Bert's involvement would also explain why the blue-bound horror had been mailed to me. He'd met Milo a couple of times, but he knew me much better and was well aware of my relationship with Milo. For Bert, my handing over the book to Milo would have been a certainty.
Fingerprints wiped clean. I could see the old man doing that.
What I couldn't see was him driving down to L.A., stealing Rick's Porsche, and returning the car with the original Ingalls file on the front seat. The GTA combined with the HIV detective rumor and that weird encounter with the man who called himself Paris Bartlett had Big Blue written all over it.
Someone in the department. Or once associated with the department. Maybe even the cop buddy I'd hypothesized, stepping in once the wheels had begun to turn.
Theories…
Bert had just called to let me know he was leaving town. A few days ago, he'd mentioned nothing about travel plans.
Escaping because of my visit? Bert and I weren't everyday acquaintances, there'd be no reason for him to notify me of his itinerary. Unless he was trying to distance himself from the fallout.
Or call me off.
By the time I made it to the bridle path that leads to my property, my head ached with conjecture. I pulled up in front of my house… our house. The damn thing looked cold, white… foreign. I sat in the Seville with the engine running. Turned the car around and drove back toward the Glen.
You could go home again, but what was the point?
My nerves were exposed wire sizzling with impulse. Maybe a long, pretty drive would help cool them down.
Alone.
Milo was right about that.
CHAPTER 34
Milo drove out of Beverly Hills, mulling over the interview with Nicholas Hansen.
The guy was pathetic, a momma's boy and a drunk, no big challenge browbeating him into spilling. But would Hansen change his story once he had time to stew, maybe call an attorney? Even if he did hold fast, his tale amounted to third-party hearsay.
Still Milo knew what he had to do: Go home, transcribe his notes of the interview, making sure he got all the details down, then stash the transcription with all the other good stuff he kept to himself- the floor safe in his bedroom closet.
He took Palm Drive to Santa Monica, then the diagonal shortcut to Beverly, driving like a gangster's chauffeur- slower than usual, checking the scenery all around, scoping out the drivers sitting two, three, four car lengths behind the rented Olds. Taking a different route than usual- past La Cienega, then doubling back on Rosewood. As far as he could tell, everything clear.
One thing the Hansen interview had accomplished: Milo knew now that he couldn't let go of Janie.
All these years he'd coped with department bullshit and propped up his self-image with secret little pep talks, the psychobabble he'd never share with anyone. You're different. Noble. Heroic, nonstereotypic gay warrior traversing a goddamn heterosexual universe.
Rebel with a lost cause.
Maybe all that self-delusional swill was what had helped him conveniently forget Janie. But the moment Alex had shown him that death shot, his heartbeat and his sweat glands told him he'd lived nearly half his life as the worst kind of chump.
Conning himself.
Was that insight? If so, it sucked.
He laughed out loud because cursing lacked imagination. He and Hansen were two peas in the same cowardly, ass-covering pod. Alex, ever the shrink- ever the friend- had tried to spin it differently.
Thank you very much, Doctor, but that don't change the facts.
Yeah, old Nicholas was a moral mollusk, but meeting him had solidified things.
As he cruised through quiet West Hollywood streets, he formalized the next risky step: Get closer to the murder by leaning on someone who'd actually been there. The choice of targets was: Brad Larner. Because twenty years after high school, Larner was low man among the King's Men, a loser who'd worked for Daddy, then regressed to lackeying for his buddies.
One of those walking-around guys. A jerk.
A follower. If Vance Coury and the Cossacks were sharks, Larner was a remora, ready to be plucked off the body corrupt.
Milo ached to get the bastard in a quiet little room. But Larner wasn't living at his own home, might very well be bunking with the Cossacks. The challenge was to snag him alone, away from the others.
A-hunting we will go.
Normally, even with his cop sensibilities, he might not have noticed the navy blue Saab heading his way down his own block. West Hollywood parking laws kept the streets fairly clear but permit parking was allowed and homeowners could grant guest passes, so it was by no means weird to see an unfamiliar vehicle stationed near the curb.
But today he'd mainlined adrenaline instead of vodka and was noticing everything. So when the blue Saab sped by him and he caught a half second eyeful of the driver, he knew he'd have to confirm what his brain was telling him.
He lowered his speed, watched in his rearview as the Saab turned onto Rosewood and disappeared from view. Then he hooked a sharp U and went after it.
Thank God for the brand-new rental he'd picked up on the way home. The gray Dodge Polaris had sagging bumpers and poorly camouflaged dings all over its abused chassis. But with power to spare and windows tinted way past the legal limit, it was exactly what he needed. For this one, he'd forsaken Hertz and Avis and Budget and patronized a guy he knew who ran a yard full of clunkers on Sawtelle and Olympic, out past the 405 South. Budget wheels for the spiky-haircut-and-skinny-lapeled-black-suit types- arriviste thespians and screenwriters and would-be dot.com gajillionaires who thought it way cool to tool around L.A. in something outdated and ugly.
Milo stomped the gas, and the Polaris responded, laying down a nice little patch of vertebra-rattling speed. He followed the Saab's trajectory, making sure he didn't get too close when he spotted his quarry turning north on San Vicente. A medium-congestion traffic flow allowed him to settle five lengths behind the Saab and do a little creative swerving so he could keep his eye on the vehicle.
From what he could tell, just the one male at the wheel. Now it was time to confirm the rest of his first impression. The Saab continued past Melrose and Santa Monica, turned left on Sunset, and got stuck in a serious jam caused by orange CalTrans cones blocking off the righthand lane.
Cones only, no work or workers in sight. The road agency was run by sadists and fools, but this time Milo blessed their mean little hearts as the congestion allowed him to jockey to the right, catch sight of the Saab's plates, copy them down. Traffic moved fifty feet. Milo cell phoned DMV, lied- Lord, he was getting good at it- liked it.
The plates came back to a one-year-old Saab owned by Craig Eiffel Bosc, address on Huston Street in North Hollywood, no wants or warrants.
The chrome sludge oozed another few yards, and Milo did some more rude maneuvering and managed to close the gap between the Dodge and the Saab to three cars. Three more stop-and-gos and a smooth but slow flow resumed and he was alongside the Saab, passing on the right, hoping the Dodge wouldn't register in his quarry's memory and if it did, that the blackened glass would cover him.
Another half a second was all he needed- mission accomplished.
The face was one he'd seen before. Mister Smiley. The asshole who'd accosted him at the hot dog stand, claiming to be Paris Bartlett.
Craig Eiffel Bosc.
Eiffel/Paris. Cute.
Bosc/Bartlett stymied him for a moment, then he got it: two varieties of pears.
How imaginative. Sell it to the networks.
Bosc/Bartlett was moving his head in time to music, oblivious, and Milo sped up, got two cars ahead of the Saab, used the next red light to peer through the intervening Toyota with its two little chicklets also bopping- to some bass-heavy hip-hop thing. He tried to get another look at Craig Eiffel Bosc but caught only the girls' hyperactivity and the Toyota 's windshield glare. The right lane opened up and he eased back into it, allowed the Toyota and the Saab to pass.