"That's it," he said.
I said, "A black detective named Broussard. As in…"
"Yup."
"Ah."
Tossing back the second vodka, he returned to the kitchen, fixed a third glass, more booze, no juice. I thought of saying something- sometimes he wants me to play that role. Remembered how much Chivas I'd downed since Robin's departure and held my tongue.
This time when he returned, he sat down heavily, wrapped thick hands around the glass, and swirled, creating a tiny vodka whirlpool.
"John G. Broussard," I said.
"None other."
"The way he and the other guy leaned on you. Sounds Kafkaesque."
He smiled. "Today I woke up as a cockroach? Yeah, good old John G. had a knack for that kind of thing from way back. Served the lad well, hasn't it?"
John Gerald Broussard had been L.A.'s chief of police for a little over two years. Handpicked by the outgoing mayor, in what many claimed was an obvious pander aimed at neutralizing critics of LAPD's racial problems, Broussard had a military bearing and a staggeringly imperi-ous personality. The City Council distrusted him, and most of his own officers- even black cops- despised him because of his headhunter background. Broussard's open disdain for anyone who questioned his decisions, his apparent disinterest in the details of street policing, and his obsession with interdepartmental discipline helped complete the picture. Broussard seemed to revel in his lack of popularity. At his swearing-in ceremony, decked out as usual in full dress uniform and a chestful of ribbon candy, the new chief laid out his number one priority: zero tolerance for any infractions by police officers. The following day, Broussard dissolved a beloved system of community-police liaison outposts in high-crime neighborhoods, claiming they did nothing to reduce felonies and that excessive fraternization with citizens "deprofessionalized" the department.
"Spotless John Broussard," I said. "And maybe he helped bury the Ingalls case. Any idea why?"
He didn't answer, drank some more, glanced again at the murder book.
"Looks like it was really sent to you," I said.
Still no reply. I let a few more moments pass. "Did anything ever develop on Ingalls?"
He shook his head.
"Melinda Waters never showed up?"
"I wouldn't know if she did," he said. "Once I got to West L.A., I didn't pursue it. For all I know, she got married, had kids, is living in a nice little house with a big-screen TV."
Talking too fast, too loud. I knew confession when I heard it.
He ran a finger under his collar. His forehead was shiny, and the stress cracks around his mouth and eyes had deepened.
He finished the third vodka, stood, and aimed his bulk back at the kitchen.
"Thirsty," I said.
He froze, wheeled. Glared. "Look who's talking. Your eyes. You gonna tell me you've been dry?"
"This morning I have been," I said.
"Congratulations. Where's Robin?" he demanded. "What the hell's going on with you two?"
"Well," I said, "my mail's been interesting."
"Yeah, yeah. Where is she, Alex?"
Words filled my head but logjammed somewhere in my throat. My breath got short. We stared at each other.
He laughed first. "Show you mine if you show me yours?"
I told him the basics.
"So it was an opportunity for her," he said. "She'll get it out of her system, and come back."
"Maybe," I said.
"It happened before, Alex."
Thanks for the memory, pal. I said, "This time I can't help thinking it's more. She kept the offer from me for two weeks."
"You were busy," he said.
"I don't think that's it. The way she looked at me in Paris. The way she left. The fault line might have shifted too much."
"C'mon," he said, "how about some optimism? You're always preaching to me about that."
"I don't preach. I suggest."
"Then I suggest you shave and scrape the crud from your eyes and get into clean clothes, stop ignoring her calls, and try to work things out, for God's sake. You guys are like…"
"Like what?"
"I was gonna say an old married couple."
"But we're not," I said. "Married. All these years together and neither of us took the initiative to make it legal. What does that say?"
"You didn't need the paperwork. Believe me, I know all about that."
He and Rick had been together even longer than Robin and I.
"Would you if you could?" I said.
"Probably," he said. "Maybe. What's the big issue between you guys, anyway?"
"It's complicated," I said. "And I haven't been avoiding her. We just keep missing each other."
"Try harder."
"She's on the road, Milo."
"Try harder, anyway, goddammit."
"What's with you?" I said.
"Acute disillusionment. On top of all the chronic disillusionment the job deals me." He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "I need some things in my life to be constant, pal. As in you guys. I want Robin and you to be okay for my peace of mind, okay? Is that too much to ask? Yeah, yeah, it's self-centered, but tough shit."
What can you say to that?
I sat there, and he swiped at his brow. More sweat leaked through. He looked thoroughly miserable. Crazily enough, I felt guilty.
"We'll work it out," I heard myself saying. "Now tell me why you looked like death when you saw Janie Ingalls's photo?"
"Low blood sugar," he said. "No time for breakfast."
"Ah," I said. "Hence the vodka."
He shrugged. "I thought it was out of my head, but maybe I figure I should've pursued it."
"Maybe 'NS' means someone else thinks you should pursue it now. Do any of the other photos in the book mean anything to you?"
"Nope."
I looked at the gloves he'd discarded. "Going to run prints?"
"Maybe," he said. Then he grimaced.
"What?"
"Ghost of failures past."
He poured a fourth glass, mostly juice, maybe an ounce of vodka.
I said, "Any guesses who sent it?"
"Sounds like you've got one."
"Your ex-partner, Schwinn. He had a fondness for photography. And access to old police files."
"Why the hell would he be contacting me, now? He couldn't stand me. Didn't give a damn about the Ingalls case or any other."
"Maybe time has mellowed him. He worked Homicide for twenty years before you came on. Meaning he'd have been on the job during much of the period covered by the photos. The ones that preceded his watch, he swiped. He bent the rules, so lifting a few crime-scene photos wouldn't have been much of an ethical stretch. The book could be part of a collection he assembled over the years. He called it the murder book and bound it in blue, to be cute."
"But why send it to me via you? Why now? What's his damn point?"
"Is Janie's picture one Schwinn could've snapped himself?"
Peeling on a new pair of gloves, he flipped back to the death shot.
"Nah, this is professionally developed, better quality than what he'd have gotten with that Instamatic."
"Maybe he had the film reprocessed. Or if he's still a photography bug, he's got himself a home darkroom."
"Schwinn," he said. "Screw all this hypothesizing, Alex. The guy didn't trust me when we worked together. Why would he be contacting me?"
"What if he learned something twenty years ago that he's finally ready to share? Such as the source that directed him to Bowie Ingalls and the party. Maybe he feels guilty about holding back, has the urge to come clean. By now, he'd be close to seventy, could be sick or dying. Or just introspective- age can do that. He knows he's in no position to do anything about the case but figures you might be."
He thought about that. Degloved again, stood, stared at the fridge but didn't move. "We can spin theories all day, but the book could've been sent by anyone."
"Could it?" I said. "Janie's murder never hit the news, so it had to be someone with inside information. And Schwinn's belief in science becoming a major investigative tool might play into it. That day has arrived, right? DNA testing, all that other good stuff. If semen and blood samples were saved-"