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"Yeah," I said, struggling to articulate through a mouth that felt as if I'd sucked on razor blades, "but mine will look better in a couple of days."
He gri
"The kid seems okay," said Hardy from the back room. He came out with Melody in his arms. She was shivering. "Scared but unharmed, as the papers say."
Milo helped me to my feet. I walked to her and stroked her hair.
"It's going to be all right, sweetheart." Fu
"Alex," she said. She smiled. "You look fu
I squeezed her hand and she closed her eyes. Sweet dreams.
In the ambulance Milo kicked his shoes off and sat, yoga style, by the side of my stretcher.
"My hero," I said. It came out Mmm mirrow.
"This one's going to be good for a long time, pal. Free use of the Caddy on demand, cash loans with no interest, gratis therapy."
"In other words," I fought to enunciate through swollen jaws, "business as usual."
He laughed, patted my arm and told me to shut up. The ambulance attendant agreed.
"The man may need wires," he said. "He shouldn't talk."
I started to protest.
"Shh!" said the attendant.
A half - mile later Milo looked at me and shook his head.
"You are one lucky turkey, friend. I got into town an hour and a half ago and got Rick's note to call you. I call your place. Robin was there, sans you, worried. You had a di
"I didn't want a full - scale raid." I forced out the words, in agony. "Didn't want anything to happen to the kid - "
"Please shut up, sir," said the attendant.
"Shush," said Milo, gently. "You did a great job. Thanks. Okay? Don't do it again. Turkey."
The ambulance came to a halt at Santa Monica Hospital's Emergency Room. I knew the place because I'd given a series of lectures to the staff on the psychological aspects of trauma in children. There'd be no lecture tonight.
"You okay?" Milo asked.
"Um - hmm."
"Okay. I'll let the white coats take over. Gotta go and arrest a judge."
30
Robin took one look at me, jaws wired shut, eyes blackened, and burst into tears. She hugged me, fussed over me and sat by my side feeding me soup and soda. That lasted for a day. Then she got in touch with her anger and let me have it for being so crazy to put my life on the line. I was in no position to defend myself. She tried not speaking to me for six hours, then relented and things started to get back to normal.
When I could talk I called Raquel Ochoa.
"Hi," she said. "You sound fu
I told her the story, keeping it brief because of the pain.
She said nothing for a moment, then softly:
"There were monsters."
"Yes."
The silence between us was uncomfortable.
"You're a man of principle," she said, finally.
"Thank you."
"Alex - that evening - us. I don't regret it. It got me thinking. Made me realize I have to go out and find something - someone - for myself."
"Don't settle for less than the best."
"I - thanks. Take care of yourself. Mend fast."
"I'll work on it. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
My next call was to Ned Biondi, who rushed over that afternoon and interviewed me until the nurses kicked him out. I read his stories for days. He had it all down - McCaffrey's Mexico days, the Hickle murder, the Gentleman's Brigade, the suicide of Edwin Hayden the night he was arrested. The judge had shot himself in the mouth while dressing to go the station with Milo. It seemed fitting in light of what he'd done to Hickle, and Biondi didn't miss the chance to wax philosophical.
I phoned Olivia Brickerman and asked her to take care of Melody. Two days later she found an older, childless couple up in Bakersfield, people she knew and trusted, with lots of patience and five acres for ru
Six weeks after the fall of La Casa de los Ninos, Robin and I met Milo and Rick Silverman for di
My friend's amour turned out to be a guy who could have walked out of a cigarette ad - six feet tall, broad - shouldered, narrow - hipped, masculine, handsome face overlaid with just a touch of crag, head of tight bronze curls, matching bristle mustache. He wore a tailored black silk suit, black - and - white striped shirt and a black knit tie.
"Lucky Milo," Robin whispered as they joined our table.
Next to him, Milo looked baggier than ever, though he'd tried to spruce himself up, his hair slicked down like that of a kid in church.
Milo made the introductions. We ordered drinks and got acquainted. Rick was quiet and reserved, with nervous, surgical hands that had to be holding some thing - a glass, a fork, a stirrer. He and Milo exchanged loving glances. Once I saw them touch hands, for just a second. As the evening progressed he opened up and talked about his work, about what he liked and didn't like about being a doctor. The food came. The others had lobster and steak. I had to content myself with souffle. We chatted, the evening went well.
After the dishes had been cleared away, before the pastry cart and the brandy, Rick's beeper went off. He excused himself and went to the phone.
"If you gentlemen don't mind, I'll make a stop in the ladies' room." Robin patted her mouth with her napkin and rose. I followed her sway until she disappeared.
Milo and I looked at each other. He picked a piece of fish off his tie.
"Hello, friend," I said.
"Hello."
"He's a nice guy, Rick. I like him."
"I want this one to last. It's hard, the way we live."
"You look happy."
"We are. Different in lots of ways, but we also have a lot in common. He's getting a Porsche 928," he said with a laugh.
"Congratulations. You're a good - lifer now."
"All comes to be who waits."
I motioned the waiter over and we ordered fresh drinks. When they came I said: "Milo, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about. About the case."
He took a long swallow of scotch.
"What about?"
"Hayden."
His face grew grave.
"You're my shrink - so that this conversation is confidential?"
"Better than that. I'm your friend."
"Okay," he sighed. "Ask what I know you're going to ask."
"The suicide. It doesn't make sense on two grounds. First, the kind of guy he was. I got the same picture from everyone. An arrogant, nasty, sarcastic little bastard. Loved himself. Not a trace of self - doubt. That kind don't kill themselves. They search for ways to shift the blame to others, they weasel out of things. Second, you're a pro. How could you get so sloppy as to let him do it?"
"The story I told Internal Affairs was that he was a judge. I treated him with deference. I let him get dressed. In his study. They bought it."