The Murder Book (57 page)

“So Willie skipped on Boris, but you paid Boris off. Then you got Poulsenn assigned to the case, to cover it and control it and meanwhile he could guard Willie and his girlfriend.”

“That was temporary. We were regrouping, assessing contingencies.”

“None of which included going after the real killers,” said Milo, surprised at the fury in his own voice. “Maybe Schwinn and I wouldn’t have solved it. On the other hand, maybe we
would’ve
pulled it off. We’ll never know, will we? ’Cause you stepped in and sabotaged the whole goddamned thing. And don’t tell me that was just because of Willie. Someone put the fix in for those rich kids. Someone you had to listen to.”

Broussard swiveled and faced him. “You’ve got it all figured out.”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m here. Who was the fixer? Walt Obey? Janie was pimped by that piece of shit who called himself her father and used by two generations of rich scrotes, and who’s richer than old Walt? Is that what doomed the investigation, John? Kindly, churchgoing Uncle Walt worried about having his nasty habits aired?”

Broussard’s ebony face remained still. He stared past Milo. Let out a low, grumbling laugh.

“Happy to entertain, John,” said Milo. His hands were shaking, and he rolled them into fists.

“I’m going to educate you, Detective, about matters you don’t understand. I’ve spent a lot of time in the company of rich folk, and it’s true what they say. The rich
are
different. Life’s little bumps get smoothed out for them, no one has the temerity to deny them anything. More often than not, their kids become monsters. Malignant entitlement. But there are exceptions, and Mr. Obey’s one of them. He’s exactly what he claims to be: religious, straightforward, ethical, good father, faithful husband. Mr. Obey grew rich through hard work and vision and luck — he’d be the first to emphasize the luck component, because he’s also a humble man. So understand this: He had nothing to do with any cover-up. You mention the name Janie Ingalls, and he’ll stare at you blankly.”

“Maybe I’ll try that,” said Milo.

Broussard’s jaw set. “Stay away from that gentleman.”

“Is that an official order, Chief?”

“It’s sound advice, Detective.”

“Then who?” said Milo. “Who the hell fixed it?”

Broussard ran a finger under his collar. Full sun had brought the sweat out on his brow, and his skin glistened like a desert highway.

“It wasn’t like that,” he finally said. “No one ordered the Ingalls investigation stopped, per se. The directive — and it was a departmental directive, straight from the top, the
very
top — was to effect damage control on Pierce Schwinn’s many years of felonious conduct. Because Schwinn was spinning out of control, heavily addicted to amphetamines, taking extreme risks. He was a ticking time bomb, and the department decided to defuse him. You just happened to get the wrong partner. It could’ve been worse for you. You were spared because you were a rookie and had never been observed participating in Schwinn’s transgressions. Except for one instance, when you
were
observed picking up a known prostitute in your on-duty car and chauffering her and Schwinn around. But I chose to overlook that, Detective. I had you transferred to greener pastures rather than drummed out in disgrace.”

“Is this the dramatic moment where I’m supposed to thank you?” Milo cupped a hand to his ear. “Where’s the goddamn drumroll?”

Broussard’s mouth curled downward in disgust. “Suit yourself and be dense.”

“I didn’t need your largesse, John. When I picked that hooker up I had no idea what was going to happen, figured her for an informant.”

Broussard smiled. “I believe you, Detective. I had a pretty good notion that you wouldn’t participate in any backseat calisthenics with a woman.”

Milo’s face grew hot.

Broussard said, “Don’t get all indignant on me. I won’t pretend to understand what you are, but it doesn’t bother me. Life’s too short for intolerance. I know what it’s like to be on the outside, and I’ve given up on the whole idea of changing the way people feel. Let bigots feel any way they want to, as long as they don’t misbehave.”

“You’re a paragon of tolerance.”

“Not tolerance, constructive apathy. I don’t care about your amusements — don’t care about you, period, as long as you do your job.”

“When doing the job suits your interests,” said Milo.

Broussard didn’t reply.

“You’re an outsider, huh?” said Milo. “For an outsider, you scampered up the ladder pretty quickly.”

“Hard work and persistence,” said Broussard, sounding as if he’d recited it a million times before. “And good luck. Plus a good deal of yassuh-mastah posterior-kissing.” He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Aiming for casual, just one of the guys. His bearing said otherwise. “Back when I worked patrol, I used to tape pictures in my locker. Photographs of men I admired. Frederick Douglass, George Washington Carver, Ralph Bunche. One day I opened my locker and the pictures were ripped to shreds and the walls were decorated with
‘Die, Nigger!’
and other genial messages. I pasted every one of those photos together, and if you go into my office today, you’ll see them hanging behind my desk.”

“I’ll have to take that on faith,” said Milo. “Don’t expect to be invited to your office anytime soon. Unlike that other worthy soul, Craig Bosc. I’m disappointed in you, John. Choosing a lowlife like that to run your errands.”

Broussard worked his lips. “Craig has his talents. He went too far this time.”

“What was the idiot’s assignment? Spook me into focusing on the Ingalls case, the old reverse psychology? Just in case sending Delaware the murder book wasn’t enough to kick me in gear?”

“The
idiot’s
directive,” said Broussard, “was to aim you at the case and keep you focused. I thought you’d be interested, but for a while things seemed to be lagging. It
has
been twenty years.”

“So you steal my partner’s car, float HIV-retirement rumors, have Bosc hit on me and make sure I get aimed at a POB that directs me to the Larners. Then you trail Dr. Delaware and set Coury on his trail. He could’ve died last night, you manipulative sonofabitch.”

“He didn’t,” said Broussard. “And I don’t deal in theoreticals. As I said, Craig grew overzealous. End of story.”

Milo cursed, caught his breath, bent, and caressed the top of Janie’s grave. Broussard’s shoulders tensed, as if the gesture was insulting.

“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—”