The Murder Book

Larry had told me, Mashing and groping.

"How'd Preston react?" I said.

"He listened. Didn't say anything at all, at first. Didn't ask any questions, which really upset me. I got the impression he thought I was crazy. Finally, he said he'd get back to me. Two days later a letter of dismissal arrived in the mail. I was being let go for poor work habits and excessive absenteeism. I never showed the letter to my parents, just told them I'd quit because the job wasn't challenging. They didn't care. My mother wanted me to swim at the club and play te

She stood, returned to the easy chair, tried to look comfortable but couldn't pull it off.

"I've never told anyone what really happened. Not until now. But this was the wrong time and place, wasn't it? Using a stranger. I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, Allison."

"All these years," she said. "And it still eats at me- not going after that piece of dirt. Who knows how many others he's done that to. What I could've prevented."

"It would've been his word against yours, and he was in power," I said. "It wasn't your fault, then, and it's not your fault, now."

"Do you know how many women I've treated- how many patients I've helped deal with exactly this kind of thing? Not because I pursue those kinds of cases. Not because I'm using my patients to work through my own garbage. Because it's so damned common. I've helped my patients, but then when it comes to my own garbage, I repress. It's crazy, don't you think?"

"No," I said. "It's human. I've preached the virtues of talking it out, but when it comes to my own stuff, I usually go it alone."

"Do you?"

I nodded.

"And you're going through something now, aren't you?"

I stared at her.

"Your eyes are sad," she said.

"I'm going through a bit of something," I said.

"Well, then," she said, "I guess we're kindred spirits. And I guess we'll leave it at that."

She walked me to the waiting room door. "Like I told you the first time, you're just too good a listener, sir."

"Occupational hazard."

"Was it helpful? Telling you that Larner was angry about Willie Burns?"

"Yes," I said. "Thanks very much. I know it was an ordeal."

She smiled. "Not an ordeal, an experience. What you're going through- it has nothing to do with Caroline Cossack or Willie Burns, does it?"

I shook my head.

"Sorry," she said. "No more prying." She reached for the doorknob and her shoulder brushed my arm. The contact sent something electrical down my arm. Suddenly I was rock-hard, fighting to keep my breathing even. To keep my hands off her.

She stared at me. No tension around the huge, blue eyes, just softness, sadness, maybe desire.

"It wasn't an ordeal," she said. "You said the right thing. Here's another confession: I was looking forward to seeing you again."

"Me too," I said.

I smiled and shrugged, and she did the same. Gracious mimickry.

"You too, but," she said. "That bit of something, right?"

I nodded.

"Well, maybe in another galaxy, Alex. You're very sweet. Good luck."

"Good luck to you, too."

She held the door open. Kept it open as I walked down the hall.

CHAPTER 24

Milo woke up early the next morning, with the faces of the men at the Sangre de Leon meeting leering in his head. Thinking: Too many ways to take it, not enough of me to go around.

He stumbled to the shower, shaved, picked clothes randomly, got the coffee machine going, looked at the clock. Seven-thirteen. An emergency call had yanked Rick out of bed three hours ago. Milo had watched in the darkness as Rick slipped into the scrubs he kept neatly folded on a bedroom chair, picked up his Porsche keys from the nightstand, and padded out the door.

Rick stopped, returned to the bed, kissed Milo lightly on the forehead. Milo pretended to be sleeping, because he didn't feel like talking, not even "Good-bye."

The two of them had talked plenty all night, sitting up late at the kitchen table. Mostly Milo had blabbed and Rick had listened, maintaining a superficial calm, but Milo knew he was shaken by the Paris Bartlett encounter and the HIV rumor. All these years, and Milo's work had never intruded on their personal life.

Milo reassured him, and Rick nodded, complained of crushing fatigue and fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Milo cleaned up the Chinese take-out cartons and the di

The Cossacks, Walt Obey, Larner Junior, Germ Bacilla, Diamond Jim Horne.

Plus the player who hadn't shown up. He saw that face, clearly: a stoic, ebony mask.

Smiley Bartlett, the perso

He recalled Broussard- smelled Broussard's citrus cologne in the interview room, twenty years ago. The hand-stitched suit, all that confidence, taking charge. He and his pink pal- Poulse

A white man and a black man teamed up, and the black man had been the dominant partner.

A black man advancing that quickly, back in LAPD's bad old racist days. That had to mean Broussard had harpoons in all the right whales. Had probably used his IA dirt to build up leverage.

Mr. Straight and Narrow. And he'd covered up Janie Ingalls and Lord knew what else. Milo had been part of it, allowed himself to be swept along, pretended he could forget about it.

Now he wondered what that had done to his soul.

He poured coffee but the muddy brew tasted like battery acid and he spit it out and gulped a glass of tap water. The light through the kitchen window was the yellow-gray of old phlegm.

He sat down, kept thinking about Broussard, a South Central guy who'd ended up in Hancock Park.

Neighbor to Walt Obey.

Every police chief before Broussard had lived in his own house, but John G. had convinced the mayor to give him an empty mansion on Irving Street, rent-free. The three-story edifice, donated to the city years ago by the heirs of a long-dead oil tycoon, was twelve thousand square feet of English Tudor with big lawns, a pool, and a te

Set aside originally as a mayor's residence, the Irving house had sat dormant for years because the mayor's predecessor had his own place in Brentwood and the current mayor's even larger spread in Pacific Palisades was just fine, too.

John G. Broussard's crib, prior to his promotion, had been a too-small affair in Ladera Heights and John G. claimed he needed to be closer to headquarters.

Ladera Heights was a half hour ride downtown, the mansion on Irving was fifteen minutes up Sixth Street. The mayor's drive from the Westside could stretch to over an hour, but no one saw the inconsistency in John G.'s logic, and the new chief got himself baronial lodgings.

Irving Street, less than a mile from Walt Obey's estate on Muirfield.

Obey was one of the mayor's big donors. Had supported Broussard for chief over three other candidates.

The mayor and Obey. Obey and Broussard. Obey and a bunch of lowlifes supping nouvelle-whatever cuisine in a private room at Sangre de Leon.