The Murder Book

Petty fib for a middle-aged millionaire; that made it all the more interesting.

I located Robert "Bobo" Cossack's headshot one class back. He'd come to photo day wearing a black shirt with a high collar and a choker-length chain. Equine face, hair darker and even longer than his brother's, a more severe blemish. Bobo wore a sullen expression and his eyes were half-shut. Sleepy or stoned- or trying to look the part. His attempts to grow a beard and mustache had resulted in a halo of dark fuzz around his chin and spidery wisps above his upper lip.

No affiliations below his picture other than the King's Men.

Also in the junior class was a very ski

Another King's Man.

I searched the yearbook for mention of the club, found a listing in the roster of school service organizations but no details. Finally, in a breathless account of the homecoming game I spotted a reference to "the revelry, high jinks (and other good stuff) perpetrated by the King's Men."

An accompanying snapshot showed a group of six boys at the beach, wearing bathing trunks and striped beanies and clowning around with cross-eyed grins, goofy poses, behind-the-head rabbit ears. The beer cans in their hands had been blacked out clumsily. In one case, the Miller logo was still visible. The caption: Surf's Up! but the King's Men crave other liquid entertainment! Partying at Zuma: G. Cossack, L. Chapman, R. Cossack, V. Coury, B. Larner, N. Hansen.

The Cossack brothers had been high school party animals, and the Bel Air bash a couple of years later was just more of the same. And the link between them and the Larners had been forged on the sands of Zuma, not in the boardroom.

That made me wonder if the idea for secreting problematic sister Caroline might have originated with the boys, not their father. "Hey, Dad, Brad's dad works at this place for weirdos, maybe he can help out."

I searched the yearbooks for mention or a picture of Caroline Cossack.

Nothing.

I drove around the pretty residential streets of Westwood, thinking about Pierce Schwi

Either way, Schwi

As I'd told Milo, Ojai was a small town and it was doubtful Schwi

The place was still in business, on Oxnard Boulevard.

I'd taken the scenic route because it was the quickest way and I had no stomach for the freeway: Sunset to PCH, then north on the coast highway past the L.A.-Ventura line and Deer Creek Road and the campgrounds of Sycamore Creek- fifteen miles of state land that kissed the ocean and separated the last private beach in Malibu from Oxnard. The water was sapphire blue under a chamber-of-commerce sky, and the bodies that graced the sand were brown and perfect.

At Las Posas Road, I avoided the eastern fork that swoops into glorious, green tables of farmland and up to the foothills of Camarillo and continued on Route 1.

Nature's beauty gave way, soon enough, to dinge and depression and seventy-five minutes after leaving the house I was enjoying the sights of central Oxnard.

Oxnard's a fu

Randall's Western Wear was a red barn in the center of the strip, stuck between Bernardo's Batteries and a windowless bar called El Guapo. Plenty of parking in back; only two pickups and an old Chrysler 300 in the lot.

Inside was the smell of leather and sawdust and sweat, ceiling-high racks of denim and fla

Slow day in the ranch-duds biz. No customers, just two salesmen on duty, both white men in their thirties. One wore gray sweats, the other jeans and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt. Both smoked behind the counter, showing no interest in my arrival.

I browsed, found a tooled cowhide belt that I liked, brought it to the counter and paid. Harley-D rang me up, offering no eye contact or conversation. As he handed back my credit card, I let my wallet open and showed him my LAPD consultant badge. It's a clip-on deal with the department's badge as a logo, not good for much and if you look closely it tells you that I'm no cop. But few people get past the insignia, and Harley was no exception.

"Police?" he said, as I closed the wallet. He wore a bad haircut like his own badge of honor, had a handlebar mustache that drooped to his chin, and a clogged-sinus voice. Stringy arms and stringy hair, a scatter of faded tattoos.

I said, "Thought maybe you could help me with something."

"With what?"

Sweats looked up. He was a few years younger than Harley, with a blond-gray crew cut, a square shelf of a chin finishing a florid face. Stocky build, quiet eyes. My guess was ex-military.

"A few questions about a guy who worked here a while back. Pierce Schwi

"Him?" said Harley. "He hasn't been here for what- coupla years?" He looked back at Sweats.

"Coupla," Sweats agreed.

Harley looked at the belt. "What, you bought that to get friendly or something?"

"I bought it because it's a nice belt," I said. "But I have no problem with being friendly. What do you remember about Schwi

Harley frowned. "When he worked here he was a bum. What's up with him now?"

"Have you seen him since he stopped working here?"

"Maybe once," he said. "Or maybe not. If he did come in, it was with his wife- that right?" Another consultation with Sweats.

"Probably."

"Why?" said Harley. "What he do?"

"Nothing. Just a routine investigation." Even as I said it, I felt ridiculous, not to mention criminal. But if Milo could risk violations of the public order, so could I. "So the last time Mr. Schwi

"That's right." Harley's smile was derisive. "If you wa

"It wasn't?"

"Man," he said, leaning on the counter, "let me tell you: It was a gift. From our mom to him. She owns the place. He used to live down the block, at the Happy Night. Mom felt sorry for him, let him clean up for spare change."

"The Happy Night Motel?" I said.

"Right down the block."

"So it was a sympathy thing," I said. "From your mother."

"She's got a soft heart," said Harley. "Ain't that so, Roger?"

Sweats nodded and smoked and turned up the volume on Travis Tritt. The singer's voice was plaintive and rich; I'd have been convinced.