The Murder Book

CHAPTER 9

The Waters household was a step up from Bowie Ingalls's flop, furnished with old, ungainly furniture that might've been hand-me-downs from some upright Midwestern homestead. Browning doilies on the arms of overstuffed chairs said someone had once cared. Ashtrays were everywhere, filled with gray dust and butts, and the air felt sooty. No beer empties, but Milo noticed a quarter-full bottle of Dewars on a kitchen counter next to a jam jar packed with something purple. Every drape was drawn, plunging the house into perpetual evening. The sun could be punishing when your body subsisted on ethanol.

Either Schwinn had developed an instant dislike for Eileen Waters or his bad mood had intensified or he had a genuine reason for riding her hard. He sat her down on a sofa, and began peppering her with questions.

She did nothing to defend herself other than chain-smoke Parliaments, was easy with the confessions:

Melinda was wild, had been wild for a long time, had fought off any attempts at discipline. Yes, she used drugs- marijuana, for sure. Eileen had found roaches in her pockets, wasn't sure about anything harder, but wasn't denying the possibility.

"What about Janie Ingalls?" asked Schwinn.

"You kidding? She's probably the one introduced Melinda to dope."

"Why's that?"

"That kid was stoned all the time."

"How old's Melinda?"

"Seventeen."

"What year in school?"

"Eleventh grade- I know Janie's in tenth but just because Melinda's older doesn't mean she was the instigator. Janie was street-smart. I'm sure Janie's the one got Melinda into grass… Lord, where could she be?"

Milo thought back to his search of Janie's room: no evidence of dope, not even rolling paper or a pipe.

"Melinda and Janie were a perfect pair," Waters was saying. "Neither of them gave a damn about school, they cut all the time."

"What'd you do about it?"

The woman laughed. "Right." Then the fear came back. "Melinda will come back, she always does."

"In what way was Janie streetwise?" said Schwinn.

"You know," said Waters. "You can just tell. Like she'd been around."

"Sexually?"

"I assume. Melinda was basically a good girl."

"Janie spend much time here?"

"No. Mostly she'd pick up Melinda, and they'd be off."

"That the case last Friday?"

"Dunno."

"What do you mean?"

"I was out shopping. Came home, and Melinda was gone. I could tell she'd been here because she left her underwear on the floor and some food out in the kitchen."

"Food for one?"

Waters thought. "One Popsicle wrapper and a Pepsi can- I guess."

"So the last time you saw Melinda was Friday morning, but you don't know if Janie came by to pick her up."

Waters nodded. "She claimed she was going to school, but I don't think so. She had a bag full of clothes, and when I said, 'What's all that?' she said she was going to some party that night, might not be coming home. We got into a hassle about that, but what could I do? I wanted to know where the party was but all she told me was it was fancy, on the Westside."

"Where on the Westside?"

"I just told you, she wouldn't say." The woman's faced twitched. "Fancy party. Rich kids. She said that a bunch of times. Told me I had nothing to worry about."

She looked to Schwinn, then Milo, for reassurance, got two stone faces.

"Fancy Westside party," said Schwinn. "So maybe Beverly Hills- or Bel Air."

"I guess… I asked her how she was getting all the way over there, she said she'd find a way. I told her not to hitch, and she said she wouldn't."

"You don't like her hitching."

"Would you? Standing there on Sunset, thumbing, any kind of pervert…" She stopped, went rigid. "Where was- where'd you find Janie?"

"Near downtown."

Waters relaxed. "So there you go, the complete opposite direction. Melinda wasn't with her. Melinda was over on the Westside."

Schwinn's slit eyes made the merest turn toward Milo. Bowie Ingalls had seen Melinda pick Janie up on Friday, watched the two girls walking north toward Thumb Alley. But no reason to get into that, now.

"Melinda'll come back," said Waters. "Sometimes she does that. Stays away. She always comes back."

"Sometimes," said Schwinn. "Like once a week?"

"No, nothing like that- just once in a while."

"And how long does she stay away?"

"A night," said Waters, sagging and trying to calm herself with a twenty-second pull on her cigarette. Her hand shook. Confronting the fact that this was Melinda's longest absence.

Then she perked up. "One time she stayed away two days. Went up to see her father. He's in the Navy, used to live in Oxnard."

"Where's he live now?"

"Turkey. He's at a naval base, there. Shipped out two months ago."

"How'd Melinda get to Oxnard?"

Eileen Waters chewed her lip. "Hitched. I'm not going to tell him. Even if I could reach him in Turkey, he'd just start in with the accusations… and that bitch of his."

"Second wife?" said Schwinn.

"His whore," spat Waters. "Melinda hated her. Melinda will come home."

Further questioning was futile. The woman knew nothing more about the "fancy Westside party," kept harping on the downtown murder site as clear proof Melinda hadn't been with Janie. They pried a photo of Melinda out of her. Unlike Bowie Ingalls, she'd maintained an album, and though Melinda's teen years were given short shrift, the detectives had a page of snaps from which to choose.

Bowie Ingalls hadn't been fair to Melinda Waters. Nothing chubby about the girl's figure, she was beautifully curvy with high, round breasts and a tiny waist. Straight blond hair hung to her rear. Kiss-me lips formed a heartbreaking smile.

"Looks like Marilyn, doesn't she?" said her mother. "Maybe one day, she'll be a movie star."

Driving back to the station, Milo said, "How long before her body shows up?"

"Who the fuck knows?" said Schwinn, studying Melinda's picture. "From the looks of this, maybe Janie was the appetizer and this one was the main dish. Look at those tits. That'd give him something to play with for a while. Yeah, I can see him holding on to this one for a while."

He pocketed the photo.

Milo envisioned a torture chamber. The blond girl nude, shackled… "So what do we do about finding her?"

"Nothing," said Schwinn. "If she's already dead, we have to wait till she shows up. If he's still got her, he's not gonna tell us."

"What about that Westside party?"

"What about it?"

"We could put the word out with West L.A., the sheriffs, Beverly Hills PD. Sometimes parties get wild, the blues go out on a nuisance call."

"So what?" said Schwinn. "We show up at some rich asshole's door, say, 'Excuse me, are you cutting up this kid?' " He sniffed, coughed, produced his bottle of decongestant, and swigged. "Shit, Waters's dump was dusty. All-American mom, another poor excuse for an adult. Who knows if there even was a party."

"Why wouldn't there be?"

"Because kids lie to their parents." Schwinn swiveled toward Milo. "What's with all these fucking questions? You thinking of going to law school?"

Milo held his tongue, and the rest of the ride was their usual joy-fest. A block from the station, Schwinn said, "You wanna go snooping for Westside nuisance calls, be my guest, but I think Blondie was lying to Mommy like she always did because a fancy Westside party was exactly the kind of thing that would calm the old lady down. Hundred to one Blondie and Janie were fixing to thumb the Strip, score some dope, maybe trade blow jobs for it, or whatever. They got into the wrong set of wheels and ended up downtown. Janie was too stupid to learn from her past experience- or like I said, maybe she liked being tied up. She was a stoner. Both of them probably were."

"Your source mentioned a Westside party."

"Street talk's like watermelon, you got to pick around the seeds. The main thing is Janie was found downtown. And chances are Melinda's somewhere around there, too, if a scrote got her and finished with her. For all we know, he kept her in the trunk while he was setting up Janie on Beaudry. Got back on the freeway, he could be in Nevada by now."

He shook his head. "Stupid kids. Two of them thought they had the world in their sweet little hands, and the world upped and bit 'em."

Back at the station, Schwinn collected his things from his desk and walked off without a word to Milo. Not even bothering to sign out. No one noticed: None of the detectives paid much attention to Schwinn, period.

An outcast, Milo realized. Did they stick me with him by coincidence?

Pushing all that aside, he played phone poker until well after dark. Contacting every police entity west of Hollywood Division in search of 415 party calls. Throwing in rent-a-cop outfits, too: The Bel Air Patrol, and other private firms that covered Beverlywood, Cheviot Hills, Pacific Palisades. The privates turned out to be the worst to deal with- no one was willing to talk without supervisory clearance and Milo had to leave his name and badge number, wait for callbacks that probably wouldn't happen.

He kept going, casting his net to Santa Monica and beyond, even including the southern edge of Ventura County, because Melinda Waters had once hitched PCH to Oxnard to see her father. And kids flocked to the beach for parties- he'd spent many a sleepless night driving up and down the coast highway, spotting bonfires that sparked the tide, the faint silhouettes of couples. Wondering what it would be like to have someone.

Four hours of work resulted in two measly hits- either L.A. had turned sleepy, or no one was complaining about noise anymore.

Two big zeros: An eye surgeon's fiftieth birthday party on Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills had evoked a Friday midnight complaint from a cranky neighbor.

"Kids? No, don't think so," laughed the BH desk officer. "We're talking black tie, all that good stuff. Lester Lanin's orchestra playing swing and still someone bitched. There's always some killjoy, right?"

The second call was a Santa Monica item: A bar mitzvah on Fifth Street north of Montana had been closed down just after 2 A.M., after rambunctious thirteen-year-olds began setting off firecrackers.

Milo put the phone down and stretched. His ears burned and his neck felt like dry ice. Schwinn's voice was an obnoxious mantra in his head as he left the station just before 1 A.M.

Told you so, asshole. Told you so, asshole.

He drove to a bar- a straight one on Eighth Street, not far from the Ambassador Hotel. He'd passed it several times, a shabby-looking place on the ground floor of an old brick apartment building that had seen better days. The few patrons drinking this late were past their prime, too, and his entrance lowered the median age by a few decades. Mel Torme on tape loop, scary-looking toothpicked shrimp and bowls full of cracker medley decorated the cloudy bar top. Milo downed a few shots and beers, kept his head down, left, and drove north to Santa Monica Boulevard, cruising Boystown for a while but didn't even wrestle with temptation: Tonight the male hookers looked predatory, and he realized he wanted to be with no one, not even himself. When he reached his apartment, images of Melinda Waters's torment had returned to plague him, and he pulled down a bottle of Jim Beam from a kitchenette cupboard. Tired but wired. Removing his clothes was an ordeal, and the sight of his pitiful, white body made him close his eyes.

He lay in bed, wishing the darkness was more complete. Wishing for a brain valve that would choke off the pictures. Alcohol lullabies finally eased him, stumbling, to bed.

The next morning, he drove to a newsstand and picked up the morning's Times and Herald-Examiner. No reporter had called him or Schwinn on the Ingalls murder, but something that ugly was sure to be covered.

But it wasn't, not a line of print.

That made no sense. Reporters were tuned in to the police band, covered the morgue, too.

He sped to the station, checked his own box and Schwinn's for jour-nalistic queries. Found only a single phone slip with his name at the top. Officer Del Monte from The Bel Air Patrol, no message. He dialed the number, talked to a few flat, bored voices before finally reaching Del Monte.

"Oh, yeah. You're the one called about parties." The guy had a crisp, clipped voice, and Milo knew he was talking to an ex-military man. Middle-aged voice. Korea, not V.N.

"That's right. Thanks for calling back. What've you got?"

"Two on Friday, both times kids being jerks. The first was a sweet sixteen on Stradella, all-girls' sleepover that some punks tried to crash. Not local boys. Black kids and Mexicans. The girls' parents called us, and we ejected them."

"Where were the crashers from?"

"They claimed Beverly Hills." Del Monte laughed. "Right."

"They give you any trouble?"

"Not up front. They made like they were leaving Bel Air- we followed them to Sunset, then hung back and watched. Idiots crossed over near UCLA, then tried to come back a few minutes later and head over to the other party." Del Monte chuckled, again. "No luck, Pachuco. Our people were already there on a neighbor complaint. We ejected them before they even got out of the car."

"Where was the second party?"

"That was the live one, big-time noise. Upper Stone Canyon Drive way above the hotel."

The locale Schwinn's source had mentioned. "Whose house?"

"Empty house," said Del Monte. "The family bought a bigger one but didn't get around to selling the first one and the parents took a vacation, left the kiddies behind and, big surprise, the kiddies decided to use the empty house for fun 'n' games, invited the entire damn city. Must've been two, three hundred kids all over the place, cars- Porsches and other good wheels, and plenty of outside wheels. By the time we showed up, it was a scene. It's a big property, coupla acres, no real close-by neighbors, but by now the closest neighbors were fed up."

"By now?" said Milo. "This wasn't the first time?"

Silence. "We've had a few other calls there. Tried to contact the parents, no luck, they're always out of town."

"Spoiled brats."

Del Monte laughed. "You didn't hear that from me. Anyway, what's up with all this?"

"Tracing a 187 victim's whereabouts."

Silence. "Homicide? Nah, no way. This was just kids partying and playing music too loud."

"I'm sure you're right," said Milo. "But I've got rumors that my db might've attended a party on the Westside, so I've gotta ask. What's the name of the family that owns the house?"

Longer silence. "Listen," said Del Monte. "These people- you do me wrong, I could be parking cars. And believe me, no one saw anything worse than drinking and screwing around- a few joints, big deal, right? Anyway, we closed it down."

"I'm just going through the routine, Officer," said Milo. "Your name won't come up. But if I don't check it out, I'll be parking cars. Who owns the house and what's the address?"

"A rumor?" said Del Monte. "There had to be tons of parties Friday night."

"Any party we hear about, we look into. That's why yours won't stick out."

"Okay… the family's named Cossack." Del Monte uttered it weightily, as if that was supposed to mean something.

"Cossack," said Milo, keeping his tone ambiguous.

"As in office buildings, shopping malls- Garvey Cossack. Big downtown developer, part of that bunch wanted to bring another football team to L.A."

"Yeah, sure," lied Milo. His interest in sports had peaked with Pop Warner baseball. "Cossack on Stone Canyon. What's the address?"

Del Monte sighed and read off the numbers.

"How many kids in the family?" said Milo.

"Three- two boys and a girl. Didn't see the daughter, there, but she could've been."

"You know the kids personally?"

"Nah, just by sight."

"So the boys threw the party," said Milo. "Names?"

"The big one's Garvey Junior and the younger one's Bob but they call him Bobo."

"How old?"

"Junior's probably twenty-one, twenty-two, Bobo's maybe a year younger."

More than kids, thought Milo.

"They gave us no trouble," said Del Monte. "They're just a couple guys like to have fun."

"And the girl?"

"Her I didn't see."

Milo thought he picked up something new in Del Monte's voice. "Name?"

"Caroline."

"Age?"

"Younger- maybe seventeen. It was really no big deal, everyone dispersed. My message said you're Central. Where was your db found?"

Milo told him.

"There you go," said Del Monte. "Fifteen miles from Bel Air. You're wasting your time."

"Probably. Three hundred partying kids just caved when you showed up?"

"We've got experience with that kind of thing."

"What's the technique?" said Milo.

"Use sensitivity," said the rent-a-cop. "Don't treat 'em like you would a punk from Watts or East L.A. 'cause these kids are accustomed to a certain style."

"Which is?"

"Being treated like they're important. If that doesn't work, threaten to call the parents."

"And if that doesn't work?"

"That usually works. Gotta go, nice talking to you."

"I appreciate the time, Officer. Listen, if I came by and showed a photo around, would there be a chance anyone would recognize a face?"

"Whose face?"

"The vic's."

"No way. Like I said, it was a swarm. After a while they all start to look alike."

"Rich kids?"

"Any kids."

It was nearly 10 A.M., and Schwinn still hadn't shown up. Figuring sooner rather than later was the best time to spring Janie's photo on Del Monte and his patrol buddies, Milo threw on his jacket and left the station.

Del Monte had been decent enough to call and look where it got him.

No good deed goes unpunished.

It took nearly forty minutes to reach Bel Air. The patrol office was a white, tile-roofed bungalow tucked behind the west gate. Lots of architectural detail inside and out- Milo would've been happy to make it his house. He'd heard that the gates and the private-cop scrutiny had been instituted by Howard Hughes when he lived in Bel Air because the billionaire didn't trust LAPD.

The rich taking care of their own. Just like the party on Stone Canyon: ticked-off neighbors, but everything kept private, no nuisance call had reached the West L.A. station.

Del Monte was at the front desk, and when Milo came in, his dark, round face turned sour. Milo apologized and whipped out a crime-scene snap he'd taken from the pile Schwinn had left in his desk. The least horrifying of the collection- side view of Janie's face, just the hint of ligature ring around the neck. Del Monte's response was a cursory head flick. Two other guards were drinking coffee, and they gave the picture more careful study, then shook their heads. Milo would have liked to show Melinda Waters's photo, but Schwinn had pocketed it.

He left the patrol office and drove to the party house on Stone Canyon Drive. Huge, redbrick, three-story, six-column Colonial. Black double doors, black shutters, mullioned windows, multiple gables. Milo's guess was twenty, twenty-five rooms.

The Cossack family had moved to something more generous.

A huge dry lawn and flaking paint on some of the shutters said the maintenance schedule had slackened since the house had emptied. Shredded hedges and scraps of paper confettiing the brick walkway were the only evidence of revelry gone too far. Milo parked, got out, picked up one of the shreds, hoping for some writing, but it was soft and absorbent and blank- heavy-duty paper towel. The gate to the backyard was bolted and opaque. He peered over, saw a big blue egg of a pool, rolling greenery, lots of brick patio, blue jays pecking. Behind one of the hedges, the glint of glass- cans and bottles.

The nearest neighbor was to the south, well separated from the colonial by the broad lawns of both houses. A much smaller, meticulously maintained one-story ranch emblazoned with flower beds and fronted by dwarf junipers trimmed Japanese-style. The northern border of the Cossack property was marked by a ten-foot stone wall that went on for a good thousand feet up Stone Canyon. Probably some multiacre estate, a humongous chateau pushed back too far from the street to be visible.

Milo walked across the dry lawn and the colonial's empty driveway, up to the ranch house's front door. Teak door, with a shiny brass knocker shaped like a swan. Off to the right a small cement Shinto shrine presided over a tiny, babbling stream.

A very tall woman in her late sixties answered his ring. Stout and regal with puffy, rouged cheeks, she wore her silver hair tied back in a bun so tight it looked painful, had sheathed her impressive frame in a cream kimono hand-painted with herons and butterflies. In one liver-spotted hand was an ivory-handled brush with pointed bristles tipped with black ink. Even in black satin flat slippers she was nearly eye level with Milo. Heels would have made her a giantess.

"Ye-es?" Watchful eyes, deliberate contralto.

Out came the badge. "Detective Sturgis, Mrs…"

"Schwartzman. What brings a detective to Bel Air?"

"Well, ma'am, last Friday your neighbors had a party-"

"A party," she said, as if the description was absurd. She aimed the brush at the empty Colonial. "More like rooting at the trough. The aptly named Cossacks."

"Aptly named?"

"Barbarians," said Mrs. Schwartzman. "A scourge."

"You've had problems with them before."

"They lived there for less than two years, let the place go to seed. That's their pattern, apparently. Move in, degrade, move out."

"To something bigger."

"But of course. Bigger is better, right? They're vulgarians. No surprise, given what the father does."

"What does he do?"

"He destroys period architecture and substitutes grotesquerie. Packing cartons pretending to be office buildings, those drive-in monstrosities- strip malls. And she… desperately blond, the sweaty anxiety of an arriviste. Both of them gone all the time. No supervision for those brats."

"Mrs. Schwart-"

"If you'd care to be precise, it's Dr. Schwartzman."

"Pardon me, Doctor-"

"I'm an endocrinologist- retired. My husband is Professor Arnold Schwartzman, the orthopedic surgeon. We've lived here twenty-eight years, had wonderful neighbors for twenty-six- the Cantwells, he was in metals, she was the loveliest person. The two of them passed on within months of one another. The house went into probate, and they bought it."

"Who lives on the other side?" said Milo, indicating the stone walls.

"Officially, Gerhard Loetz."

Milo shot her a puzzled look.

"German industrialist." As if everyone should know. "Baron Loetz has homes all over the world. Palaces, I've been told. He's rarely here. Which is fine with me, keeps the neighborhood quiet. Baron Loetz's property extends to the mountains, the deer come down to graze. We get all sorts of wildlife in the canyon. We love it. Everything was perfect until they moved in. Why are you asking all these questions?"

"A girl went missing," said Milo. "There's a rumor she attended a party on the Westside Friday night."

Dr. Schwartzman shook her head. "Well, I wouldn't know about that. Didn't get a close look at those hoodlums, didn't want to. Never left the house. Afraid to, if you'd like to know. I was alone, Professor Schwartzman was in Chicago, lecturing. Usually, that doesn't bother me, we have an alarm, used to have an Akita." The hand around the brush tightened. Man-sized knuckles bulged. "But Friday night was alarming. So many of them, running in and out, screaming like banshees. As usual, I called the patrol, had them stay until the last barbarian left. Even so, I was nervous. What if they came back?"

"But they didn't."

"No."

"So you never got close enough to see any of the kids."

"That's correct."

Milo considered showing her the death photo anyway. Decided against it. Maybe the story hadn't hit the papers because someone upstairs wanted it that way. Dr. Schwartzman's hostility to the Cossacks might very well fuel another rumor. Working alone like this, he didn't want to screw up big-time.

"The patrol," he said, "not the police-"

"That's what we do in Bel Air, Detective. We pay the patrol, so they respond. Your department, on the other hand- there seems to be a belief among law enforcement types that the problems of the… fortunate are trivial. I learned that the hard way, when Sumi- my doggie- was murdered."

"When was this?"

"Last summer. Someone poisoned him. I found him right there." Indicating the front lawn. "They unlatched the gate and fed him meat laced with rat poison. That time, I did call your department, and they finally sent someone out. A detective. Allegedly."

"Do you remember his name?"

Dr. Schwartzman gave a violent headshake. "Why would I? He barely gave me the time of day, clearly didn't take me seriously. Didn't even bother to go over there, just referred it to Animal Control, and all they offered to do was dispose of Sumi's body, thank you very much for nothing."

"They?" said Milo.

Schwartzman's brush pointed at the party house.

"You suspect one of the Cossacks poisoned Sumi?"

"I don't suspect, I know," said Schwartzman. "But I can't prove it. The daughter. She's mad, quite definitely. Walks around talking to herself, a bizarre look in her eyes, all hunched over. Wears the same clothes for days on end. And she brings black boys home- clearly not right. Sumi despised her. Dogs have a nose for madness. Anytime that crazy girl walked by, poor Sumi would fly into a rage, throw himself against the gate, it was all I could do to calm him down. And let me tell you, Detective, the only time he responded that way was to stranger intrusion. Protective, Akitas are, that's the whole point of an Akita. But sweet and smart- he loved the Cantwells, even grew accustomed to the gardeners and the mailman. But never to that girl. He knew when someone was wrong. Simply despised her. I'm sure she poisoned him. The day I found his poor body, I spied her. Watching me through a second-story window. That pair of mad eyes. Staring. I stared right back and waved my fist, and you'd better believe that drapery snapped back into place. She knew that I knew. But soon after, she came out and walked past me- right past me, staring. She's a frightening thing, that girl. Hopefully that party was the last time we'll see them around here."

"She was at the party?" said Milo.

Dr. Schwartzman crossed her arms across her bosom. "Have you been listening to me, young man? I told you, I didn't get close enough to check."

"Sorry," said Milo. "How old is she?"

"Seventeen or eighteen."

"Younger than her brothers."

"Those two," said Schwartzman. "So arrogant."

"Ever have any problems with the brothers other than parties?"

"All the time. Their attitude."

"Attitude?"

"Entitled," said Schwartzman. "Smug. Just thinking about them makes me angry, and anger is bad for my health, so I'm going to resume my calligraphy. Good day."

Before Milo could utter another syllable, the door slammed shut and he was staring at teak. No sense pushing it; Frau Doktor Schwartzman could probably beat him in an arm wrestle. He returned to the car, sat there wondering if anything she'd said mattered.

The Cossack brothers had a bad attitude. Like every other rich kid in L.A.

The sister, on the other hand, sounded anything but typical- if Schwartzman could be believed. And if Schwartzman's suspicion about her dog was right, Sister Cossack's quirkiness was something to worry about.

Seventeen years old made Caroline Cossack an age peer of Janie Ingalls and Melinda Waters. A rich girl with a wild side and access to the right toys might very well have attracted two street kids.

Taking black boys home. Racism aside, that spelled rebel. Someone willing to push the envelope.

Dope, a couple of party girls venturing from Hollywood into uncharted territory… still, it came down to nothing more than rumor, and he had nowhere to take it.

He stared at the empty party house, took in Bel Air silence, shabby grace, a lifestyle he'd never attain. Feeling out of his element, every inch the ignorant rookie.

And now he had to report back to Schwinn.

This is a whodunit. This likes to munch on your insides, then shit you out in pellets…

The bastard's reproachful voice had crept into his head and camped there, obnoxious but authoritative.

While Milo'd spun his wheels, Schwinn had come up with the single useful lead on the Ingalls case: the tip that had led them straight to Janie's father.

A source he wouldn't identify. Not even bothering to be coy, coming right out and accusing Milo of spying for the brass.

Because he knew he was under suspicion? Maybe that's why the other D's seemed to shun the guy. Whatever was going on, Milo'd been shoved square in the middle of it… he had to push all that aside and concentrate on the job. But the job- going nowhere- made him feel inadequate.

Poor Janie. And Melinda Waters- what was the chance she was alive? What would she look like when they finally found her?

It was nearly noon and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. But he could find no reason to stop for grease. Had no appetite for anything.