Night Moves

Chapter 11

Milo’s closet-sized office sits midway along a coldly lit corridor on the second floor of West L.A. Division. The remainder of the hallway is given over to storage and a couple of interview rooms reeking of anxiety. My friend’s meager allotment looks like nothing but punishment, but it’s not that simple.

He operates in isolation from every other detective in the building, an arrangement foisted upon him years ago as part of a deal with a corrupt, retiring police chief. The chief had viewed the windowless cell as a final dig at the gay cop who’d forced his hand. Little did he know that Milo welcomed the setup.

Years later, he still dens like a grizzly in a cave, gladly avoiding the din and scrutiny of the big detective room.

His actual job — a lieutenant who gets away from his desk and works — is another oddity. Two subsequent police chiefs bristled at the break in procedure and decided to correct it. Both changed their minds when they learned about his solve rate.

I arrived just after five, got a nod from the civilian clerk in the reception area, bounded up the stairs, and headed for the lone open door. Milo was waiting for me, filling a swivel chair that faced the metal straight-back he’d set up for me. Three feet between our noses. A large greasy pizza box leaned against a wall. The air was warm, close, saturated with garlic. The box was empty. Snack time.

He breathed into his palm, took a stick of chewing gum out of his desk and began chomping. “It bothers you, we can go outside.”

I said, “No prob. Got a bunch of theory for you. Can’t promise you’ll like that smell.”

He listened, rubbed his eyes, studied the low, perforated ceiling.

“All that,” he said, “from a screwed-up appointment.”

“More than screwed up,” I said. “The more I think about it, the more convinced I am Chet was out to humiliate Felice.”

I went on to list the psychopathic symptoms. “Maybe I am overreaching, but I thought you should know.”

He rotated his neck. “You really think he’d be that arrogant? His own damn house.”

“If his home life is something he despises, why not? Right from the beginning you felt something was off about the family.”

“That was in terms of them being targets, not participants. Which you went along with.”

I said nothing.

He said, “Okay, I’ll be open to new possibilities. Does that mean you consider Bitt lower-priority?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “I just think Corvin should be looked into.”

“Multitasking, yippee,” he said. “Looked into how?”

“Cellphone records, his travel schedule.”

“That means subpoenas. You know the problem.”

“No grounds.”

“Not even close.” He picked up a pencil, twiddled, laid it back down.

I said, “There’s another potential avenue. His wife hates him.”

“Hostile spouses and exes, the policeman’s boon. You see Felice as approachable?”

“Not yet.”

“What, then?”

“Keep Chet in mind and concentrate on I.D.’ing John Doe.”

He stood, managed a vertical stretch, hands nearly touching the ceiling. “Not much of a plan.”

He walked out of the office.

I said, “Where to?”

“When in doubt, nourish thyself, time for dinner — eh, eh, don’t wanna know if you’re hungry. Just tag along and pretend.”