Milo stood. “Let me save you the trouble. Get yourself a mature guy and I'll go back to dealing with ordinary homicides with ordinary obstructions. No big loss to you- since you've been following closely, you know we haven't made much progress. Bye- shalom.”
He started out and I followed.
Carmeli said, “I'd prefer that you remain on the case, Detective Sturgis.”
Milo stopped. “I'm sorry, sir. It just won't work out.”
We left the office and were back at the door into the conference room when Carmeli caught up with us. Milo turned the knob. It wouldn't budge.
“There's a master lock for the entire suite,” said Carmeli.
“Kidnapping, too? I thought you guys rescued hostages.”
“I'm serious, Detective Sturgis. I want you on my daughter's case. You were assigned to it in the first place because I asked for you, personally.”
Milo's hand dropped from the knob.
“I asked for you,” Carmeli repeated, “because things had bogged down. Gorobich and Ramos were nice men, they seemed competent enough for routine cases. But I knew this wasn't routine and it soon became clear that they didn't measure up. Nevertheless, I gave them time. Because contrary to what you believe, it was never my intention to obstruct. All I want is to find the garbage who murdered my daughter. Do you understand that? Do you?”
He'd moved closer to Milo, closing the space between them the way- exactly what I'd seen Milo do with suspects.
“That's all I care about, Mr. Sturgis. Results. Do you understand? Nothing else. Gorobich and Ramos produced none so they-”
“What makes you think-”
“- were removed and you were brought in. I conducted some research. The performance of Robbery-Homicide detectives at the West L.A. station. I wanted to know which detectives avoided the quick and easy and had a record of tackling atypical cases. Of those, which detective had the highest solve rate for the past ten years. Things the department doesn't want made public, the data was hard to obtain, but I managed. And guess what, Mr. Sturgis? Your name kept coming up. Your solve rate is eighteen percent higher than your nearest competitor's, though your popularity rating is considerably lower than his. Which is also fine, I'm not running a social club. In fact-”
“I've never seen statistics like that-”
“I'm sure you haven't.” Carmeli pulled out another cigarette and waved it like a conductor's baton. “Officially, they don't exist. So congratulations. You're the winner. Not that it will help your career advancement… you were also described as someone lacking in polish and good manners, someone who doesn't give a damn about what people think of him. Someone who can be a bully.”
Puff, puff. “There are also people in the department who believe you harbor violent tendencies. I know about the incident in which you broke a superior's jaw. My reading of that was that you were morally justified but that nonetheless it was a stupid, impulsive act. It bothered me, but the fact that you haven't done anything like that in over four years encourages me.”
He came even closer, looking Milo straight in the eye. “The fact that you are gay encourages me, as well, because it's clear that no matter how liberal a line the police department takes in public, no matter how high the caliber of your work remains, you'll always be an outcast.”
Another long drag. “This is as high as you'll go, Mr. Sturgis. Which, for my needs, is perfect. Someone aiming for the top- someone cautious, a careerist-is exactly what I don't want. Some ambition-blinded monkey scampering up the administrative ladder, looking over his shoulder every other second, keeping his buttocks shielded.”
He blinked. “My daughter was taken from me. Bureaucracy is the last thing I need. Do you understand? Do you?”
“If you're after results, why make it so difficult for me to get info-”
“No, no, no,” said Carmeli, smoking and blinking through the haze. “In terms of reading my motivations, you're not as astute as you think you are. I haven't hidden anything important from you. I'd strip naked and parade down Wilshire Boulevard if it would bring the garbage who murdered my Iriti to justice. Do you understand that?”
“I-”
“Life has its ups and downs, no one knows that better than Israelis. But losing a young child is an unnatural occurrence and losing one violently is an abomination. One can never be prepared for it and one finds oneself unable to help those who-” He shook his head violently. “I don't want a team player, Milo.”
Using the first name as if used to it. “On the contrary. Come to me and inform me that you've found him, that you've shot him or cut his throat, and I'll be a far happier man, Milo. Not happy, not jocular or sunny or optimistic. I've never been that sort, even as a child I had a pessimistic worldview. That's why I smoke sixty cigarettes a day. That's why I work for a government. But happier. Partial healing of the wound. Staunching the pus.”
He touched Milo's lapel and Milo allowed it.
“You saw my wife. Being married to me, holding things in- has always been difficult for her. Now she finds herself unwilling to live a shadow life, to put up with even the most trivial impositions. She works and comes home and won't leave, won't accompany me to functions. Even though I know she can't be blamed, I get angry. We fight. My work helps me escape but hers forces her to look at other people's children, day after day. I've told her to quit but she won't. Won't stop punishing herself.”
He rocked on his heels.
“It took thirty-three hours to give birth to Irit. There were complications, she always felt guilty because of Irit's disabilities, even though a fever caused them, months later. Now, her feelings are- when I go home I don't know what to expect. Do you think I want a team player, Milo?”
He let go of the lapel. Milo's face was white as moonlight, the skin around his mouth so tight the acne pits had compressed to hash marks.
“The stress,” said Carmeli, “has already taken its toll. Some things can't be fixed. But my- I want to know. I want resolution-”
“So you want to use me as an executioner-”
“No. God forbid. Stop reading between lines that bear no interpretation. What I want is simple: knowledge. Justice. And now, you'll admit, it's not just for me and my family, is it? That girl on the schoolyard, possibly the poor little boy in East L.A. Why should this… monster kill more children?”
“Final justice?” said Milo. “I find him, your boys finish him off?”
Carmeli stepped back, stubbed out the cigarette, and fumbled in his jacket for yet another one. “I'll grant you your moment of outrage. No one likes being watched, least of all a detective. But put your ego aside and stop being obstinate.”
He lit up. “We bent some rules to obtain information- fine, now we've confessed. I'm a diplomat, not a terrorist. I've seen what terrorists do and I respect the rule of law. Catch this piece of garbage and bring him to the bar of justice.”
“And if I can't?”
“Then your solve rate drops and I seek other solutions.”
As Milo regarded him, Carmeli took in lungfuls of smoke and tapped his foot. His eyes had turned wild and, as if realizing it, he closed them.
When they opened, they were dead, and the look on his face chilled me.
“If you refuse me, Milo, I will not make vengeful phone calls to the mayor or anyone else. Because vengeance is personal and you hold no interest for me personally, only as a means to an end. You might do well to adopt the same attitude. Think of me as a bureaucratic idiot, curse me every morning for listening in on your conversations. I'll live with your curses. But does your opinion of me mean Irit's murder doesn't deserve your best efforts?”