The Murder Book

CHAPTER 28

Alex dropped Rick and Milo around the corner and drove off. Milo left Rick waiting under a Brazilian floss tree and walked to his house with his eyes on high beam. The rental Taurus sat alone in the driveway, and he gave it a cursory once-over. Nothing weird. Slipping behind the car, he made his way up the driveway, unholstered his gun, and unlatched the back door, feeling foolish. The alarm buzzed, a positive sign. He disarmed the system, covered each room as if stalking a suspect. Playing Robocop in his own domicile, Jesus.

Nothing had been disturbed that he could see and the junk in the spare bedroom closet was stacked just as he'd left it: on top of the movable floorboards that concealed the safe. Still, the prickly heat of paranoia coursed up and down his back. He hadn't relaxed a bit by the time he got in the Taurus and drove back to Rick.

Rick said, "Everything okay, I assume."

"Seems to be."

" Milo, the Porsche probably had nothing to do with anything."

"Maybe."

"You don't think so?"

"I don't know what to think."

"Well given that," said Rick, "let's not get overly dramatic. After I get a rental, I'm going back to work, and afterward I'm coming home."

Milo started up the Taurus but kept it in park. Rick cleared his throat, the way he did when he got impatient.

Milo said, "What'd you do this morning, work-wise?"

"Why?"

"How many surgeries did you perform?"

"Three-"

"Was I there in the O.R., telling you which scalpel to use?"

"Listen," said Rick. Then he went silent.

Milo tapped the steering wheel.

Rick said, "Fine, I accede to your superior knowledge of the rotten side of life. But expertise doesn't mean infallibility, Milo. If someone wanted to intimidate you, why steal my car?"

Because that's the way they think.

Milo didn't answer.

Rick said, "It was a car theft, plain and simple. You always told me if a pro wanted the Porsche, he could get it no matter what I did."

"There are pros, and there are pros," said Milo.

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning I don't know what really happened to the Porsche, but I do know that I want you away from my mess. So stop giving me a hard time even though you think I'm being melodramatic. Worse comes to worst, I was an idiot and you were inconvenienced. What kind of rental car do you want?"

Rick frowned. "Doesn't matter." He tapped the Taurus's dashboard. "One of these will be fine."

"Anything but one of these," said Milo. "I don't want you in something that could be confused with mine. How about an SUV? This city, that's like joining the ant swarm."

"As if I care," said Rick, folding his arms across his chest. "Sure, an SUV. Maybe I'll go hiking."

"Not a bad idea. Take some time away from the city."

Rick's head whipped around. "You're serious. You really want me gone."

"I want you safe."

"Forget it, big guy, just dismiss the thought. I've got a solid week of shift plus built-in overtime. We've got bills to pay."

"Get real," said Milo. "When's the last time we worried about making the bills?"

"Not since the Porsche was paid up. But now I'll probably need a new car and that'll mean new monthlies and we were talking about taking some time off and going to Europe this summer, so I need to stockpile revenue."

Milo didn't answer.

Rick said, "You were serious about Europe? I've been organizing my entire schedule with an eye toward taking a month off."

"I was serious."

"Maybe we should travel right now."

Milo shook his head.

"Why not?" said Rick. "If you're right, why stick around and be a target?"

"The weather," said Milo. "If I bother to lay out bucks for Europe, I want sunny weather."

"Now you're a meteorologist." Rick took hold of Milo 's arm. "What if your anxiety doesn't level off? Am I supposed to go into long-term exile?"

"It's not a matter of anxiety. It's my finely honed sense of threat."

"That stupid rumor those cops were talking about? I've been thinking about that. For all you know, there is an HIV-positive detective in your division. Someone deep in the closet. Or those cretins were just flapping their gums the way cops do. I know, I see them all the time when they bring in suspects. Standing around drinking coffee and gabbing while we sew the poor devils up."

"Another West L.A. gay detective," said Milo. "Sure, that's likely."

"Who says he's gay? And, what, only you can be a celebrity?"

"Yeah, that's me, a star. Rick, it's more than the rumor-"

"That old case, I know. Maybe it was shunted aside all these years precisely because no one gives a hoot. What if you've just built it up in your head, Milo? With Alex's help."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you and Alex have this bizarre chemistry. The two of you put your heads together, and strange ideas start to pour out."

"I've found Alex to be right more often than he's wrong. And what's the murder book, a schoolboy prank?"

"It's possible."

Milo was silent.

"Fine," said Rick. "Let's not talk about this anymore. Get me a rental."

Milo drove Melrose west to Doheny then north to Santa Monica Boulevard. Past the clubs he and Rick no longer patronized.

Rick said, "Where exactly are you going?"

" Beverly Hills. The Hertz office at the Beverly Hilton."

"As a well-known companion of mine always says, 'Hoo-hah.' Maybe I'll rent a Rolls."

"Forget it, we've got bills to worry about."

Rick stared at him and he stared back and they both broke into laughter. Milo knew it was temporary tension relief, more Band-Aid than cure. But that was fine.

Milo watched Rick drive away in the rental Volvo. The counter agent had been a good-looking blond woman, and she'd taken one look at Rick, flirted outrageously, and upgraded him.

No meeting of the minds about where Rick would stay and for how long. Milo agreed to let it ride until tonight.

Alone, he drove downtown, to Skid Row. The fleabags that Vance Coury, Senior had owned twenty years ago had all been situated on a two-block stretch of Main Street. The chance that any personnel from that era remained was nil, but what did he have to lose?

The moment he drove by each of the hotels, the iota of optimism vanished. The spots where the Excelsior and the Crossley had stood were now parking lots, and the Grande Royale was the Shining Light Mission.

He made his way back to the Hall of Records and pulled property tax records on all three parcels. The parking lots were leased to a Nevada corporation, but the land was owned by Concourse Elegance, Inc., which traced to Concourse Auto Restoration on Van Nuys Boulevard. Vance Coury's shop. Junior had inherited the buildings, torn two of them down and converted to low-hassle, income-churning asphalt.

The Shining Light Mission was interesting, though. The Shining Light Foundation was a nonprofit run by the Reverends Fred and Glenda Stephenson- a pair Milo knew because back in his uniform days he'd transported bums to their soup kitchen on San Pedro. He'd found the couple to be saints who put in twenty-hour days serving the poor. Coury probably donated the third lot as part of some sort of tax deal, in order to end up with the other two, free and clear.

Feeling like Don Quixote's dumber brother, he moved on to death records. Sucked in his breath when he encountered unexpected success.

Luke Matthew Chapman had died in a drowning accident, twenty years ago, at the age of twenty-two.

Date of death: December 14. Six months after Janie Ingalls's murder. Eight days prior to Caroline Cossack's final day at Achievement House and nine days prior to Boris Nemerov's execution.

He phoned the coroner's office, got hold of one of the few friendly voices at his disposal: a morgue assistant who'd come out of the closet after learning about Milo's travails. Milo was uncomfortable being viewed as inspirational, but the guy had come in handy from time to time.

Today, Darren asked no questions and went to pull the file. Milo wouldn't have been surprised to encounter another vanished folder, but a few minutes later he had the relevant data jotted down in his notepad:

Luke Chapman had parked his car on PCH and gone night-swimming at Zuma Beach. An illegal dip, because state sand was off-limits after dark and Chapman had had to scale a high link fence. Chapman's alcohol level was twice the legal limit, which made Milo wonder about his ability to climb the fence, but the coroner's theory was that "this young, white, well-nourished male" had been caught in a riptide and lost coordination due to intoxication. Water in the lungs confirmed drowning. The corpse had washed up at the far end of Zuma, where public sand abutted Broad Beach. Multiple contusions and abrasions consistent with battery by surf and sand had been apparent. But no obvious signs of foul play.

No obvious signs unless you were prepared to interpret the bruises on Chapman's arms and legs and back evidence of his having been forced down into the water. Knew Zuma had been one of the King's Men's party spots.

Milo recalled Chapman's vacant expression. The dumb kid in the group. Participating in Janie Ingalls's murder and sitting on the horror for months, but unable to get over it. Maybe he'd gotten loaded and blubbered the wrong thing to his buddies and made himself an extreme liability.

Bought himself the big blue kiss.

On the other hand, accidents happened…

Bowie Ingalls: man versus tree.

Pierce Schwinn: man versus rock.

Luke Chapman: man versus water.

What was left, fire? Suddenly Milo's head filled with images of Caroline Cossack and Wilbur Burns roasted alive. Bodies charred beyond recognition, the perfect obliteration of the past.

The King's Men. A nasty bunch of spoiled, rich party animals cleaning up after themselves and earning a nice, cushy twenty years.

More than cushy: Ferraris and chauffeurs, cribs in Holmby, dabbles in the film biz, private dinners with politicos and power brokers.

They'd gotten away with it.

These King's Men would've jumped at the chance to stomp Humpty Dumpty's skull.

The Cossack brothers, Specs Larner, Coury. And the smart one- Nicholas Dale Hansen. What was he about?

He looked the guy up in the property files. Nothing. What did that mean, he was leasing the house on North Roxbury?

He found himself a quiet corner in the basement of the building, hidden between stacks of old plot maps, made sure no one was around and took the risk of an NCIC call using the ID of a West Valley D-I named Korn- a punk he'd supervised two years ago, low on initiative, high on attitude.

Wasted risk: Nicholas Dale Hansen had no criminal history.

The only thing left to do was go home and play with his laptop. Or take a shortcut and ask Alex to do it- his friend, initially a computer Luddite, resistant to the whole notion of the Internet, had become quite the web-surfing whiz.

He began the two-block walk to the city lot where he'd left the Taurus. Melting in with the afternoon pedestrian throng, dialing up his cell phone like every other lemming on the street. Probably giving himself ear cancer or something, but those were the breaks. Faking normal felt good.

Alex picked up on the first ring, and Milo thought he sounded disappointed. Waiting for a call from Robin? What was up with that?

Milo asked him about running a search on Nicholas Hansen, and Alex said, "Funny you should ask."

"Oh yeah, I forgot," said Milo. "I'm dealing with Nostradamus."

"No, just a guy with spare time," said Alex. "Hansen wasn't hard to find, at all. Guess what he does for a living?"

"He looked kinda corporate in high school, so some hoo-hah financial thing with a bad smell to it?"

"He's an artist. A painter. Quite a good one, if the images posted by the New York gallery that handles him are accurate."

"An artist and he leases in Beverly Hills and drives a big Beemer?"

"A successful artist," said Alex. "His prices range from ten to thirty thousand a canvas."

"And what, he churns them out?"

"Doesn't look like it. I phoned the gallery pretending to be an interested collector, and he's sold out. They described his style as postmodern old masters. Hansen mixes his own pigments, makes his own frames and brushes, lays down layer after layer of paint and glaze. It's a time-consuming process and the owner said Hansen finishes four, five pictures a year. She implied she'd love to have more."

"Four, five a year at his top fee means 150, max," said Milo. "A year's lease on a house in the flats could be more than that by itself."

"Plus galleries usually take around thirty percent," said Alex, "so, no, it doesn't add up." He paused. "I hope you don't mind, but I drove by his house. It's a nice one- big old Spanish thing that hasn't been made over. The BMW's in the driveway. Freshly polished. Dark green, almost the exact shade as my Seville."

Milo laughed. "Do I mind? Would it make a difference? No, it's fine unless you knocked on the door and accused the bastard of murder. Which, I'd love to do. Because, guess what, the plot curdles."

He told Alex about Luke Chapman's drowning death.

"Another accident," said Alex. "Normally, I'd say 'ah,' but you've been crankier than usual."

"Say it. I'll give you Novocaine before I start drilling."

Alex let out an obligatory chuckle. "I also got a brief look at Hansen. Or someone who's living at the same address. While I was driving by, a man came out the front door, went to the BMW, and removed a sheet of wood from the trunk. Nicholas Hansen paints on mahogany."

"An artist," said Milo, "with independent income. Ambling out to his driveway in comfy clothes, doing whatever the hell he pleases. Life's sure fair, ain't it?"

There were things Milo wanted to do after dark, so he thanked Alex, told him to stay out of trouble, he'd call in the morning.

"Anything else I can do for you, big guy?"

Milo quashed the impulse to say, "Stay out of trouble." "No, not right now."

"Okay," said Alex. He sounded disappointed. Milo wanted to ask about Robin, but he didn't.

Instead, he hung up, thinking about Janie Ingalls and how some lives are so short, so brutish that it was a wonder God bothered.

He slogged through yet another rush-hour mess from downtown, wondering what to do with Rick and deciding that a nice hotel for a few days was the best solution. Rick would be profoundly unhappy, but he wouldn't scream. Rick never screamed, just tucked himself in psychologically and grew quiet and unreachable.

It wouldn't be fun, but in the end Rick would agree. All these years together, and they'd both learned to pick their battles.

He made it home by five o'clock.

Midway up his block, he stopped.

Something white was stationed in his driveway.

The Porsche.

He looked around, saw no strange cars on the block, gunned the Taurus, and swung it behind the pearly 928. From what he could tell the car was intact- no joyriding wounds or missing parts. More than intact- shiny and clean, as if it had been freshly washed. Rick kept it spotless, but Milo couldn't remember when he'd last scrubbed it down… last weekend. For most of the week, Rick had garaged the car, but the last two days he'd left it out to be ready when he hit the ER early. Two days' dirt would have shown itself easily on the white paint.

Someone had detailed the damn thing.

He surveyed the block, put his hand on his gun, got out cautiously, walked over to the Porsche and touched the car's convex flank.

Glossy. Washed and waxed.

A peek through the window added freshly vacuumed to the picture; he could see the tracks in the carpet.

Even the steering wheel lock had been put back. Then he saw something on the driver's seat.

A brown paper bag.

He gave the block another up-and-down, then kneeled down and examined the Porsche's underside. No ticking toys or tracers. Popping the trunk revealed an intact rear engine. He'd worked on the car himself, had rust-proofed the belly for all those cold-weather trips that had never materialized. He knew the Porsche's guts well. Nothing new.

He unlocked the driver's door, took a closer look at the bag. The paper mouth was open, and the content was visible.

A blue binder. Not shiny leather like Alex's little gift. Your basic blue cloth.

The same kind of binder the department used to employ before the switch to plastic.

He took hold of the top of the bag with his fingertips and carried it inside the house. Sat down in the living room, heart racing, hands icy, because he knew exactly what would be inside. Knew also that despite the certainty, he'd be shocked.

His jaw hurt and his back ached as he opened the book to Janie Ingalls's case file.

Very thin file. Milo's own notes on top, followed by the official death shots and yes, Schwinn had lifted the photo out of this set. Body drawings with every wound delineated, autopsy summary. Not originals, nice clean photocopies.

Then, nothing else. No tox screens or lab tests, no investigative reports by the Metro boys who'd supposedly taken over. So either that had been a lie, or pages had been left out.

He flipped to the postmortem summary. No mention of semen- of anything much. This had to be the sketchiest autopsy synopsis he'd ever read. "This white, adolescent, well-nourished female's wounds were accomplished by sharp, single-bladed…" Thanks a heap.

No sign of the toxicology screen he'd requested. He didn't need official confirmation; Melinda Waters had said Janie began the evening stoned.

No semen, no foreign blood types. Forget DNA.

But one detail in the autopsy summary did catch his eye: ligature marks around Janie's ankles, wrists, and throat.

Same pattern of restraints as in the hotel.

Vance Coury spotting Janie and going for an encore.

This time, adding his buddies to the mix.

He reread the file. Nothing revelatory, but someone wanted to make sure Milo saw it.

He settled his head with vodka and grapefruit juice, checked the mail, punched the phone machine.

One message from Rick, who'd made it easy for him by taking on an extra shift.

"I won't be through until tomorrow morning, probably crash in the doctor's room, maybe go for a drive afterward. Take care of yourself… I love you."

"Me too," Milo muttered to the empty house. Even alone, he had trouble saying it.