The Murder Book (51 page)

“I’ll be mindful of that.”

“I know you will.”

“When we spoke earlier,” I said, “you made a point of mentioning that heroin addicts were unlikely to be violent. You were trying to steer me away from Burns’s trail. Caroline Cossack’s, as well, by pointing out to me that females were unlikely to be involved in that kind of sexual homicide. All true, but how’d they end up witnessing the murder?”

“Bill came upon the scene once the poor girl was dead, saw what had been done to her.”

“Was Caroline with him?”

He hesitated. “Yes. They were together at the party. She was allowed to be at the party
because
he was supervising her.”

“Supervising?”

“Keeping an eye on her. Her brothers paid him for that.”

“Drug pusher baby-sitting the strange little sister?” I said.

Bert nodded.

I said, “So she tagged along with Burns, followed her brothers and their pals to the neighboring estate, came upon the kill spot. The killers saw them, had to be worried they’d unravel. Caroline, because her psychiatric history made her unreliable, Burns because he was a junkie. But instead of eliminating Caroline, they hospitalized her. Probably because even though the Cossacks had participated in murder, they couldn’t quite bring themselves to murder their sister. They
would’ve
killed Burns, but he disappeared into the ghetto, and being rich white kids, they had no easy way to find him. Burns was scared, tried to make a big score, took too many risks and got arrested, made quick bail thanks to LAPD connections and Boris Nemerov’s goodwill, and vanished again. But then, a few months later, he surfaced — got himself a job at Achievement House so he could see Caroline. The boys found out and decided the big step had to be taken. But before they could arrange the hit, Burns was gone again. He and Caroline managed to remain in contact. Eventually, he got her out of Achievement House, and the two of them hid out in Watts. How am I doing so far?”

“A-plus, Alex. As always.”

“But something doesn’t make sense, Bert. Why would Burns put himself in terrible jeopardy by wangling a job at Achievement House? Why in the world would he risk his life?”

Bert smiled. “Irrational, wasn’t it? That’s what I mean about human beings being hard to categorize.”

“Why’d he do it, Bert?”

“Very simple, Alex. He loved her. Still does.”

“Present tense?” I said. “They’re still together? Where is she?”

“They’re very much together. And you’ve met her.”

He brought me back into the house. The front room was empty and the push door remained shut. Bert held it open, and I stepped into a corn yellow bedroom not much bigger than a closet.

Tiny bathroom off to one side. In the sleeping area were two single beds placed side by side, each made up with thin, white spreads. A stuffed bear sat atop a low dresser painted hospital green. The wheelchair was positioned at the foot of the nearer bed, and the man who called himself Bill remained seated, the nearly empty Snapple bottle in one hand, the other grasped by the pudgy, white fingers of a heavyset woman wearing an oversize, royal blue T-shirt and gray sweatpants.

Her downturned eyes were aimed at the bedspread, and my appearance didn’t cause them to shift. She had a pasty, acne-scarred face — raw bread dough, pocked by airholes — and her flat nose nearly touched her upper lip. Faded brown hair striped with silver was tied back in a stub of a ponytail.

Aimee, the cook at the Celestial Café. She’d prepared my crepes, doubled my portion without charging me extra, remained virtually mute.

Just as I’d finished my meal, Bert had come in. Nice coincidence; now I knew it had been anything but.

Marian Purveyance had owned the café until Aimee Baker took over.

He gives people things.

I said, “Didn’t know you were a restaurateur, Dr. Harrison.”

Bert flushed nearly as purple as his jumpsuit. “I used to fancy myself an investor, bought up a few local properties.”

“Including the land this house stands on,” I said. “You even transplanted agaves.”

He kicked one foot with the other. “That was years ago. You’d be amazed at the appreciation.”

“If you ever sold anything.”

“Well… the time has to be right.”

“Sure,” I said, and I found myself throwing my arms around the old man.

Aimee turned, and said, “You’re nice.”

Bill said, “Which one you talking about, baby?”

“Both,” she said. “Everyone’s nice. The whole world is nice.”

D
etective III Craig Bosc whimpered. Vomit flecked his well-formed lips.

Milo said, “I’ll be right back. Don’t think of leaving, lad.”

Bosc watched with panic as Milo collected the homemade videos and the dope and left. Milo brought the stash out to the rental Polaris, locked them in the trunk, and moved the car directly in front of Bosc’s house. When he returned, the former auto cop hadn’t budged.

He undid the leg restraint and hauled Bosc to his feet. Pressed his gun in the small of Bosc’s back, making sure not to grow overconfident of his own dominance. Bosc was a fool, and he’d lost more than a bit of self-confidence, but he was also an athlete, young and strong and desperate. When he took hold of Bosc’s arm he felt iron musculature.

“Now what?” said Bosc.

“Now, we take a ride.”

Bosc’s body grew limp and Milo had to struggle to maintain his grip. Maybe a ploy… no, Bosc was really frightened. He’d passed wind and the stench filled the room and Milo eased him back on the couch, let him sit. Putting on the stone face, but he felt ashamed. What had he sunk to?

“Come on,” Bosc pleaded. “I told you everything. Just let it be.”

“What do you take me for, Craig?”

“I take you for smart. You’re supposed to be smart,” said Bosc.

“Exactly.”

“You can’t be serious, this is crazy.” Genuine terror enflamed Bosc’s eyes. Imagining the worst, because he, himself, was sorely lacking in the conscience department, and if the tables were turned…

The truth was Milo hadn’t come up with a clear idea of what to do with the idiot. But that was no reason to allay Bosc’s fears.

In a creepy, regretful voice, he said, “There’s really no choice, Craig.”

“Jesus,” said Bosc. “We’re both on the same team — look: We’re both… outsiders.”

“That so?”

“You know what I mean, man. You’re on the outside because… you know. And I don’t judge you for that, live and let live. Even when other guys put you down, I stood up for you. Said, look at the dude’s solve rate, who the fuck cares what he does when he’s — I kept telling them it’s the job that counts. And you
do
your job, man. I
respect
that. There’s been talk of promoting you, you’ve got a future, man, so don’t blow it, no way you can get away with this. Why would you want to get
involved
in shit like this?”

“You’ve involved me,” said Milo.

“Come on, what did I really
do
? Followed a few orders and played some head games? Okay, it was wrong, sucked, granted, sorry, but no big deal, it was all just to — even that whole HIV rumor shit, man. And that wasn’t my idea. I was against that. But all of it was just to — you know.”

“To get me focused.”

“Exact—”

“Well, I’m nice and focused, now, Craig. Get up.” Milo backed up the command with a wave of the 9mm. Wondering what he’d do if Bosc complied because walking the guy outside to the rental car, even that short distance, would be risky in full daylight. Even in L.A., where a block was likely to be as devoid of people as one of Schwinn’s nature photos.

“Please,” said Bosc. “Don’t do this, we’re both—”

“Outsiders, yeah, yeah. How are
you
an outsider, Craig?”

“I’m artistic. Into different stuff than the typical morons in the department.”

“Cinematography?” said Milo.

“Drama — acting. I was in a rock video a few years back. The Zombie Nannies. Played a highway patrol chippie. Before that, I did a nonunion commercial for the transit authority. And art — paintings. I like art, man. Your typical department moron is into riding Harleys and pumping iron and drinking beer, I’m hitting the museums. I dig classical music — went to Austria couple of summers ago, to the Salzburg festival. Mozart, Beethoven, all that good stuff. You see what I’m trying to say? It’s
because
I understand the art community that I get where
you’re
coming from.”

“I’m an artist.”

“In a sense you are. Without the people in your community, art would go dead. It would be a fucked world, man — come on, don’t
do
this. This is stupid, we’re both worthwhile, we both have lots to live for.”

“Do we?”

“Sure,” said Bosc, voice smoothing at the nuance of calm in Milo’s reply. “Just think about it: There’s lots of good stuff waiting for both of us.”

“Why,” said Milo, “do I think you’ve taken a hostage negotiation course?”

Bosc smiled uneasily. “You’re dissing
me
, but I’m being
real
with
you
. Fine, I can dig that. I dissed you, played with your head, you’re entitled. But focus on this: At this very moment I’m being realer than anyone you’ll ever meet.”

Milo approached the sofa from one side, took hold of Bosc’s T-shirt. “Get up, or I’ll shoot you in the kneecap.”

Bosc’s smile dropped like a stone down a glacier hole. “You take me out there, and I scream—”

“Then you’ll die screaming.”

He yanked and Bosc stumbled to his feet and Milo marched him toward the door.

Bosc said, “I give you credit, man, switching wheels the way you did. I thought I knew all the tricks, but you were too quick for me, I give you credit, give you full credit. Only there’s something you
don’t
know.”

“There’s plenty I don’t know, Craig,” said Milo. Figuring the guy was bargaining for time — another negotiation trick. If only he knew he was expending needless energy. Because eventually, he’d be let loose. What choice did Milo have? The question was where and when. And Bosc would reward the largesse with instant hatred and an overpowering bloodlust for revenge. Given Bosc’s position in the department, he’d be very likely to do serious damage, and Milo knew he was screwed.

In big trouble, just as Bosc had gloated. But what choice had there been? Continue flopping around as others yanked the strings, Mr. Meat Puppet?

He shoved Bosc toward the door. Bosc said, “No, I mean something you should know right
now
. Specifically. For your own sake.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ve gotta let me go, first.”

“Right.”

“I mean it, man. At this point, I’ve got nothing to lose, so you can do what the fuck you want to me and I’m not gonna tell you. Because why would I squander my last chip? Come on, make it easy for both of us and I’ll tell you and save your friend’s ass and we’ll both forget any of this happened and be square.”

“My friend,” said Milo. Thinking:
Rick?
Jesus, it had been
Rick
Bosc tailed initially,
Rick’s
car Bosc boosted. All these years he’d managed to keep Rick out of this world, and now.

He jammed the gun hard into the small of Bosc’s back. Bosc gasped, but kept his voice cool. “Your shrink friend Delaware.
You
switched cars, but he didn’t. Still driving round in that green Caddy. I put a satellite tracer on it days ago, know exactly where the dude goes. It feeds into a computer, and I get the data, I know where the feed is. And let me tell you, man, he’s been a traveling fool. Did he tell you he was gonna improvise?”

“Where’d he go?”

Long silence.

Milo poked even harder. Used his other hand to clamp the back of Bosc’s neck.

“Uh-uh, no way,” Bosc gasped. “You can fucking blow out my spine, do whatever bad stuff you want, but I’m not giving up my trump card. And something else. And this is the main issue: I’m not the only one knows where the dude is. Other people know, by now. Or they will, real soon. The bad guys. ’Cause the plan was to tell them, leave them one of those anonymous phone calls. We fucking set up your
buddy
, man. Not to hurt him, necessarily, just to use him, to get everyone together. Converging, you know? It was supposed to be perfectly timed, you were supposed to be in on it, too. That’s what I was doing at your place today. I was gonna have another try at tagging your car, then you’d be called, too. To motivate you. But you weren’t home, so I figured I’d try you later.”

“Bullshit,” said Milo. “You were settled in for the night, work was the last thing on your mind.”

“Bullshit, yourself, I’m a night owl, fucking Batman-Dracula, come alive when the sun goes down. The plan was perfect, only
you
screwed it by being too smart and switching cars, and now Delaware’s out in the cold, man, and if you want to help him, there’s only one thing you can do and you better do it quick.”

Milo twirled Bosc around, clamped Bosc’s gullet at arm’s length, aimed the gun at Bosc’s groin.

“Go ahead,” said Bosc. “Do your thing. I’m gonna hold on to my dignity.”

Staring back defiantly.

Sincere.

If the word could be applied to the bastard.

B
ert said, “Yes, Aimee, the world is nice. Now how about you and I go over to the café, see if we can bake up something.”

Aimee smiled, kissed Bill on the forehead, and padded out of the room without a glance at me. Bert said, “We’ll be back in a short while. I’ll bring you a sugarless brioche, Bill. Alex, what can I get you?”

“I’m fine.”

“I’ll get you something. You may be hungry later.”

I sat on the bed, opposite the wheelchair. “Good to meet you, Mr.…”

“We’re the Bakers, now,” said Bill. “It was as good a name as any, and it made Aimee smile. Because one thing she could always do was cook and bake.”

“Bill Baker.”

He grinned and rolled his head. “Sounds like a rich white man, huh? Bill Baker, attorney. Bill Baker, businessman.”