Broussard remained impassive.
Milo said, "Musta been a strain, associating with a known felon."
"I never broke the law."
Milo 's turn to keep quiet.
Broussard said, "There's always flexibility in the law, Detective. Yes, I carried him. My wife adored him- remembered him as a cute little kid. To the family he was still the cute little kid. I was the only one seemed to realize he'd metamorphosed into a reprobate junkie. Maybe I should've seen it, sooner. Or let him deal with the consequences, earlier."
The chief's posture relaxed a bit. Bastard was actually slumping.
Milo said, "Then Willie got himself in a whole new level of trouble. Witnessed a very nasty 187 and got paranoid and told you they were going to pin it on him."
"Not paranoia," said Broussard. "Reasonable apprehensiveness." He gave a cold smile. "Black junkie with a felony record versus rich white boys? No one intended to bring Willie to trial. The plan was to float rumors, plant evidence, have Willie OD somewhere, call in an anonymous tip, and close the case."
"So Willie skipped on Boris, but you paid Boris off. Then you got Poulsenn assigned to the case, to cover it and control it and meanwhile he could guard Willie and his girlfriend."
"That was temporary. We were regrouping, assessing contingencies."
"None of which included going after the real killers," said Milo, surprised at the fury in his own voice. "Maybe Schwinn and I wouldn't have solved it. On the other hand, maybe we would've pulled it off. We'll never know, will we? 'Cause you stepped in and sabotaged the whole goddamned thing. And don't tell me that was just because of Willie. Someone put the fix in for those rich kids. Someone you had to listen to."
Broussard swiveled and faced him. "You've got it all figured out."
"I don't. That's why I'm here. Who was the fixer? Walt Obey? Janie was pimped by that piece of shit who called himself her father and used by two generations of rich scrotes, and who's richer than old Walt? Is that what doomed the investigation, John? Kindly, churchgoing Uncle Walt worried about having his nasty habits aired?"
Broussard's ebony face remained still. He stared past Milo. Let out a low, grumbling laugh.
"Happy to entertain, John," said Milo. His hands were shaking, and he rolled them into fists.
"I'm going to educate you, Detective, about matters you don't understand. I've spent a lot of time in the company of rich folk, and it's true what they say. The rich are different. Life's little bumps get smoothed out for them, no one has the temerity to deny them anything. More often than not, their kids become monsters. Malignant entitlement. But there are exceptions, and Mr. Obey's one of them. He's exactly what he claims to be: religious, straightforward, ethical, good father, faithful husband. Mr. Obey grew rich through hard work and vision and luck- he'd be the first to emphasize the luck component, because he's also a humble man. So understand this: He had nothing to do with any cover-up. You mention the name Janie Ingalls, and he'll stare at you blankly."
"Maybe I'll try that," said Milo.
Broussard's jaw set. "Stay away from that gentleman."
"Is that an official order, Chief?"
"It's sound advice, Detective."
"Then who?" said Milo. "Who the hell fixed it?"
Broussard ran a finger under his collar. Full sun had brought the sweat out on his brow, and his skin glistened like a desert highway.
"It wasn't like that," he finally said. "No one ordered the Ingalls investigation stopped, per se. The directive- and it was a departmental directive, straight from the top, the very top- was to effect damage control on Pierce Schwinn's many years of felonious conduct. Because Schwinn was spinning out of control, heavily addicted to amphetamines, taking extreme risks. He was a ticking time bomb, and the department decided to defuse him. You just happened to get the wrong partner. It could've been worse for you. You were spared because you were a rookie and had never been observed participating in Schwinn's transgressions. Except for one instance, when you were observed picking up a known prostitute in your on-duty car and chauffering her and Schwinn around. But I chose to overlook that, Detective. I had you transferred to greener pastures rather than drummed out in disgrace."
"Is this the dramatic moment where I'm supposed to thank you?" Milo cupped a hand to his ear. "Where's the goddamn drumroll?"
Broussard's mouth curled downward in disgust. "Suit yourself and be dense."
"I didn't need your largesse, John. When I picked that hooker up I had no idea what was going to happen, figured her for an informant."
Broussard smiled. "I believe you, Detective. I had a pretty good notion that you wouldn't participate in any backseat calisthenics with a woman."
Milo 's face grew hot.
Broussard said, "Don't get all indignant on me. I won't pretend to understand what you are, but it doesn't bother me. Life's too short for intolerance. I know what it's like to be on the outside, and I've given up on the whole idea of changing the way people feel. Let bigots feel any way they want to, as long as they don't misbehave."
"You're a paragon of tolerance."
"Not tolerance, constructive apathy. I don't care about your amusements- don't care about you, period, as long as you do your job."
"When doing the job suits your interests," said Milo.
Broussard didn't reply.
"You're an outsider, huh?" said Milo. "For an outsider, you scampered up the ladder pretty quickly."
"Hard work and persistence," said Broussard, sounding as if he'd recited it a million times before. "And good luck. Plus a good deal of yassuh-mastah posterior-kissing." He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Aiming for casual, just one of the guys. His bearing said otherwise. "Back when I worked patrol, I used to tape pictures in my locker. Photographs of men I admired. Frederick Douglass, George Washington Carver, Ralph Bunche. One day I opened my locker and the pictures were ripped to shreds and the walls were decorated with 'Die, Nigger!' and other genial messages. I pasted every one of those photos together, and if you go into my office today, you'll see them hanging behind my desk."
"I'll have to take that on faith," said Milo. "Don't expect to be invited to your office anytime soon. Unlike that other worthy soul, Craig Bosc. I'm disappointed in you, John. Choosing a lowlife like that to run your errands."
Broussard worked his lips. "Craig has his talents. He went too far this time."
"What was the idiot's assignment? Spook me into focusing on the Ingalls case, the old reverse psychology? Just in case sending Delaware the murder book wasn't enough to kick me in gear?"
"The idiot's directive," said Broussard, "was to aim you at the case and keep you focused. I thought you'd be interested, but for a while things seemed to be lagging. It has been twenty years."
"So you steal my partner's car, float HIV-retirement rumors, have Bosc hit on me and make sure I get aimed at a POB that directs me to the Larners. Then you trail Dr. Delaware and set Coury on his trail. He could've died last night, you manipulative sonofabitch."
"He didn't," said Broussard. "And I don't deal in theoreticals. As I said, Craig grew overzealous. End of story."
Milo cursed, caught his breath, bent, and caressed the top of Janie's grave. Broussard's shoulders tensed, as if the gesture was insulting.