had the lawn dug up and replaced with pea gravel and gray-leafed desert plants. This year, L.A. had plenty of water but the xeriscape remained in place, bursts of tiny yellow blossoms punctuating the pallid vegetation.

I said, "The cactus are thriving."

Milo said, "Great. Especially when I come home in the dark and snag my pants."

"Nothing like seeing the bright side."

"That's my core philosophy," he said. "The glass is either half-empty or broken."

He unlocked the front door, disarmed the alarm, picked up the mail that had fallen through the slot and tossed it on a table without breaking stride. The kitchen often lures him in his own digs, too, but this time he walked through it into the service porch nook that serves as his office: a cramped, dim space, sandwiched between the washer-dryer and the freezer and smelling of detergent. He'd set it up with a hideous metal desk painted school-bus yellow, a folding chair, and a painted wooden shark-face lamp from Bali. The blue book sat in an oversize Ziploc bag, on the top shelf of a miniature bookcase bolted above the desk.

He gloved up, unbagged the book, flipped to Janie Ingalls's photo, and studied the death shot. "Any sudden insights?"

"Let's see what follows."

Only three more pages after Janie. A trio of crime-scene photos, all of the victims, young men. One black youth, two Hispanics, each sprawled on blood-splotched pavement. White lights on the corpses and dark periphery said nighttime death. A shiny revolver lay near the right hand of the final victim.

The first photo was labeled "Gang drive-by, Brooks St., Venice. One dead, two wounded."

Next: "Gang drive-by, Commonwealth and Fifth, Rampart."

Finally: "Gang drive-by, Central Ave."

"Three of a kind," I said. "That's kind of interesting."

"Why?"

"Until now there was variety."

Milo said, "Gang stuff… business as usual. Maybe Schwi

"Mind if I take another look?"

"Take as many looks as you want." He produced another pair of gloves from a desk drawer, and I slipped them on. As I turned to the first photo, he stepped around the washer-dryer and into the kitchen. I heard the fridge door creak open.

"Want something to drink?"

"No, thanks."

Heavy footsteps. A cabinet opened. Glass touched tile. "I'm go

I took my time with the crime-scene shots. Thinking about Schwi

The first go-round, I came up with nothing, but on the second circuit something made me pause.

The two photos that preceded Janie's death shot.

The second page back was a full-color medium-range shot of a thin, rangy black man whose skin had begun to fade to postmortem gray. His long body lay on brown dirt, and one arm curled toward his face, protectively. Gaping mouth, half-open, lifeless eyes, splayed limbs.

No blood. No visible wounds.

Drug OD, possible 187 hotshot.

The next page faced Janie's. I'd avoided it because it was one of the most repellent images in the book.

The camera had focused on a heap of mangled flesh, beyond recognition as human.

Hairless legs and a battered, concave pelvic section suggested a woman. The caption precluded the need for deduction.

Female Mental Case, fell or thrown in front of double tractor trailer.

I flipped back to the ski

Returned to the begi

Then I went to get Milo.

He was in the living room, studying his gas bill, a shot glass of something amber in his paw. "Finished?"

I said, "Come look at this."

He tossed back the rest of his drink, held on to the glass, and followed me.

I showed him the pictures preceding Janie. He said, "What's your point?"

"Two points," I said. "First of all, content: Right before Janie are a black drug-using male and a white woman with mental problems. Sound familiar? Second, context: These two deviate stylistically from every other photo in the book. Forty-one photos, including Janie's, list the location and the police division where the murder took place. These are the only two that don't. If Schwi