The Murder Book

"Nice car like that," I said, "must've been a good friend."

"I had a few. And don't ask me who."

"Was it the same friend who helped you escape?"

The mirrored shades tilted toward me. "Some things I can't say."

"It'll all going to come out," I said.

"Maybe," he said. "If it happens by itself, it's not my responsibility. But some things I can't say." He turned his head sharply toward the front of the house.

"Something's wrong," he said. "Aimee's coming, but that's not her usual walk."

I heard nothing. Then: a faintest crunch- footsteps on gravel. Footsteps stopping and starting, as if someone was stumbling. But for the panic on his face, it would've floated right past me.

I left him and stepped into the front room, parted the drapes on a small, cloudy window, and looked out at the filmy, amber light of impending dusk.

Up the drive, maybe a hundred feet from the house, two men were walking Aimee and Bert toward us. Aimee and Bert's hands were up in the air as they marched forward reluctantly. Bert looked terrified. Aimee's pasty face was expressionless. She stopped suddenly and her escort prodded her with something and she winced and resumed walking.

Crunch.

One of the men was large and beefy, the other a head shorter and wiry. Both were Hispanic and wore cowboy hats. I'd seen them half an hour ago- in the pickup loaded with fertilizer that had interposed itself between Bert's car and mine, then dropped away at the 33-150 intersection.

Lucky break, I'd thought at the time, enabling me to use the truck for cover as I tailed Bert.

Bill called out, "What's happening?"

I rushed back to him. "Two cowboys have them at gunpoint."

"Under the bed," he said, waving his arms helplessly. "Get it. Now."

Barking the order. Sounding like anything but a junkie.

CHAPTER 41

The computer gizmo that read out the trace on Alex was right in Craig Bosc's Saab, hooked up to the dash, a cute little thing with a bright blue screen and a printer. It sputtered to life after Bosc punched a few keys.

Nineties guy, everything he needed, close at hand.

Milo hadn't found any printouts in Bosc's house, meaning Bosc had left those at his office. Or at someone else's.

As Bosc kept typing, the screen filled with readout- columns of numbers in a code that Bosc explained with no prodding. Bosc pushed another key, and the columns were replaced with what looked like blueprints. Vectors and loci, computerized map lines, everything loading at warp speed.

Bosc was sitting in the Saab's passenger seat. Hands free to work, but Milo had rebound his ankles, first, kept the gun at the back of Bosc's neck.

Promising to let him go when he'd done his bit for humanity.

Bosc thanked him as if he was Santa Claus with a bag full of goodies. The guy stank of fear, but you'd never know it from looking at him. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Gabbing technotalk as he worked.

Killing time and filling space; keep those psych tactics going.

His fingers rested. "That's it, amigo. Look at the capital X, and you've got him."

Milo studied the map. "That's the best you can do?"

"That's pretty damn good," said Bosc, offended. "Within a hundred-yard radius."

"Print it."

His pocket filled with paper, Milo yanked Bosc out of the Saab and walked him to the rear of the car.

"Okay, Milo, we're just go

"Right."

"Could I have my legs back, please, Milo."

The easy, repetitive use of his name filled Milo 's head with enraged buzzing. He looked up and down the street, now graying. During the time Bosc had played with the computer, a single car had driven by. Young woman in a yellow Fiero, blond and big-haired enough to be one of Bosc's unwitting home movie costars. But she sped by fast, went two blocks, disappeared, never returned.

Now the street was empty again. Thank God for L.A. alienation.

Milo popped the Saab's trunk, gave Bosc a swift, hard kick behind one knee and as Bosc collapsed predictably, shoved him inside, slammed the lid and walked away to the muffled drumbeat of Bosc thumping and screaming.

All that noise, someone would find him soon enough.

He hurried to the Polaris, checked the gas gauge, fired up, sped toward the 101 freeway, driving like a typical SoCal idiot: way too fast, steering with one hand, the other gripping his mobile phone as if it was a life preserver.

CHAPTER 42

A husky voice from outside the cabin bellowed, "Everyone out, hands up." A second later: "No fucking around or we kill the retard and the old guy."

I crouched closer to the window. "We're coming out. I have to get him in the chair."

"Do it."

I returned to the bedroom, clamped my hands around the grips of Bill's wheelchair. I'd put a bright white stocking cap on his bald head and had covered him with two soft blankets, despite the heat.

Or maybe it wasn't that hot. I was sweat-drenched but, he, the diabetic, remained freakishly dry.

A moment before, he'd prayed silently, lips quivering, hands hooked in the blankets.

He said, "My, my, my" as I wheeled him forward. When we reached the door, the footrests of his chair nudged it open, and we stepped out into an amethyst twilight.

The pair of cowboys holding Aimee and Bert were twenty or so yards up the gravel drive, off center, closer to the western edge of the pathway, where the forest began. The sky was slate, and the foliage had deepened to olive drab. Flesh tones remained vivid; I saw the fear on Bert's face.

The bigger cowboy was positioned slightly in front of his partner. The pickup's driver. Midforties, five-eleven, with a potbelly that strained his ice-blue shirt, thick thighs that turned his blue jeans into sausage casing, a complexion the color of dirty copper, and a bristling, graying mustache. His hat was broad-brimmed, brown felt.

Bored demeanor, but even at this distance I could see the edgy movement around his eyes. He towered over Bert, held the old man by the scruff.

Just behind him, to the right, the smaller intruder maintained a grip on Aimee, clutching her sweatshirt from behind, stretching the fabric over the rolls and bulges of her torso. Younger, five-five, midtwenties, he wore a baggy black T-shirt and saggy black jeans too urban for his straw headpiece. The hat looked cheap, a hurried addition. He had a round face bottomed by wispy goatee. Dull, distracted eyes. A mass of tattoos ran up his arms.

One of the car restorers at Vance Coury's garage.

The sun didn't move, but Bert Harrison's complexion grayed.

Aimee said, "Billy, what's happening?" She made a move toward the chair but the small cowboy cuffed the back of her head. She flapped her arms clumsily. He said, "Cool it, retard."

"Bill-"

Bill said, "Everything's cool, babe, we'll work it out."

"Sure we will," said the big cowboy, in the husky voice that had brought us out. A pack of cigarettes swelled one of the pockets of his shirt. Western shirt, with a contrasting white yoke, pearl buttons, still box-creased. He and his pal had dressed for the occasion. He said, "Get the fuck over here, Willy."

"Over where?" said Bill.

"Over here, Stevie Wonder." Glancing at me: "You- asshole- wheel him over here real slow- take your hands off the fucking chair, and I'll blow your fucking head off."

"Then what?" said Bill.

"Then we take y'all somewhere."

"Where?"

"Shut the fuck up." To the smaller man: "We'll load 'em in back with the shit. Under them tarps, like I showed you."

Small said, "Why don't we just do 'em here?" in a nasal voice.

The big man's chest swelled. Taking a deep breath. "That's the plan, mijo."