He gave a cursory nod. " Milo."
"Stan."
"And this is…"
"Dr. Delaware."
"Your psychologist."
"That makes it sound like I'm in therapy, Stan."
"Therapy's in fashion now, Milo. The department looks kindly on self-awareness and insight."
"Must have missed that memo."
A big hand extended. " Stanley Creighton, Doctor."
We shook.
Milo said, "What brings you down from Olympus, Stan?"
"More like Bunker Hill," said Creighton. "I'm here to keep an eye out."
"New clause in the captain's job description?"
Creighton said, "One does what one is told." He turned to me. "Speaking of which, Doctor, I appreciate what you do but you shouldn't be here."
"He's cleared for takeoff, Stan."
Creighton frowned. Cool morning but the back of his neck was moist ebony. "I must've missed that memo."
"Probably buried under a pile of wisdom from His Munificence."
Creighton flashed beautiful teeth. "Why don't you call him that to his face? Doctor, you really need to absent yourself."
"Stan, he really doesn't."
Creighton's smile degraded to something cold and menacing. "You're telling me you got papal dispensation for his presence at this specific crime scene?"
"Why would I improvise about that, Stan?"
"Why indeed," said Creighton. "Except for the fact that rationality doesn't always figure into human behavior. Which is why my wife, who has an M.D., still smokes a pack and a half a day."
"Feel free to call the Vatican to verify, Stan."
Creighton studied me. "Can I assume that Lieutenant Sturgis has informed you of the need for exceptional discretion here, Doctor?"
"Absolutely."
"Exceptional," he repeated.
"I love exceptions," I said.
"Why's that, Doctor?"
"They're a lot more interesting than rules."
Creighton tried to smile again. The result fit him like panty hose on a mastiff. "I respect what you do, Doctor. My wife's a neurologist, works with psychologists all the time. But now I'm wondering if Lieutenant Sturgis relies on you so not because of your professional skills, maybe it's more of a personality thing." Expanding his chest. "As in wiseass loves company."
Before I could answer he wheeled on Milo. "How much time are you going to need here?"
"Hard to say."
"I'm after a little more precision."
"C'mon, Stan-"
"You've already seen the crime scene pix, the body's long gone, the prints and fluid swabs are at the lab, and your vic's computer was lifted, so what do you expect to accomplish?"
No mention of the DVD.
Milo said, "Hell, Stan, why even bother to work when we can go on detective.com?"
"Yuk yuk yuk, ka-ching, rim shot," said Creighton. "Bottom line: There's nothing this place can tell you. Unless you're one of those paranormals, think you can feel vibrations."
"You were in my place you wouldn't do a walk-through?"
"Sure, cover your ass. But walk quickly. I've been here since six a.m., which is an hour after Weinberg woke me up and gave me my orders. Morning's aren't my fun time. This particular morning, my knee's being a nasty bitch. So what I'm gonna do right now is go for a nice, loose walk and when I get back, I strongly prefer to see you the hell out of here so I can get the hell out of here and do the job they officially pay me for."
Favoring me with a contemptuous glance. "Be careful, Doctor."
We watched him stride off, limping slightly.
I said, "Who'd he play for?"
"U. Nevada, didn't make the big-time."
"What do they officially pay him for?"
"He used to work Sex Crimes. Now he pushes paper and attends meetings."
"And occasionally plays watchman."
"Funny 'bout that."
We continued toward the green house.
I said, "If it's all so hush-hush how'd you get the chief to approve me?"
"I'll answer that once you're approved."
The bungalow's front porch creaked under our weight. A hummingbird feeder dangling from the overhang was empty and dry. Milo pulled out a tagged key and unlocked the door and we stepped into a small, dim living room. Blank space atop a TV table.
I said, "Her video gear's at the lab?"
Nod.
"Where was the DVD found?"
"Stuck in the middle of a stack of her favorite movies. Or so the file claims."
"Creighton didn't mention it."
"Like I said, it got messengered."
"By who?"
"Guy in a suit."
"And a badge?"
"That, too."
I said, "Any explanation?"
"A note in the envelope said it was found in a stack of the victim's DVDs."
"But not cataloged as evidence."
"Funny 'bout that."
"Who took the initial call?"
"Two North Hollywood D's who have absolutely nothing to say to me."
"Are you planning to tell me what got the gears grinding?"
"It wasn't her," he said. "They couldn't care less about her. That's the point, Alex."
I said, "The suspects are the point. Where they're employed."
"You never heard that from me."
"A school has that much clout?"
"It does when the right people's kids are enrolled. You ever have patients from Windsor Prep?"
"A few."
"Any pattern you'd care to share?"
"Affluent, attractive kids. For the most part, bright, but under lots of pressure academically, athletically, and socially. In other words, no different from any other prep school."
"This case makes it real different."
"Because of one student in particular."
Silence.
"College applications go in soon," I said. "Here's a wild guess: The chief has a kid aiming for the Ivy League."
He shoved a coarse shock of hair off his brow. Fuzzy light advertised every pock and knot on his face. "I never heard that from you."
"Son or daughter?"
"Son," he said. "Only child. Another Einstein, according to his mommy, the Virgin Mary."
"Talk about a mixed metaphor."
"What the hell, they were both nice Jewish boys."
"Graduating senior?"
"Graduating with honors and aiming for Yale."
I said, "It's the toughest year ever, huge upsurge of applications, lots of honor students are going to be disappointed. A couple of patients I saw as little kids have come back for moral support and they say the most trivial factor can nudge the scales. A big-time scandal would energize the Rejection Gods."
He bowed. "O Great Swami of the East, your wisdom has pierced the miasma." He began circling the room. "Ol' Stanley was wrong. Why I rely upon you has nothing to do with personality."
Creighton might've been off about that but to my eye he was right about the house yielding nothing of value.
The miserly space had already taken on an abandoned feel. The front room, carelessly and cheaply furnished, sported a U-build bookshelf full of high school texts, SAT and ACT practice manuals, a few photography volumes featuring pretty shots of faraway places, paperbacks by Jane Austen, Aphra Behn, and George Eliot.
The plywood-and-Formica kitchenette was a sixties bootleg. Wilting fruit and vegetables moldered in the mini-fridge; a couple of Lean Cuisine boxes sat in the freezer compartment. A kitchen cabinet was crammed full of liquor mini-bottles and some full-sized quarts. Budget gin but Grey Goose vodka, no mixers prettying up intentions.
The sole bedroom was a nine-by-nine cave set up with a twin bed and IKEA trimmings.
Gloomy because a single window looked out to a wall of creeping ivy. Hillside close enough to touch but the frame was painted shut. A cheap fan in the corner pretended to circulate air. No match for faint overtones of decomposition.