The Murder Book

"He's an artist. A painter. Quite a good one, if the images posted by the New York gallery that handles him are accurate."

"An artist and he leases in Beverly Hills and drives a big Beemer?"

"A successful artist," said Alex. "His prices range from ten to thirty thousand a canvas."

"And what, he churns them out?"

"Doesn't look like it. I phoned the gallery pretending to be an interested collector, and he's sold out. They described his style as postmodern old masters. Hansen mixes his own pigments, makes his own frames and brushes, lays down layer after layer of paint and glaze. It's a time-consuming process and the owner said Hansen finishes four, five pictures a year. She implied she'd love to have more."

"Four, five a year at his top fee means 150, max," said Milo. "A year's lease on a house in the flats could be more than that by itself."

"Plus galleries usually take around thirty percent," said Alex, "so, no, it doesn't add up." He paused. "I hope you don't mind, but I drove by his house. It's a nice one- big old Spanish thing that hasn't been made over. The BMW's in the driveway. Freshly polished. Dark green, almost the exact shade as my Seville."

Milo laughed. "Do I mind? Would it make a difference? No, it's fine unless you knocked on the door and accused the bastard of murder. Which, I'd love to do. Because, guess what, the plot curdles."

He told Alex about Luke Chapman's drowning death.

"Another accident," said Alex. "Normally, I'd say 'ah,' but you've been crankier than usual."

"Say it. I'll give you Novocaine before I start drilling."

Alex let out an obligatory chuckle. "I also got a brief look at Hansen. Or someone who's living at the same address. While I was driving by, a man came out the front door, went to the BMW, and removed a sheet of wood from the trunk. Nicholas Hansen paints on mahogany."

"An artist," said Milo, "with independent income. Ambling out to his driveway in comfy clothes, doing whatever the hell he pleases. Life's sure fair, ain't it?"

There were things Milo wanted to do after dark, so he thanked Alex, told him to stay out of trouble, he'd call in the morning.

"Anything else I can do for you, big guy?"

Milo quashed the impulse to say, "Stay out of trouble." "No, not right now."

"Okay," said Alex. He sounded disappointed. Milo wanted to ask about Robin, but he didn't.

Instead, he hung up, thinking about Janie Ingalls and how some lives are so short, so brutish that it was a wonder God bothered.

He slogged through yet another rush-hour mess from downtown, wondering what to do with Rick and deciding that a nice hotel for a few days was the best solution. Rick would be profoundly unhappy, but he wouldn't scream. Rick never screamed, just tucked himself in psychologically and grew quiet and unreachable.

It wouldn't be fun, but in the end Rick would agree. All these years together, and they'd both learned to pick their battles.

He made it home by five o'clock.

Midway up his block, he stopped.

Something white was stationed in his driveway.

The Porsche.

He looked around, saw no strange cars on the block, gu

Someone had detailed the damn thing.

He surveyed the block, put his hand on his gun, got out cautiously, walked over to the Porsche and touched the car's convex flank.

Glossy. Washed and waxed.

A peek through the window added freshly vacuumed to the picture; he could see the tracks in the carpet.

Even the steering wheel lock had been put back. Then he saw something on the driver's seat.

A brown paper bag.

He gave the block another up-and-down, then kneeled down and examined the Porsche's underside. No ticking toys or tracers. Popping the trunk revealed an intact rear engine. He'd worked on the car himself, had rust-proofed the belly for all those cold-weather trips that had never materialized. He knew the Porsche's guts well. Nothing new.

He unlocked the driver's door, took a closer look at the bag. The paper mouth was open, and the content was visible.

A blue binder. Not shiny leather like Alex's little gift. Your basic blue cloth.

The same kind of binder the department used to employ before the switch to plastic.

He took hold of the top of the bag with his fingertips and carried it inside the house. Sat down in the living room, heart racing, hands icy, because he knew exactly what would be inside. Knew also that despite the certainty, he'd be shocked.

His jaw hurt and his back ached as he opened the book to Janie Ingalls's case file.

Very thin file. Milo's own notes on top, followed by the official death shots and yes, Schwi

Then, nothing else. No tox screens or lab tests, no investigative reports by the Metro boys who'd supposedly taken over. So either that had been a lie, or pages had been left out.

He flipped to the postmortem summary. No mention of semen- of anything much. This had to be the sketchiest autopsy synopsis he'd ever read. "This white, adolescent, well-nourished female's wounds were accomplished by sharp, single-bladed…" Thanks a heap.

No sign of the toxicology screen he'd requested. He didn't need official confirmation; Melinda Waters had said Janie began the evening stoned.

No semen, no foreign blood types. Forget DNA.

But one detail in the autopsy summary did catch his eye: ligature marks around Janie's ankles, wrists, and throat.

Same pattern of restraints as in the hotel.

Vance Coury spotting Janie and going for an encore.

This time, adding his buddies to the mix.

He reread the file. Nothing revelatory, but someone wanted to make sure Milo saw it.

He settled his head with vodka and grapefruit juice, checked the mail, punched the phone machine.

One message from Rick, who'd made it easy for him by taking on an extra shift.

"I won't be through until tomorrow morning, probably crash in the doctor's room, maybe go for a drive afterward. Take care of yourself… I love you."

"Me too," Milo muttered to the empty house. Even alone, he had trouble saying it.

CHAPTER 29

I opened the door for Milo at 9 A.M., doing my best impression of awake and human. Last night, I'd woken up every couple of hours, thinking the kind of thoughts that erode your soul.

Three calls to Robin had gone unanswered. Her hotel refused to say if she'd checked out- guest security. Next stop, Denver. I pictured her on the bus, Spike sleeping in her lap, gazing out the window.

Thinking of me, or anything but?

Milo handed me the blue binder. I thumbed through it and led him into my office.

"Your typing wasn't any better back then," I said. "Any theories about who delivered it?"

"Someone with a talent for grand theft auto."

"Same messenger who sent me the deluxe version?"

"Could be."

"Doesn't sound like Schwi

"This was no amateur. I print-powdered the wheel and the door handles. Nada. Nothing on the book other than my paws. They put the crook-lock back on. Picked it, didn't slice it."