The Murder Book

"Same question," I said. "A criminal pro, the department, or a rogue cop?"

"A rogue cop would mean Schwi

"Any idea why?"

"At first, I figured it was his charming personality, but maybe everyone knew about his bad behavior, could see he was ready for a fall. Everyone except me. I was a dumb-ass rookie caught up in my own paranoia. At the time I wondered if I'd been paired with him because I was seen as a pariah, too. Now, I'm sure of it."

"Not that much of a pariah," I said. "They got rid of him and transferred you to West L.A. "

"Or I hadn't accrued enough time on the job to accumulate embarrassing information."

"Or to develop street sources. Like the one who cued Schwi

He fingered the edge of the blue cloth binder. "Another burnout cop… maybe. But why send this to me a week after the deluxe version?"

"More covering of the rear," I said. "Pacing himself. He couldn't be sure you'd be seduced. You started investigating and qualified for the next installment."

"More installments coming?"

"Could be."

He got up, circled the room, returned to the desk but remained on his feet. I'd kept the drapes drawn and a razor edge of light ran across his torso diagonally, a luminous wound.

I said, "Here's yet another theory: The IA man who interrogated you along with Broussard- Poulse

"Lester Poulse

"Because the real target of renewing interest in the case could be Broussard. John G. built his career on an upright reputation, exposure of a cover-up would destroy him. Lester Poulse

"And Poulse

"He could've moved out of state," I said, "meaning he's probably not our man. Or he's yet another disappearing act."

He got to his feet again and paced; the light razor bounced. Returning to the book, he touched a blue cover. "Installments- hey, folks, join the murder book club."

We divided up the workload this way:

1. I'd try to learn what I could about Lester Poulse

2. Milo would go off to do his thing, not telling me what or where or when.

The search on my computer revealed no Lester Poulse

It took three hours to go through five years of microfilm, and I came up with several instances of felonious police officers. A pair of West Valley detectives had offered their services as contract killers. Both were serving life sentences in protective isolation at the state penitentiary at Pelican Bay. A Glendale traffic officer had been arrested for having sex with a thirteen-year-old baby-sitter. Ten years of jail, this prince was out by now, but an alliance with Schwi

Twenty-year-old reference.

Poulse

The Sacramento Bee. I located the spool, jammed it into the machine, twirled like mad until I came to the story. Associated Press wire service piece. The L.A. papers hadn't picked it up.

The Bee had run it in a side column at the back of the main section titled "Elsewhere in the State." Sandwiched between the account of a dead black rhinoceros at the San Diego Zoo and a Berkeley bank robbery.

The date was January 5. Fourteen days after Caroline Cossack had checked out of- or had been taken from- Achievement House.

I did an instant photocopy on the machine, then read the text.

(AP) Los Angeles police are investigating the shooting death of one of their own, in what appears to be a homicide and attempted cover-up by arson. The body of Lester Louis Poulse

"This is a rough neighborhood, with lots of gang activity," said the source, who neither confirmed nor denied reports that Poul-se

I kept spooling, in search of a follow-up. Nothing.

Which was crazy; nothing mobilizes a police department faster than a cop's murder. Yet local press coverage of Poulse

Recently transferred to Metro. Translation: Poulse

Twenty years ago, a pair of IA men had interrogated Milo. One had merited success, the other was dead seven months later.

A white man shot to death in a black neighborhood, just like Boris Nemerov. Dispatched execution-style, just like Boris Nemerov.

Arson cover-up. Milo had wondered out loud about fire. Beleaguered or not, he had perfect pitch.

I called him, got no answer at any of his numbers, thought about what to do.

Nice mild morning. Time to wash the car.

Two hours later, the Seville was as shiny as a '79 Seville could be, and I was hurtling over the Glen to the Valley. Mere cleanliness hadn't satisfied me. I'd waxed and hand-buffed the chesterfield green paint, added detail spray, scrubbed the tires, the hubcaps, the beige vinyl top and matching upholstery, wiped down those crafty little simulated wood insets, vacuumed and shampooed the rugs. I bought the car fifteen years ago from the proverbial little old lady (a heavy-footed retired schoolteacher from Burbank, not Pasadena) and had pampered it since. Still, 105,000 miles had taken its toll, and one day I'd be forced to decide between an engine rebuild or something new.

No decision at all. No more changes of heart.