The Murder Book

"It's not a matter of anxiety. It's my finely honed sense of threat."

"That stupid rumor those cops were talking about? I've been thinking about that. For all you know, there is an HIV-positive detective in your division. Someone deep in the closet. Or those cretins were just flapping their gums the way cops do. I know, I see them all the time when they bring in suspects. Standing around drinking coffee and gabbing while we sew the poor devils up."

"Another West L.A. gay detective," said Milo. "Sure, that's likely."

"Who says he's gay? And, what, only you can be a celebrity?"

"Yeah, that's me, a star. Rick, it's more than the rumor-"

"That old case, I know. Maybe it was shunted aside all these years precisely because no one gives a hoot. What if you've just built it up in your head, Milo? With Alex's help."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you and Alex have this bizarre chemistry. The two of you put your heads together, and strange ideas start to pour out."

"I've found Alex to be right more often than he's wrong. And what's the murder book, a schoolboy prank?"

"It's possible."

Milo was silent.

"Fine," said Rick. "Let's not talk about this anymore. Get me a rental."

Milo drove Melrose west to Doheny then north to Santa Monica Boulevard. Past the clubs he and Rick no longer patronized.

Rick said, "Where exactly are you going?"

" Beverly Hills. The Hertz office at the Beverly Hilton."

"As a well-known companion of mine always says, 'Hoo-hah.' Maybe I'll rent a Rolls."

"Forget it, we've got bills to worry about."

Rick stared at him and he stared back and they both broke into laughter. Milo knew it was temporary tension relief, more Band-Aid than cure. But that was fine.

Milo watched Rick drive away in the rental Volvo. The counter agent had been a good-looking blond woman, and she'd taken one look at Rick, flirted outrageously, and upgraded him.

No meeting of the minds about where Rick would stay and for how long. Milo agreed to let it ride until tonight.

Alone, he drove downtown, to Skid Row. The fleabags that Vance Coury, Senior had owned twenty years ago had all been situated on a two-block stretch of Main Street. The chance that any perso

The moment he drove by each of the hotels, the iota of optimism vanished. The spots where the Excelsior and the Crossley had stood were now parking lots, and the Grande Royale was the Shining Light Mission.

He made his way back to the Hall of Records and pulled property tax records on all three parcels. The parking lots were leased to a Nevada corporation, but the land was owned by Concourse Elegance, Inc., which traced to Concourse Auto Restoration on Van Nuys Boulevard. Vance Coury's shop. Junior had inherited the buildings, torn two of them down and converted to low-hassle, income-churning asphalt.

The Shining Light Mission was interesting, though. The Shining Light Foundation was a nonprofit run by the Reverends Fred and Glenda Stephenson- a pair Milo knew because back in his uniform days he'd transported bums to their soup kitchen on San Pedro. He'd found the couple to be saints who put in twenty-hour days serving the poor. Coury probably donated the third lot as part of some sort of tax deal, in order to end up with the other two, free and clear.

Feeling like Don Quixote's dumber brother, he moved on to death records. Sucked in his breath when he encountered unexpected success.

Luke Matthew Chapman had died in a drowning accident, twenty years ago, at the age of twenty-two.

Date of death: December 14. Six months after Janie Ingalls's murder. Eight days prior to Caroline Cossack's final day at Achievement House and nine days prior to Boris Nemerov's execution.

He phoned the coroner's office, got hold of one of the few friendly voices at his disposal: a morgue assistant who'd come out of the closet after learning about Milo's travails. Milo was uncomfortable being viewed as inspirational, but the guy had come in handy from time to time.

Today, Darren asked no questions and went to pull the file. Milo wouldn't have been surprised to encounter another vanished folder, but a few minutes later he had the relevant data jotted down in his notepad:

Luke Chapman had parked his car on PCH and gone night-swimming at Zuma Beach. An illegal dip, because state sand was off-limits after dark and Chapman had had to scale a high link fence. Chapman's alcohol level was twice the legal limit, which made Milo wonder about his ability to climb the fence, but the coroner's theory was that "this young, white, well-nourished male" had been caught in a riptide and lost coordination due to intoxication. Water in the lungs confirmed drowning. The corpse had washed up at the far end of Zuma, where public sand abutted Broad Beach. Multiple contusions and abrasions consistent with battery by surf and sand had been apparent. But no obvious signs of foul play.

No obvious signs unless you were prepared to interpret the bruises on Chapman's arms and legs and back evidence of his having been forced down into the water. Knew Zuma had been one of the King's Men's party spots.

Milo recalled Chapman's vacant expression. The dumb kid in the group. Participating in Janie Ingalls's murder and sitting on the horror for months, but unable to get over it. Maybe he'd gotten loaded and blubbered the wrong thing to his buddies and made himself an extreme liability.

Bought himself the big blue kiss.

On the other hand, accidents happened…

Bowie Ingalls: man versus tree.

Pierce Schwi

Luke Chapman: man versus water.

What was left, fire? Suddenly Milo's head filled with images of Caroline Cossack and Wilbur Burns roasted alive. Bodies charred beyond recognition, the perfect obliteration of the past.

The King's Men. A nasty bunch of spoiled, rich party animals cleaning up after themselves and earning a nice, cushy twenty years.

More than cushy: Ferraris and chauffeurs, cribs in Holmby, dabbles in the film biz, private di

They'd gotten away with it.

These King's Men would've jumped at the chance to stomp Humpty Dumpty's skull.

The Cossack brothers, Specs Larner, Coury. And the smart one- Nicholas Dale Hansen. What was he about?

He looked the guy up in the property files. Nothing. What did that mean, he was leasing the house on North Roxbury?

He found himself a quiet corner in the basement of the building, hidden between stacks of old plot maps, made sure no one was around and took the risk of an NCIC call using the ID of a West Valley D-I named Korn- a punk he'd supervised two years ago, low on initiative, high on attitude.

Wasted risk: Nicholas Dale Hansen had no criminal history.

The only thing left to do was go home and play with his laptop. Or take a shortcut and ask Alex to do it- his friend, initially a computer Luddite, resistant to the whole notion of the Internet, had become quite the web-surfing whiz.

He began the two-block walk to the city lot where he'd left the Taurus. Melting in with the afternoon pedestrian throng, dialing up his cell phone like every other lemming on the street. Probably giving himself ear cancer or something, but those were the breaks. Faking normal felt good.

Alex picked up on the first ring, and Milo thought he sounded disappointed. Waiting for a call from Robin? What was up with that?

Milo asked him about ru

"Oh yeah, I forgot," said Milo. "I'm dealing with Nostradamus."

"No, just a guy with spare time," said Alex. "Hansen wasn't hard to find, at all. Guess what he does for a living?"

"He looked kinda corporate in high school, so some hoo-hah financial thing with a bad smell to it?"