"How much time had passed since Coury had made a move for Janie?" I said.
"Hard to say. It felt like a long time, but I was going in and out- weaving, you know? Ever been on opiates?"
"When I was a kid I split myself open and they gave me Demerol to stitch me up."
"Like it?"
"I liked it fine," I said. "Everything slowed down and pain turned into a warm glow."
"So you know." He rolled his head. "It's like the best kiss. The sweetest kiss, straight from God's lips. All these years, even knowing what it did to my life, I still think about it… about the idea of doing it. And Lord help me, sometimes I pray that when I do die and if by some miracle I end up upstairs, there'll be this big syringe waiting for me."
"What was Aimee looking at?"
"Janie." His voice cracked on the name, and he rocked gently in his wheelchair. "Oh, Lord, it was bad. Someone was holding a flashlight on her- Luke the Nuke- and the others were standing around, staring. They had her spread out on the ground, with her legs apart and her head was nothing but blood and she was all cut up and burned and dead cigarettes and blood was all over the ground."
"Did you see a weapon?"
"Coury and Bobo Cossack were holding knives. Big hunting knives, like you'd get in an army surplus store. Garvey had the pack of cigarettes- Kools. Trying to be hip."
"What about Brad Larner?"
"He was just standing and staring. And the other one- this big dumb-looking dude was behind him, freaked out, dead scared, you could see it all over his face. The others were more… frozen. Like they'd done something and now it was sinking in. Then Coury said, 'We need to get the bitch outta here,' and he told Brad to go to his car, get out these blankets he kept there. Then Aimee started retching out loud, and they all turned toward us, and Garvey said, 'Oh, shit, you fucking moron!' and I grabbed Aimee and tried to get the hell out of there. But Garvey had got hold of her arm and wouldn't let go and I just wanted to be as far from there as I could so I left her with him and ran as fast as I could and got in my car and drove the hell out of there. I drove like a maniac, it's a miracle no cop pulled me over. Went over to the Marina, then east on Washington, sped all the way east to La Brea, then south into the ghetto."
He smiled. "Into the high-crime neighborhood. Watts. That's when I finally felt safe."
"Then what?"
"Then nothing. I kept a low profile, ran out of money and smack, did what I knew how to do, and got busted."
"You never thought about reporting the murder?"
"Sure," he said. "Rich kids from Bel Air and a black junkie felon tells the cops he just happened to see a white girl get carved up? Cops used to stop me for driving while black, run my license and reg, pull me out, have me do the spread for no reason. Even in my old Mercury Cougar, which was a piece of junk, appropriate for a black junkie felon."
"That night," I said, "you had better wheels. Late-model white Cadillac."
"You know that?" he said. "You already know stuff?" Something new crept into his voice- an aftertone of menace. Hint of the man he'd once been. "You having me go through the motions?"
"You're the first eyewitness we've found. I know about the Caddy because we located Melinda Waters, and she mentioned it. But she split from the party before the murder."
His head rolled slowly, and he canted it away from me. "The Caddy was a borrowed car. I maintained the Merc the way a junkie would and finally it broke down and I sold it for dope money. Next day I realized that without wheels I was nothing- good old junkie planning. I planned on boosting some wheels but hadn't gotten around to it, too stoned. So that night, I borrowed from a friend."
"Nice car like that," I said, "must've been a good friend."
"I had a few. And don't ask me who."
"Was it the same friend who helped you escape?"
The mirrored shades tilted toward me. "Some things I can't say."
"It'll all going to come out," I said.
"Maybe," he said. "If it happens by itself, it's not my responsibility. But some things I can't say." He turned his head sharply toward the front of the house.
"Something's wrong," he said. "Aimee's coming, but that's not her usual walk."
I heard nothing. Then: a faintest crunch- footsteps on gravel. Footsteps stopping and starting, as if someone was stumbling. But for the panic on his face, it would've floated right past me.
I left him and stepped into the front room, parted the drapes on a small, cloudy window, and looked out at the filmy, amber light of impending dusk.
Up the drive, maybe a hundred feet from the house, two men were walking Aimee and Bert toward us. Aimee and Bert's hands were up in the air as they marched forward reluctantly. Bert looked terrified. Aimee's pasty face was expressionless. She stopped suddenly and her escort prodded her with something and she winced and resumed walking.
Crunch.
One of the men was large and beefy, the other a head shorter and wiry. Both were Hispanic and wore cowboy hats. I'd seen them half an hour ago- in the pickup loaded with fertilizer that had interposed itself between Bert's car and mine, then dropped away at the 33-150 intersection.
Lucky break, I'd thought at the time, enabling me to use the truck for cover as I tailed Bert.
Bill called out, "What's happening?"
I rushed back to him. "Two cowboys have them at gunpoint."
"Under the bed," he said, waving his arms helplessly. "Get it. Now."
Barking the order. Sounding like anything but a junkie.
CHAPTER 41
The computer gizmo that read out the trace on Alex was right in Craig Bosc's Saab, hooked up to the dash, a cute little thing with a bright blue screen and a printer. It sputtered to life after Bosc punched a few keys.
Nineties guy, everything he needed, close at hand.
Milo hadn't found any printouts in Bosc's house, meaning Bosc had left those at his office. Or at someone else's.
As Bosc kept typing, the screen filled with readout- columns of numbers in a code that Bosc explained with no prodding. Bosc pushed another key, and the columns were replaced with what looked like blueprints. Vectors and loci, computerized map lines, everything loading at warp speed.
Bosc was sitting in the Saab's passenger seat. Hands free to work, but Milo had rebound his ankles, first, kept the gun at the back of Bosc's neck.
Promising to let him go when he'd done his bit for humanity.
Bosc thanked him as if he was Santa Claus with a bag full of goodies. The guy stank of fear, but you'd never know it from looking at him. Smiling, smiling, smiling. Gabbing technotalk as he worked.
Killing time and filling space; keep those psych tactics going.
His fingers rested. "That's it, amigo. Look at the capital X, and you've got him."
Milo studied the map. "That's the best you can do?"
"That's pretty damn good," said Bosc, offended. "Within a hundred-yard radius."
"Print it."
His pocket filled with paper, Milo yanked Bosc out of the Saab and walked him to the rear of the car.
"Okay, Milo, we're just gonna forget this happened, right?"
"Right."
"Could I have my legs back, please, Milo."
The easy, repetitive use of his name filled Milo 's head with enraged buzzing. He looked up and down the street, now graying. During the time Bosc had played with the computer, a single car had driven by. Young woman in a yellow Fiero, blond and big-haired enough to be one of Bosc's unwitting home movie costars. But she sped by fast, went two blocks, disappeared, never returned.