When the work day was over, Del returned to a Leimert Park tract home and his upright, uptight wife who still didn't know about Milo, and Milo skulked back to his lonely-guy pad. But for the Ingalls case, he had a near-perfect solve rate.
But for the Ingalls case…
He never saw Pierce Schwinn again, heard a rumor the guy had taken early retirement. A few months later he called Parker Center Personnel, lied, managed to learn that Schwinn had left with no record of disciplinary action.
So maybe it had nothing to do with Schwinn, after all, and everything to do with Janie Ingalls. Emboldened, he phoned Metro again, fishing for news on the case. Again, no callback. He tried Records, just in case someone had closed it, was informed they had no listing of the case as solved, no sighting of Melinda Waters.
One hot July morning, he woke up dreaming about Janie's corpse, drove over to Hollywood, and cruised by Bowie Ingalls's flop on Edgemont. The pink building was gone, razed to the dirt, the soil chewed out for a subterranean parking lot, the beginnings of framework set in place. The skeleton of a much larger apartment building.
He drove to Gower and headed a mile north. Eileen Waters's shabby little house was still standing but Waters was gone and two slender, effeminate young men- antiques dealers- were living there. Within moments, both were flirting outrageously with Milo, and that scared him. He'd put on all the cop macho, and still they could tell…
The pretty-boys were renting, the house had been vacant when they'd moved in, neither had any idea where the previous tenant had gone.
"I'll tell you one thing," said one of the lads. "She was a smoker. The place reeked."
"Disgusting," agreed his roomie. "We cleaned up everything, went neo-Biedermeir. You wouldn't recognize it." Grinning conspiratorially. "So tell us. What did she do?"
CHAPTER 11
Milo finished the story and walked into my kitchen.
The beeline to the fridge, finally.
I watched him open the freezer compartment where the bottle of Stolichnaya sat. The vodka had been a gift from him to Robin and me, though I rarely touched anything other than Scotch or beer and Robin drank wine.
Robin…
I watched him fill half a glass, splash in some grapefruit juice for color. He drained the glass, poured a refill, returned to the dining room table.
"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."