The Murder Book

Thank you very much, Doctor, but that don't change the facts.

Yeah, old Nicholas was a moral mollusk, but meeting him had solidified things.

As he cruised through quiet West Hollywood streets, he formalized the next risky step: Get closer to the murder by leaning on someone who'd actually been there. The choice of targets was: Brad Larner. Because twenty years after high school, Larner was low man among the King's Men, a loser who'd worked for Daddy, then regressed to lackeying for his buddies.

One of those walking-around guys. A jerk.

A follower. If Vance Coury and the Cossacks were sharks, Larner was a remora, ready to be plucked off the body corrupt.

Milo ached to get the bastard in a quiet little room. But Larner wasn't living at his own home, might very well be bunking with the Cossacks. The challenge was to snag him alone, away from the others.

A-hunting we will go.

Normally, even with his cop sensibilities, he might not have noticed the navy blue Saab heading his way down his own block. West Hollywood parking laws kept the streets fairly clear but permit parking was allowed and homeowners could grant guest passes, so it was by no means weird to see an unfamiliar vehicle stationed near the curb.

But today he'd mainlined adrenaline instead of vodka and was noticing everything. So when the blue Saab sped by him and he caught a half second eyeful of the driver, he knew he'd have to confirm what his brain was telling him.

He lowered his speed, watched in his rearview as the Saab turned onto Rosewood and disappeared from view. Then he hooked a sharp U and went after it.

Thank God for the brand-new rental he'd picked up on the way home. The gray Dodge Polaris had sagging bumpers and poorly camouflaged dings all over its abused chassis. But with power to spare and windows tinted way past the legal limit, it was exactly what he needed. For this one, he'd forsaken Hertz and Avis and Budget and patronized a guy he knew who ran a yard full of clunkers on Sawtelle and Olympic, out past the 405 South. Budget wheels for the spiky-haircut-and-ski

Milo stomped the gas, and the Polaris responded, laying down a nice little patch of vertebra-rattling speed. He followed the Saab's trajectory, making sure he didn't get too close when he spotted his quarry turning north on San Vicente. A medium-congestion traffic flow allowed him to settle five lengths behind the Saab and do a little creative swerving so he could keep his eye on the vehicle.

From what he could tell, just the one male at the wheel. Now it was time to confirm the rest of his first impression. The Saab continued past Melrose and Santa Monica, turned left on Sunset, and got stuck in a serious jam caused by orange CalTrans cones blocking off the righthand lane.

Cones only, no work or workers in sight. The road agency was run by sadists and fools, but this time Milo blessed their mean little hearts as the congestion allowed him to jockey to the right, catch sight of the Saab's plates, copy them down. Traffic moved fifty feet. Milo cell phoned DMV, lied- Lord, he was getting good at it- liked it.

The plates came back to a one-year-old Saab owned by Craig Eiffel Bosc, address on Huston Street in North Hollywood, no wants or warrants.

The chrome sludge oozed another few yards, and Milo did some more rude maneuvering and managed to close the gap between the Dodge and the Saab to three cars. Three more stop-and-gos and a smooth but slow flow resumed and he was alongside the Saab, passing on the right, hoping the Dodge wouldn't register in his quarry's memory and if it did, that the blackened glass would cover him.

Another half a second was all he needed- mission accomplished.

The face was one he'd seen before. Mister Smiley. The asshole who'd accosted him at the hot dog stand, claiming to be Paris Bartlett.

Craig Eiffel Bosc.

Eiffel/Paris. Cute.

Bosc/Bartlett stymied him for a moment, then he got it: two varieties of pears.

How imaginative. Sell it to the networks.

Bosc/Bartlett was moving his head in time to music, oblivious, and Milo sped up, got two cars ahead of the Saab, used the next red light to peer through the intervening Toyota with its two little chicklets also bopping- to some bass-heavy hip-hop thing. He tried to get another look at Craig Eiffel Bosc but caught only the girls' hyperactivity and the Toyota 's windshield glare. The right lane opened up and he eased back into it, allowed the Toyota and the Saab to pass.

Glancing to the left without moving his head as Smiley Pear zipped by. Then catching up and keeping pace with the Saab just long enough to take a mental snapshot.

Smiley was in shirtsleeves- deep blue shirt- with his sky-colored tie loosened, one paw on the wheel, the other wrapped around a big fat cigar. The Saab's windows were untinted but shut, and the interior was clouded with smoke. Not thick enough, though, to obscure the smile on Craig Eiffel Bosc's SAG-handsome countenance.

Such a happy fellow, toking tobacco and cruising and grooving in his zippy little Swedish car on a su

On top of the world.

We'll see about that.

Craig Bosc took Coldwater Canyon into the Valley. Medium traffic made the tail easy. Not that Bosc would be looking out for him. The guy was no motor-pro- a real ni

At Ventura, the Saab turned right and drove into Studio City, where it pulled into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour yuppie gym on the south side of the boulevard. Craig Bosc got out with a blue bag and half jogged to the front. One good arm push and he was through the door and gone.

Milo looked around for a vantage point. A seafood restaurant across Ventura offered a perfect view of the gym and the Saab. The surf-and-turf special sounded enticing- he was hungry.

Ravenous.

He indulged himself with an upgrade from the special: extra big lobster, Alaskan crab legs, sixteen-ounce top sirloin, baked potato with sour cream and chives, a mountain of fried zucchini. All that washed down with Cokes instead of beer, because he needed his wits.

He ate slowly, figuring Bosc would be in there for at least an hour, doing the old body-beautiful thing. By the time he'd asked for the check and was working on his third coffee refill, the Saab was still in plain view. He threw down money, hazarded a trip to the men's room, left the restaurant, and sat in the Dodge for another half hour before Bosc emerged with wet hair. Back in his street clothes- the blue shirt and black slacks- minus the tie.

Bosc bounced over to the Saab, disarmed the alarm, but instead of getting in, stopped to check his reflection in the side window. Fluffing his hair. Undoing the shirt's second button. Milo watched the asshole show off that big smile for the glass audience- Bosc actually turned his head here and there. Appreciating his own damn face from multiple angles.

Then Bosc got in the Saab and did an L.A. thing: drove less than a block before pulling into another parking lot.

A bar. Little cedar-sided cube stuffed between a sushi bar and a bicycle shop. A painted sign above the cedar door labeled the place as EXTRAS. A ba

Half a dozen cars in the lot. Not too many happy people?

But Craig Bosc was. Gri

EXTRAS. Milo 'd never enjoyed the ambience, but he knew the bar by reputation. Watering hole for small-time actroids- pretty people who'd arrived in L.A. with a couple years of Stanislavski or summer stock or college theater under their belts, fueled by Oscar fantasies but settling, a thousand cattle calls later, for the occasional walk-ons and crowd scenes and nonunion commercials that comprised 99.9 percent of movie work.