The Murder Book (49 page)

I set out behind the truck, lagging a good ways behind.

A few miles later, at the 33–150 intersection, the truck kept going south and Bert managed a torturous, overcautious right onto 150. I stayed with him but increased my distance, barely able to keep the wagon in sight.

He drove another couple of miles, past private campgrounds and a trailer park and signs announced the impending arrival of Lake Casitas. The public reservoir doubled as a recreational facility. For all I knew the paper bag was filled with bread crumbs, and Bert was planning to feed the ducks.

But he veered off the road well before the lake, swinging north at a corner that housed a single-pump filling station and a one-room bait shop and grocery.

Another unmarked trail, this one dotted thinly with unpainted cabins, set well back from the road. A hand-painted sign at one of the first properties advertised homemade berry cobbler and firewood; after that, no messages. The underbrush grew thick here, nurtured by a shade-canopy of ancient oaks and pittosporum and sycamores so twisted they seemed to writhe. Bert bounced along for another two miles, oblivious to my presence, before slowing, and turning left.

Keeping my eye on the spot where he’d disappeared, I pulled over and waited for two minutes, then followed.

He’d gone up a gravel drive that continued for two hundred feet, then angled to the left and vanished behind an unruly hedge of agave — the same spiky plants that fronted his own house. No building in sight. Once again, I parked and continued on foot, hoping the wagon’s destination was measured in yards, not miles. Staying off the gravel for quiet’s sake, and walking on the bordering greenery.

I spotted the Chevy another hundred feet up, stationed haphazardly in the dirt lot of a tin-roofed, green-boarded house. Larger than a cabin, maybe three rooms, with a sagging front porch and a stovepipe chimney. I edged closer, found myself a vantage point behind the continuing agave wall. The house was nestled by forest but sat on a dry-dirt clearing, probably a firebreak. Diminishing sunlight spattered the metal roof. A poorly shaped apricot tree grew near the front door, ungainly and ragged, but its branches were gravid with fruit.

I stayed there for nearly half an hour before Bert reemerged.

Pushing a man in a wheelchair. I recalled the chair in his living room.

Keeping it for a friend, he’d said.

Dr. Harrison gives.

Despite the mildness of the afternoon, the man was wrapped in a blanket and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Bert pushed him slowly, and his head lolled. Bert stopped and said something to him. If the man heard, he gave no indication. Bert locked the chair, went over to the apricot tree, picked two apricots. He handed one to the man, who reached for it very slowly. Both of them ate. Bert held his hand to the man’s mouth and the man spit the pit into his palm. Bert examined the seed, placed it in his pocket.

Bert finished his own apricot, pocketed that pit, too.

He stood there, looking up at the sky. The man in the wheelchair didn’t budge.

Bert unlocked the chair, pushed it a few feet farther. Angled the chair and allowed me to catch a glimpse of the passenger’s face.

Huge mirrored sunglasses below the straw hat dominated the upper half. The bottom was a cloud of gray beard. In between was skin the color of grilled eggplant.

I stepped out of the trees, made no attempt to muffle the crunch of my footsteps on gravel.

Bert turned abruptly. Locked eyes with me. Nodded.

Resigned.

I came closer.

The man in the wheelchair said, “Who’s that?” in a low, raspy voice.

Bert said, “The fellow I told you about.”

C
raig Bosc lay prone on his living room carpet, smiling again. Plastic tie-cuffs from Milo’s cop kit bound his ankles together, and another set linked to the metal cuffs around his wrists secured him to a stout sofa leg.

Not a hog-tie, Milo had pointed out, just a nice submissive position. Letting the guy know that any resistance would result in something more painful.

Bosc offered no comment. Hadn’t uttered a word since telling Milo he was in big trouble.

Now his eyes were closed, and he kept the smile pasted on his face. Maybe acting, but not a drop of sweat on his movie star face. One of those psychopaths with a low arousal rate? Despite Milo’s having the upper hand, Bosc looked too damn smug, and Milo felt moisture running down his own armpits.

He began searching the house. Bosc opened his eyes and laughed as Milo walked around the kitchen opening cabinets and drawers, checking Bosc’s bachelor fridge — beer, wine, piña colada mix, three jars of salsa, an open can of chili-con-whatever. As Milo checked the freezer, Bosc chuckled again, but when Milo turned to look at him, the guy’s eyes were shut tight and his body had gone loose and he might’ve been napping.

Nothing hidden behind the ice trays. Milo moved to the bedroom, found a closet full of designer duds, too many garments for the space, everything crammed together on cheap wire hangers, some stuff crumpled on the floor among two dozen pairs of shoes. On the top shelf were three tennis rackets, a hockey stick, an old deflated basketball, and a fuzzy, blackened, leather thing that had once been a football. Joe Jock’s sentimental memories.

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 grinning face as he kneaded breasts and pinched nipples and rear-ended his companions. The girls all wore sleepy expressions. None seemed to be playing for the camera.

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 disconnected the pencil camera, brought it and the homemade pornos and the dope back to the living room. Bosc was still working on maintaining his mellow but Milo’s footsteps opened his eyes and when he saw what Milo was showing him, he flinched.

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 gonna protect you? Something tells me the chief doesn’t know about your film career.”

Bosc’s eyes got hard and cold, offering a glimpse of the meanness that lurked beneath the pretty-boy façade.

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.”

“Connections,” said Milo. “Got yourself an agent, yet?”

“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 millennium. You think any of that shit you’re holding’s going to stand up evidentiary-wise? I’ll say you planted it.”

Milo fanned the photos. “It’s not my dick in these.”

“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 beginning, always will be. No matter how many 187s you close. No good deed goes unpunished, man. The longer you keep me here, the more screwed you are, and so is your shrink buddy.”

“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.

He waited for Bosc to stop crying, then raised the gun again.

Bosc’s panicked eyes followed the weapon’s ascent, and he scrunched his eyes and sobbed out loud.

Milo said, “Craig, Craig,” and began to lower the weapon.

Bosc yelled, “Please, please, no!” Began jabbering.

Within minutes, Milo had what he wanted.

Good old Pavlovian conditioning. Would Alex be proud?

B
ert Harrison placed a hand on the shoulder of the man in the wheelchair. The man rolled his head and hummed. I saw my image doubled in his mirrored lenses. A pair of grim strangers.

I said, “My name’s Alex Delaware, Mr. Burns.”

Willie Burns smiled and rolled his head again. Orienting to my voice the way a blind man does. The skin between his white beard and the huge lenses was cracked and scored, stretched tight over sharp bones. His hands were long and thin, purplish brown, the knuckles lumped arthritically, the nails long and yellowed and seamed. Across his legs was a soft, white blanket. Not much bulk beneath the fabric.