She said nothing for a moment, then softly:
"There were monsters."
"Yes."
The silence between us was uncomfortable.
"You're a man of principle," she said, finally.
"Thank you."
"Alex - that evening - us. I don't regret it. It got me thinking. Made me realize I have to go out and find something - someone - for myself."
"Don't settle for less than the best."
"I - thanks. Take care of yourself. Mend fast."
"I'll work on it. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
My next call was to Ned Biondi, who rushed over that afternoon and interviewed me until the nurses kicked him out. I read his stories for days. He had it all down - McCaffrey's Mexico days, the Hickle murder, the Gentleman's Brigade, the suicide of Edwin Hayden the night he was arrested. The judge had shot himself in the mouth while dressing to go the station with Milo. It seemed fitting in light of what he'd done to Hickle, and Biondi didn't miss the chance to wax philosophical.
I phoned Olivia Brickerman and asked her to take care of Melody. Two days later she found an older, childless couple up in Bakersfield, people she knew and trusted, with lots of patience and five acres for running. Nearby was a gifted child psychologist, a woman I'd known from graduate school, with experience in stress and bereavement. To them would be entrusted the task of helping the little girl piece her life together.
Six weeks after the fall of La Casa de los Ninos, Robin and I met Milo and Rick Silverman for dinner at a quiet, elegant seafood place in Bel Air.
My friend's amour turned out to be a guy who could have walked out of a cigarette ad - six feet tall, broad - shouldered, narrow - hipped, masculine, handsome face overlaid with just a touch of crag, head of tight bronze curls, matching bristle mustache. He wore a tailored black silk suit, black - and - white striped shirt and a black knit tie.
"Lucky Milo," Robin whispered as they joined our table.
Next to him, Milo looked baggier than ever, though he'd tried to spruce himself up, his hair slicked down like that of a kid in church.
Milo made the introductions. We ordered drinks and got acquainted. Rick was quiet and reserved, with nervous, surgical hands that had to be holding some thing - a glass, a fork, a stirrer. He and Milo exchanged loving glances. Once I saw them touch hands, for just a second. As the evening progressed he opened up and talked about his work, about what he liked and didn't like about being a doctor. The food came. The others had lobster and steak. I had to content myself with souffle. We chatted, the evening went well.
After the dishes had been cleared away, before the pastry cart and the brandy, Rick's beeper went off. He excused himself and went to the phone.
"If you gentlemen don't mind, I'll make a stop in the ladies' room." Robin patted her mouth with her napkin and rose. I followed her sway until she disappeared.
Milo and I looked at each other. He picked a piece of fish off his tie.
"Hello, friend," I said.
"Hello."
"He's a nice guy, Rick. I like him."
"I want this one to last. It's hard, the way we live."
"You look happy."
"We are. Different in lots of ways, but we also have a lot in common. He's getting a Porsche 928," he said with a laugh.
"Congratulations. You're a good - lifer now."
"All comes to be who waits."
I motioned the waiter over and we ordered fresh drinks. When they came I said: "Milo, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about. About the case."
He took a long swallow of scotch.
"What about?"
"Hayden."
His face grew grave.
"You're my shrink - so that this conversation is confidential?"
"Better than that. I'm your friend."
"Okay," he sighed. "Ask what I know you're going to ask."
"The suicide. It doesn't make sense on two grounds. First, the kind of guy he was. I got the same picture from everyone. An arrogant, nasty, sarcastic little bastard. Loved himself. Not a trace of self - doubt. That kind don't kill themselves. They search for ways to shift the blame to others, they weasel out of things. Second, you're a pro. How could you get so sloppy as to let him do it?"
"The story I told Internal Affairs was that he was a judge. I treated him with deference. I let him get dressed. In his study. They bought it."
"Tell me about it. Please."
He looked around the restaurant. The tables nearby were empty. Rick and Robin were still gone. He gulped down the rest of his drink.
"I went for him right after I left you. Must have been after ten by then. He lived in one of those huge English Tudor palaces in Hancock Park. Old money. Big lawn. Bentley in the driveway. Topiary. A doorbell out of a Karloff flick,
"He answered the door, a little wimp of a guy, maybe five - four. Strange eyes. Spooky. He was wearing a silk dressing gown, holding a brandy in one hand. I told him what I'd come for. It didn't faze him.
"He was very proper, distant, as if what I was there for had nothing to do with him. I followed him inside the house. Lots of family portraits. Moldings around the ceilings, chandeliers - I want you to get the flavor of this. Lord of the Manor. Led me to his study in the back. The requisite oak panels, wall - to - wall leather - covered books, the kind people collect but never read. A fireplace with two porcelain greyhounds, carved desk, blah blah blah.
"I pat him down, find a .22, take it. "It's for protection at night, officer," he tells me. "You never know who'll come knocking at your door." He's laughing, Alex, I swear I couldn't believe it. The guy's life is crashing down around him, he's going to hit the front page as a kiddy - diddler and he's laughing.
"I read him his rights, go into the spiel, he looks bored. Sits down at his desk, like I'm there for a favor. Then he starts talking to me. Laughing in my face. "How amusing," he says, 'that they send you, the faggot cop, after me in a case like this. You of all people should understand." He goes on like that for a while, smirking, implying, then coming right out and saying it. That we're birds of a feather. Partners in crime. Perverts. I'm standing there listening to this and getting hotter and hotter. He laughs some more and I see that's what he wants, to stay in control of the situation. So I cool down, smile back. Whistle. He starts telling me the things they did to the kids, like it's supposed to arouse me. Like we're buddies at a stag party. My stomach is turning and he's putting us in the same boat.
"As he talks, he comes into focus, psychological focus. It's like I can see behind the spooky eyes, into his brain. And all I see is dark and bad. Nothing good in there. Nothing good can come from this guy. He's a washout. I'm judging the judge. I'm prophesying. Meanwhile he's going on about the parties they used to have with the kids, how much he's going to miss them."
He stopped and cleared his throat. Took my drink and finished it.
"I'm still looking through him, into his future. And I know what's going to happen. I look around that big room. I know the kind of money behind this guy. He'll get a Not Guilty by Reason, they'll cart him off to some country club. Eventually he'll buy his way out and start all over again. So I make a decision. Right there on the spot.
"I walk around behind him, grab his scrawny little head and tilt it back. I take out the .22 and jam it in his mouth. He's struggling, but he's an old wimp. It's like holding down an insect, a goddamn bug. I position him - I've seen enough forensic reports to know what it should look like. I say "Nighty - night, Your Honor," and pull the trigger. The rest you know. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Now how about another drink? I'm thirsty as hell."