"You buy a gravestone and think you're absolved, John. This poor little girl molders for two decades, and you've allowed yourself to grow righteous. Schwinn sent you the book, and you made me part of the chain letter via Dr. Delaware. Why? It sure wasn't the search for justice."
The chief's face returned to wooden. Milo visualized him wiping the murder book clean of prints, contemplating the "contingencies," finally deciding to forward the death shots to someone sure to pass them along. Using Alex to spook him, throw him off, wanting him to have to fight to regain his bearings, convince himself it was a noble quest.
And if Milo hadn't bitten, Broussard would've found another way. There'd never been any real choice.
"You've got a reputation," said Broussard. "As a contrarian. I thought it was wise to harness that."
He shrugged, and the easy gesture turned Milo feverish. He locked his hands together, struggled not to hit Broussard, finally found his voice. "Why'd you want the case solved now?"
"Times change."
"What changed were your personal circumstances." Milo jabbed a finger at the gravestone. "You never gave a shit about Janie or the truth. Nailing Coury and the others became important because it was in your best interest, and boy, did you succeed. Bunch of dead guys in Ojai, couple more in S.B., the Cossacks bite it in Inglewood, and there's no reason to connect any of them. Now you're free to go about your merry way with Walt Obey's build-a-city game. That's what it's all about, isn't it, John? The old man's money. Fucking Esperanza."
Broussard stiffened.
"Esperanza, what horseshit," said Milo. "It means 'hope' and you're hoping it'll make you filthy-rich because you know you're a failure as chief, gonna have to leave the department soon under less-than-amiable circumstances, and Uncle Walt just happened to come up with an offer that'll make your pension seem like chump change. What's the deal, John? Chief of security for an entire city, maybe augmented by some bullshit corporate vice presidency? Hell, Obey's probably tossing in preferred shares of the project that could shoot you into a whole new fiscal galaxy. Augmenting what he's already gifted to your wife and daughter. Man of color as co-owner of a city- ain't old Walt liberal. Everything was looking rosy until some nasty competition cropped up. Because Obey's grand scheme includes comprehensive recreational facilities aka finally bringing the NFL back to L.A. The old man pulls that off and Esperanza land values skyrocket and you're lunching at the country club and pretending the stiffs over there like you. But the Cossacks had other ideas. Wanted to rejuvenate the Coliseum, or some other downtown venue. Had Germ Bacilla and Diamond Jim Horne on their side, brought those two clowns to dinner at that stupid restaurant they own, did the whole private-room thing with Uncle Walt. Trying to convince Uncle Walt to cash in his chips and go along with them. Once upon Uncle Walt mighta blown off bullshit like that, but maybe this time he was willing to listen. The fact that he showed up at Sangre de Leon and didn't invite you says he was open-minded, and that had to spook you, John. Because even though the Cossacks had never pulled off anything close to that scope, this time they'd lined up decent financing and City Council support. And most important, Obey's losing steam. Because he's getting old and his wife's sick- really sick. Ain't that a hoot, John? You've come this far, and it could all come crumbling down."
Broussard's eyes turned to cracks in asphalt. His lower jaw jutted forward, and Milo knew the chief was struggling not to hit him.
"You don't know what you're talking about, Detective."
"John," he said, "I watched a portable dialysis van pull up early this morning on Muirfield. Mrs. O's seriously not well. Old Barbara needs a machine to survive. Hubby's initiative is being sapped."
Broussard's hand flew to the knot of his tie. He tugged it down farther, stared off into nowhere.
Milo said, "Obey's owned the land for years, so even with his mortgages he can sell at a huge profit. He woulda tossed you a consolation prize, but basically you'd have been a controversial ex-chief forced out and looking around for a gig. Maybe some drugstore chain would hire you to oversee security."
Broussard didn't answer.
"All those years of posterior-kissing," said Milo. "All that upright behavior."
"What," said Broussard, very softly, "do you want?"
Milo ignored the question. "You shrug off that twenty-year-old directive to shaft Schwinn as the reason the case got sidelined, but that's crap. Handing Janie's case to Lester Poulsenn was a dodge. An IA spook, like you, what the hell would Poulsenn know about a sex homicide?"
"Les worked homicide. Wilshire Division."
"For how long?"
"Two years."
Milo applauded silently. "A whole twenty-four months chasing gang-bang shootings, and suddenly he's the one-man squad on a nasty 187 like Janie. His main gig was guarding Willie and Caroline in Watts because your family loved Willie."
Broussard said, "I walked on eggshells with that… with Willie. The family always pushed for him. I bought my wife a spanking new Sedan de Ville and she lent it to him. An IA man's car at the scene of a murder."
A trace of whine had crept into the chief's voice. Suspect's defensiveness. The bastard's discomfort flooded Milo with joy. He said, "What'd you tell the family when Willie disappeared?"
"That he'd burned up in the house. I wanted to put an end to it." Broussard cocked his head to the right. Two rows over. "Far as they're concerned, he's here. We had a quiet family ceremony."
"Who's in the coffin?"
"I burned papers in my office, put the ashes in an urn and we buried it."
"I believe you," said Milo. "I believe you'd do that."
"As far as I knew, Willie really was dead. Lester died in that fire and the Russian got ambushed and I knew it all had to do with Willie, so why wouldn't Willie be dead? Then he calls me a week later, sounding half-dead, telling me he's burnt and sick, send him money. I hung up on him. I'd had enough. I figured he'd last, what- a few months? He had a serious addiction."
"So you made him dead."
"He did that to himself."
"No, John, Vance Coury did that to him last night. Sliced him in half with a MAC 10. I buried him with my own hands- hey, if you want, I'll retrieve what's left of him, you can dig up that urn, and we'll make everything right."
Broussard shook his head, very slowly. "I thought you were smart, but you're stupid."
Milo said, "We're a good team, you and me, John. Between the two of us, we get everything tied up nice and neat. So who pushed Schwinn off that horse? Did you do it yourself or send a messenger, like old Craig? My guess is a messenger because a black face in Ojai would be conspicuous."
"No one pushed him. He had an epileptic seizure and fell down a gully. Took the horse with him."
"You were there?"
"Craig was there."
"Ah," said Milo. Thinking: Alex would laugh. If he'd reached the stage where he could laugh.
"Believe what you want," said Broussard. "That's what happened."
"What I believe is Schwinn's sending you the book loosened your bowels. All these years you thought the guy was just a speed-freak burnout, and he turns out to have a long memory. And pictures."
Broussard's smile was patronizing. "Think logically: A few moments ago you constructed an elaborate theory about my desire to eliminate competition. If that's true, why would Schwinn's reactivating the Ingalls murder bother me? On the contrary, if the Cossacks could be implicated-"
"Except that Schwinn knew you'd put the original fix in. Once he was out of the way, you figured out a way to make everything work for you. You're nothing if not adaptable, John."