I stayed there for nearly half an hour before Bert reemerged.
Pushing a man in a wheelchair. I recalled the chair in his living room.
Keeping it for a friend, he'd said.
Dr. Harrison gives.
Despite the mildness of the afternoon, the man was wrapped in a blanket and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Bert pushed him slowly, and his head lolled. Bert stopped and said something to him. If the man heard, he gave no indication. Bert locked the chair, went over to the apricot tree, picked two apricots. He handed one to the man, who reached for it very slowly. Both of them ate. Bert held his hand to the man's mouth and the man spit the pit into his palm. Bert examined the seed, placed it in his pocket.
Bert finished his own apricot, pocketed that pit, too.
He stood there, looking up at the sky. The man in the wheelchair didn't budge.
Bert unlocked the chair, pushed it a few feet farther. Angled the chair and allowed me to catch a glimpse of the passenger's face.
Huge mirrored sunglasses below the straw hat dominated the upper half. The bottom was a cloud of gray beard. In between was skin the color of grilled eggplant.
I stepped out of the trees, made no attempt to muffle the crunch of my footsteps on gravel.
Bert turned abruptly. Locked eyes with me. Nodded.
Resigned.
I came closer.
The man in the wheelchair said, "Who's that?" in a low, raspy voice.
Bert said, "The fellow I told you about."
CHAPTER 37
Craig Bosc lay prone on his living room carpet, smiling again. Plastic tie-cuffs from Milo 's cop kit bound his ankles together, and another set linked to the metal cuffs around his wrists secured him to a stout sofa leg.
Not a hog-tie, Milo had pointed out, just a nice submissive position. Letting the guy know that any resistance would result in something more painful.
Bosc offered no comment. Hadn't uttered a word since telling Milo he was in big trouble.
Now his eyes were closed, and he kept the smile pasted on his face. Maybe acting, but not a drop of sweat on his movie star face. One of those psychopaths with a low arousal rate? Despite Milo's having the upper hand, Bosc looked too damn smug, and Milo felt moisture running down his own armpits.
He began searching the house. Bosc opened his eyes and laughed as Milo walked around the kitchen opening cabinets and drawers, checking Bosc's bachelor fridge- beer, wine, piña colada mix, three jars of salsa, an open can of chili-con-whatever. As Milo checked the freezer, Bosc chuckled again, but when Milo turned to look at him, the guy's eyes were shut tight and his body had gone loose and he might've been napping.
Nothing hidden behind the ice trays. Milo moved to the bedroom, found a closet full of designer duds, too many garments for the space, everything crammed together on cheap wire hangers, some stuff crumpled on the floor among two dozen pairs of shoes. On the top shelf were three tennis rackets, a hockey stick, an old deflated basketball, and a fuzzy, blackened, leather thing that had once been a football. Joe Jock's sentimental memories.
A pair of thirty-pound Ivanko dumbbells sat in the corner, next to a sixty-inch TV, VCR-DVD combo. A mock-walnut video case held action thrillers and a few run-of-the-mill porno tapes in lurid boxes: busty blondes playing orifice-bingo.
Bosc's three-drawer dresser offered up rumpled underwear and socks and T-shirts and gym shorts. It wasn't till Milo hit the bottom drawer that things got interesting.
Buried beneath a collection of GAP sweatshirts, were three guns: a 9mm identical to Milo 's department issue, a sleek black Glock complete with German instructions, and a silver derringer in a black leather carrying case. All three loaded. Additional ammo was stored at the rear of the drawer.
Next to the guns was a small cache that added up to Bosc's personal history.
A North Hollywood High yearbook, fifteen years old, revealed that Craig Eiffel Bosc had played tight end for the varsity football squad, pitched relief for the baseball team, and served as a basketball point guard. Three letters. Bosc's grad shot showed him to be clean-cut and gorgeous, flashing that same cocky smile.
Next came a black leatheroid scrapbook with stick-on letters that spelled out SIR CRAIG on the cover. Inside were plastic-sheathed pages that made Milo flash to the murder book.
But nothing bloody, here. The first page held a certificate from Valley College attesting that Bosc had earned a two-year associate degree in communications. From North Hollywood High to Valley. Both were within a bicycle ride to Bosc's house. Valley Boy hadn't moved around much.
Next came Bosc's honorable discharge from the Coast Guard; he'd been stationed at Avalon, on Catalina Island. Probably earned himself a nice golden tan while discharging his duty in scuba gear.
At the back of the album were five pages of Polaroids showing Bosc screwing a variety of women, all young and blonde and buxom, the emphasis upon close-up insertion and Bosc's grinning face as he kneaded breasts and pinched nipples and rear-ended his companions. The girls all wore sleepy expressions. None seemed to be playing for the camera.
Stoned cuties caught unawares. All appeared to be in their early to midtwenties, with big bleached hair and out-of-fashion do's that made Milo think small-town cocktail waitress. A few plain ones, one or two real lookers, for the most part an average-looking bunch. Not up to the level of the babes in the porno videos, but the same general type. Another indication Bosc had a limited range.
Milo searched for the hidden camera, figuring it would be focused on the bed, and found it quickly. Little pencil-lens gizmo concealed in the VCR box. Sophisticated bit of apparatus; it stood out among the general shoddiness of Bosc's apartment and made Milo wonder. Also stashed in the box were several tightly rolled joints and half a dozen tabs of Ecstasy.
Kiss the girls and make them stoned. Naughty, naughty.
He returned to the scrapbook, flipped to the next page. Wasn't really surprised at what he found, but still, the confirmation was unsettling and sweat gushed from every pore.
Certificate of Bosc's graduation from the L.A. Police Academy ten years ago. Then a group shot and an individual photo of Bosc in his probationer's uniform. Clean-cut, made-for-TV cop; that same obnoxious grin.
The subsequent paperwork recounted Bosc's LAPD progress. A couple years of North Hollywood patrol before promotion to Detective-I and transfer to Valley Auto Theft, where he'd spent three years as an investigator and left as a D-II.
Cars. Fast-track promotion for a hot-wire cowboy. Bastard probably had a collection of master keys to every known make and model hidden somewhere. With that kind of know-how and equipment, boosting Rick's Porsche and returning it vacuumed and wiped clean of prints would've been a sleepwalk for Detective Bosc.
After car-time, the guy had been moved downtown to Parker Center Records, then Administration.
Then a year with Internal Affairs.
Finally: a kick up to D-III and his current assignment.
Administrative Staff at Chief Broussard's office.
The bastard was an executive aide to John G.
Milo disconnected the pencil camera, brought it and the homemade pornos and the dope back to the living room. Bosc was still working on maintaining his mellow but Milo's footsteps opened his eyes and when he saw what Milo was showing him, he flinched.
Then he recovered. Smiled. "Gee, you must be a detective."
Milo held an E-tab under Bosc's nose. "Bad boy, Craig."
"I'm supposed to be worried?"
"Pocketful of felonies, Georgie Porgie."
"Another country heard from," said Bosc.