The Murder Book

A pair of thirty-pound Ivanko dumbbells sat in the corner, next to a sixty-inch TV, VCR-DVD combo. A mock-walnut video case held action thrillers and a few run-of-the-mill porno tapes in lurid boxes: busty blondes playing orifice-bingo.

Bosc's three-drawer dresser offered up rumpled underwear and socks and T-shirts and gym shorts. It wasn't till Milo hit the bottom drawer that things got interesting.

Buried beneath a collection of GAP sweatshirts, were three guns: a 9mm identical to Milo 's department issue, a sleek black Glock complete with German instructions, and a silver derringer in a black leather carrying case. All three loaded. Additional ammo was stored at the rear of the drawer.

Next to the guns was a small cache that added up to Bosc's personal history.

A North Hollywood High yearbook, fifteen years old, revealed that Craig Eiffel Bosc had played tight end for the varsity football squad, pitched relief for the baseball team, and served as a basketball point guard. Three letters. Bosc's grad shot showed him to be clean-cut and gorgeous, flashing that same cocky smile.

Next came a black leatheroid scrapbook with stick-on letters that spelled out SIR CRAIG on the cover. Inside were plastic-sheathed pages that made Milo flash to the murder book.

But nothing bloody, here. The first page held a certificate from Valley College attesting that Bosc had earned a two-year associate degree in communications. From North Hollywood High to Valley. Both were within a bicycle ride to Bosc's house. Valley Boy hadn't moved around much.

Next came Bosc's honorable discharge from the Coast Guard; he'd been stationed at Avalon, on Catalina Island. Probably earned himself a nice golden tan while discharging his duty in scuba gear.

At the back of the album were five pages of Polaroids showing Bosc screwing a variety of women, all young and blonde and buxom, the emphasis upon close-up insertion and Bosc's gri

Stoned cuties caught unawares. All appeared to be in their early to midtwenties, with big bleached hair and out-of-fashion do's that made Milo think small-town cocktail waitress. A few plain ones, one or two real lookers, for the most part an average-looking bunch. Not up to the level of the babes in the porno videos, but the same general type. Another indication Bosc had a limited range.

Milo searched for the hidden camera, figuring it would be focused on the bed, and found it quickly. Little pencil-lens gizmo concealed in the VCR box. Sophisticated bit of apparatus; it stood out among the general shoddiness of Bosc's apartment and made Milo wonder. Also stashed in the box were several tightly rolled joints and half a dozen tabs of Ecstasy.

Kiss the girls and make them stoned. Naughty, naughty.

He returned to the scrapbook, flipped to the next page. Wasn't really surprised at what he found, but still, the confirmation was unsettling and sweat gushed from every pore.

Certificate of Bosc's graduation from the L.A. Police Academy ten years ago. Then a group shot and an individual photo of Bosc in his probationer's uniform. Clean-cut, made-for-TV cop; that same obnoxious grin.

The subsequent paperwork recounted Bosc's LAPD progress. A couple years of North Hollywood patrol before promotion to Detective-I and transfer to Valley Auto Theft, where he'd spent three years as an investigator and left as a D-II.

Cars. Fast-track promotion for a hot-wire cowboy. Bastard probably had a collection of master keys to every known make and model hidden somewhere. With that kind of know-how and equipment, boosting Rick's Porsche and returning it vacuumed and wiped clean of prints would've been a sleepwalk for Detective Bosc.

After car-time, the guy had been moved downtown to Parker Center Records, then Administration.

Then a year with Internal Affairs.

Finally: a kick up to D-III and his current assignment.

Administrative Staff at Chief Broussard's office.

The bastard was an executive aide to John G.

Milo disco

Then he recovered. Smiled. "Gee, you must be a detective."

Milo held an E-tab under Bosc's nose. "Bad boy, Craig."

"I'm supposed to be worried?"

"Pocketful of felonies, Georgie Porgie."

"Another country heard from," said Bosc.

"You think John G.'s go

Bosc's eyes got hard and cold, offering a glimpse of the mea

He said, "What I think is you're fucked." Laughter. "In the ass. Then again…"

Milo hefted the camera and the drugs.

Bosc said, "You think you're seeing something, but you're not. None of that exists." He shook his head and chuckled. "You are so fucked."

Milo laughed along with him. Stepped forward. Placed his foot on one of Bosc's shins and bore down.

Bosc cried out in agony. Tears filled his eyes as he struggled to twist away.

Milo lifted his shoe.

"You asshole-fuck," Bosc panted. "You stupid faggot fuck."

"S'cuse me, Craig-o."

"Go ahead," said Bosc, catching his breath. "You're only digging your own grave."

Milo was silent.

Bosc's smile returned. "You just don't get it, do you? This is L-fucking-A. It's not what you do, it's who you know."

"Co

"If you had a brain, you'd be an ape," said Bosc. "You gain access to my premises with a clear B &E/kidnap combo, then add assault. We're talking major felony, prison time to the next mille

Milo fa

"That's for sure," said Bosc. "Yours would be half the size and packed in fudge."

Milo smiled.

"You're out of it, man," said Bosc. "Have been from the begi

"What does he have to do with it?"

Bosc smiled and closed his eyes again, and for a moment Milo thought the guy would revert to silence. But a few seconds later, Bosc said, "It's a game. You and the shrink are pawns."

"Whose game?"

"Kings and bishops."

"John G. and Walter Obey and the Cossack brothers?"

Bosc's eyes opened. Cold again. Colder. "Stick your head up your ass and get yourself a clue. Now let me go, and maybe I'll help you out." Snapping out the order.

Milo placed the contraband on a table. Paced the room, as if considering compliance.

Suddenly, he hurried back to Bosc's side, kneeled down next to Bosc, placed the tip of his finger on Bosc's shin. Precisely on the spot where his shoe had dug in.

Bosc began to sweat.

"Chess analogy," said Milo. "How erudite, Bobby Fischer. Now tell me why you ripped off my car and put on that show at the hot dog stand and rented a post-office box under Playa del Sol and were snooping around my house today."

"All in a day's work," said Bosc.

"At John G.'s request?"

Bosc didn't answer.

Milo pulled out his gun and pressed the barrel into the soft, tan flesh under Bosc's chin.

"Details," he demanded.

Bosc's lips jammed shut.

Milo retracted the weapon. As Bosc laughed, Milo said, "Your problem, Craig, is you think you're a knight, but you're a shit-eating pawn." He rapped the butt of the gun against Bosc's shin, hard enough to evoke an audible crack.