The Murder Book

"Brad Larner," said Milo. "That Lexus is his. He and Coury arrived in it, Larner was driving. He was parked near the house, waiting for Coury, when we spotted him behind the truck. Dr. Harrison and Caroline were tied up in the truck bed. Another guy was at the wheel."

"Who?"

Nemerov said, "Paragon of virtue named Emmet Cortez, I wrote a few tickets for him before he went away on manslaughter. Worked in the auto industry."

"Painting hot rods," I said.

"Chroming wheels." Nemerov's grin was sudden, mirthless, icy. "Now he's in that big garage in the sky."

"Rendered inorganic," said Stevie.

"Steel organic," said Yaakov. "Long as deyr someting left, he steel organic, right, Georgie."

"You're being technical," said Stevie.

"Let's change the subject," said Nemerov.

CHAPTER 46

"Pancakes," said Milo.

It was 10 A.M., the next morning, and we were at a coffee shop on Wilshire near Crescent Heights, a place where old people and gaunt young men pretending to write screenplays congregated. One half mile west of the Cossack brothers' offices, but that hadn't been what drew us there.

We'd both been up all night, had returned to L.A. at 6 A.M., stopped at my house to shower and shave.

"Don't wa

"Isn't Rick up by now?"

"Why complicate things?"

He'd emerged from the guest bathroom, toweling his head and squinting. Wearing last night's clothes but looking frighteningly chipper. "Breakfast," he proclaimed. "I know the place, they make these big, monster flappers with crunchy peanut butter and chocolate chips."

"That's kid food," I said.

"Maturity is highly overrated. I used to go there all the time, believe me, Alex, this is what you need."

"Used to go there?"

"Back when I wasn't watching my figure. Our endocrine systems are shot so we need sugar- my maternal grandfather ate pancakes every day, washed them down with three cups of coffee sweeter than cola, and he lived till ninety-eight. Woulda gone on a few more years, but he tumbled down a flight of stairs while ogling a woman." He pushed an errant thatch of black hair out of his face. "Unlikely to be my fate, but there are always variants."

"You're uncommonly optimistic," I said.

"Pancakes," he said. "C'mon, let's get going."

I changed into fresh clothing, thinking about Aimee and Bert, all the unanswered questions.

Thinking about Robin. She'd called last night, from Denver, left a message at 11 P.M. I phoned back at 6:30, figuring to leave a message at her hotel, but the tour had moved on to Albuquerque.

Now, here we were, facing two stacks of peanut butter hotcakes the size of frypans. Breakfast that smelled eerily of Thai food. I corroded my gut with coffee, watched him douse his stack with maple syrup and begin sawing into it, then took hold of the syrup pitcher in my unburnt hand. The ER doctor at Oxnard Hospital had pronounced the burn "first-degree plus. A little deeper and you would've made second." As if I'd missed a goal. He'd administered salve and a bandage, swabbed my face with Neosporin, wrote me a scrip for antibiotics, and told me to avoid getting myself dirty.

Everyone at the hospital knew Bert Harrison. He and Aimee were given a private room near the emergency admissions desk, where they stayed for two hours. Milo and I had waited. Finally, Bert came out, and said, "We're going to be here for a while. Go home."

"You're sure?" I said.

"Very sure." He pressed my hand between both of his, gave a hard squeeze, returned to the room.

Georgie Nemerov and his crew drove us to the spot at the entrance to Ojai where Milo had left his rental Dodge, then disappeared.

Milo had joined up with the bounty hunters, formulated a plan.

Lots of questions…

I tipped the pitcher, followed the syrup's drizzle, watched it pool and spread, picked up my fork. Milo 's cell phone chirped. He clicked in, said, "Yeah?" Listened for a while, hung up, stuffed his face with a wad of pancake. Melted chocolate frosted his lips.

I said, "Who was that?"

"Georgie."

"What's up?"

He cut loose another triangle of hotcake, chewed, swallowed, drank coffee. "Seems there was an accident late last night. Eighty-third Street off Sepulveda, rental Buick hit a utility pole at high speed. Driver and occupant rendered inorganic."

"Driver and occupant."

"Two db's," he said. "You know what high-speed impact does to the human body."

"Garvey and Bobo?" I said.

"That's the working hypothesis. Pending verification of dental records."

"Eighty-third off Sepulveda. On the way to the airport?"

"Fu

"Lovely," I said. "Maybe a ski vacation."

"Could be- is there snow there, right now?"

"Don't know," I said. "It's probably raining in Paris."

He motioned for a coffee refill, got a new pot, poured, and drank slowly.

"Just the two of them?" I said.

"Seems that way."

"Odd, don't you think? They've got a full-time chauffeur and choose to drive themselves to the airport? Own a fleet of wheels and use a rental car."

He shrugged.

"Also," I went on, "what would they be doing on a side street in Inglewood? That far south, you're heading for the airport, you stay on Sepulveda."

He yawned, stretched, emptied his coffee cup. "Want anything else?"

"Is it on the news, yet?"

"Nope."

"But Georgie knows."

No answer.

"Georgie has the inside track," I said. "Being a bail bondsman and all that."

"That must be it," he said. He brushed crumbs from his shirtfront.

I said, "You've got syrup on your chin."

"Thanks, Mom." He threw money on the table and got up. "How 'bout we take a little digestive stroll."

"East on Wilshire," I said. "Up to Museum Row."

"You are nailing those hypotheses, Professor. Time for Vegas."

We walked to the pink granite building where the Cossack brothers had once played executive. Milo studied the façade for a long time, finally entered the lobby, stared down the guard, left, and returned to the front steps where I'd been waiting, pretending to feel civilized.

"Happy?" I said, as we headed back to the coffee shop.

"Ecstatic."

We retraced our walk to the coffee shop, got into Milo's rental of the day- a black Mustang convertible- drove through the Miracle Mile and across La Brea and into the clean, open stretch of Wilshire that marked Hancock Park 's northern border.

Milo steered with one finger. No sleep for two days but beyond alert. I had to fight to keep my eyes open. The Seville had been towed to a shop in Carpenteria. I'd phone in later today, get a report. Meanwhile, I'd drive Robin's truck. If I could stand the sweet smell of her permeating the cab.

He turned on Rossmore, drove south to Fifth Street, hooked back to Irving, and pulled over to the curb, six houses north of Sixth. On the other side was Chief Broussard's city-financed mansion. An immaculate white Cadillac sat in the driveway. A single plainclothesman stood guard, looking bored.

Milo stared at the house, same hostility as when he'd eye-zapped the guard in the Cossacks' lobby. Before I could ask what was up, he U-turned, headed south, then west to Muirfield, where he cruised slowly to the end of the block and stopped at a property concealed behind high stone walls.

"Walt Obey's place," he said, before I could ask.

Stone walls. Just like the Loetz estate that neighbored the party house. The kill spot. Build walls, and you could get away with plenty.

Janie Ingalls abused by two generations of men. A closed-circuit camera atop one gatepost rotated.