Compulsion

“Oh, sure, People and Us can’t survive a circulation war without close-ups of the vast polar tundra that is my VIP ass.”

He worked his way out of the bed, stomped out into the hall, and glared at the rent-a-cop hovering near his door. The guy moved on.

“Intrusive asshole.”

Definitely on the mend.

After discharge, he pretended everything was fine. Rick and Robin and I and everyone else who knew him pretended not to notice the stiffness and the loss of energy. The department physician insisted he take some downtime and his captain wouldn’t debate the issue.

Milo and Rick had been talking about a tropical vacation for months but when the time came, Milo ’s mood suggested an impending prison sentence.

He sent me a single postcard: gargantuan Samoan sumo wrestlers tussling on white sand.

A:

Having a great blah blah blah yawn yawn yawn. These are the locals. A few more luaus and there goes my modeling contract.

Primitively yours,

M.

Now he finished his second beer and said, “What are you smirking about?”

“Didn’t know I was.”

“I’m a trained observer. You were.”

I shrugged.

“It’s the shirt, right?”

“The shirt’s great.”

“Lucky for you there’s no polygraph around. What, you don’t dig authentic island couture?”

“Elephants in Oahu?”

“Dr. Literal.” He rolled rayon between sausage fingers. “I’da found one with Freud analyzing a mahimahi I’da brought it back for you.”

“The macadamia nuts were fine.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He brushed black hair off his forehead, called for another beer, finished it fast. Bright green eyes took in the view of the highway below. His eyelids half lowered.

“You okay?”

“Back to work tomorrow, the leisure thing was driving me out of my mind. Problem is, once I get to the office, there’s nothing to do. No new cases, period – let alone an interesting one.”

“How do you know?”

“I e-mailed the captain yesterday.”

I said, “Quiet time in West L.A. ”

“Calm before the storm, or worse.”

“What would be worse?”

“No storm.”

He insisted on paying and was reaching for his billfold when his cell squawked. I used the opportunity to hand the waiter my credit card.

“Sneaky.” He clicked in, listened. “Okay, Sean, why not? But if a real crime happens, all bets are off.”

As we left, I said, “Sean’s got a fake crime?”

“Car theft in Brentwood. Recovered car theft.” Like many homicide detectives, he considers anything less than the loss of human life on a par with jaywalking.

“Why’d he call you?”

“He thinks it might be more because there’s blood on one of the seats.”

“That sounds like more.”

“Not buckets, Alex. Maybe a spoonful.”

“Whose?”

“That’s the big hoohah mystery. Nervy kid wants my expertise. No one told him I’m a free bird until tomorrow.”

I kept my mouth shut. When he’s like that, irony is wasted.

Sean Binchy was waiting in front of a vanilla-colored house, wearing his usual dark suit, blue shirt and tie, spit-polished Doc Martens. He’s a young, gangly, redheaded Detective I, a former ska-punk bassist who’d found Jesus and the LAPD simultaneously. He’d been mentored by Milo, whisked away by the brass and transferred to Robbery, then moved to Auto Theft. Rumor said all that movement had something to do with his “lack of creativity.”

The house behind him was one of those imposing, bland, grand dream-projects starting to dominate L.A. ’s luxury districts.

This was a high-end part of Brentwood, west of Bundy, north of Sunset, where the streets narrow and sidewalks are replaced by grass. Shaggy eucalyptus hovered above much of the street. The vanilla house’s immediate neighbors were one-story ranches, sitting on residential death row as they awaited the wrecking ball.

Sean pointed to a wide stone driveway leading to twin garages. A black Bentley Arnage sedan sat in front of one of the doors.

“VIP wheels,” said Milo. “Just what I need.”

“Hi, Loot. Hi, Dr. Delaware.”

The conventional department contraction for Milo ’s rank is “Loo.” Milo is not one to deal with the small stuff.

“How was Hawaii?”

Milo said, “I got you some macadamia nuts.”

“Thanks – great shirt.”

Milo ’s eyes shifted to the Bentley. “Someone stole that and had the nerve to leave blood?”

“Or something that looks a whole lot like blood.”

“As opposed to?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s blood, Loot. Haven’t called for analysis because I wanted to see what you thought.”

“Who recovered it?”

“The owner.” Binchy thumbed his pad. “…Nicholas Heubel. Solid citizen, didn’t have to call us in the first place.”

Milo walked over to the Bentley. Unfettered sunlight bore down on a paint job so shiny it looked like molten tar. “How’d he find it?”

“Drove around and spotted it three blocks away.”

“Not much of a joyride.”

“If you think I should forget it, I will. I just want to make sure I wasn’t missing something.”

“Car unlocked?”

“Yup.”

“Give me some gloves and show me this alleged blood.”

CHAPTER 3

Several cows’ worth of premium hides, a tree or two of burl veneer.

All of it smelling like a private club in Mayfair.

The Bentley’s interior was off-white piped with black; missing the stain was impossible. The blemish in question was a smear about an inch square, on the right side of the driver’s seat. Sloping down toward the welting, at its lowest point more diluted. Rundown or someone had wiped it that way.

I supposed it could have been old ketchup, but my bet was on hemoglobin.

Milo said, “Not too impressive.”

Sean said, “There could be more, but with the carpet black it’s hard to spot anything without an up close and personal.”

“Check the trunk?”

“I popped it and did a visual scan. Looks like nothing’s ever been in there. I mean literally. There’s a couple umbrellas still rolled up and belted to the firewall. Owner says they were an option, cost eight hundred bucks and he hasn’t used them once.”

Milo stretched latex over his paws, leaned in, stuck his head close to the smear but didn’t touch it. Studying and sniffing, he checked out the carpet, the door panels, an array of glass gauges. Opening a rear door, he said, “Car smells new.”

“It’s a year old.”

“Three thousand miles on the odometer. Looks like it’s not just the umbrellas the owner doesn’t use.”

“He has a Lexus,” said Sean. “Says it’s less showy and more reliable.”

Milo examined the smear again. “Looks like blood but I’m seeing no impact, high or low velocity. Some asshole, probably a neighbor kid, took a joyride and cut himself on a chipped bong. Was the car taken from the garage?”

“From the driveway.”

“Wheels like that, owner doesn’t lock up?”

“Guess not.”

“Keys left in the ignition?”

“Owner claims no. I was going to ask him more but he had to go inside and take a call.”

Milo said, “They probably were left in, no one wants to look stupid. Boosting something this conspicuous says immaturity and impulsivity. Which fits with a neighborhood punk. So does dumping it close by. What do you think, Alex?”

“Makes sense.”

He turned back to Sean. “If this was a serious case, I’d canvass the area, starting with the dump site, find out who has teenagers with behavior problems. But that’s a big if.”

“So I shouldn’t pursue it,” said Sean.

“Owner pushing you to pursue it?”

“He’s rattled by the blood, but says he doesn’t want to make a big deal ’cause there’s no damage.”

“It was me, Sean, I’d tell him to get out the Meguiar’s and forget about it.”