I said, “Here’s more analysis. You haven’t told me to go home because you think it’ll get psychological.”
“It already is,” he said. “The whole thing is out there. I can’t tell you how much three a.m. time I’ve spent thinking about the limo and trying to get it.” Big grin. “Now you’re gonna tell me there’s no explanation.”
“Congratulations. You have now added oracle to your résumé. Where are we eating?”
“Indian okay?”
“Always.”
Given Milo’s appetite and, more important, his Diamond Jim tipping, he gets warm welcomes at every tavern and restaurant we enter. The Indian storefront around the corner from the station kicks it up to adulation.
Over the years, he’s handled a few disruptive customers and street people, convincing the bespectacled, sari-draped woman who owns the place that he’s invincible.
This evening, the place was humming, mostly with uniforms and plainclothes cops. She grants Milo credit for that, as well. There’s some truth to it; he’s left brochures in the big detective room and has been known to talk the place up.
The table he likes — at the rear, facing the street — was unoccupied and topped by a Reserved place marker though he’d made no reservation. The woman beamed like someone spotting a long-lost relative at an airport arrival gate.
Heads turned as she hugged us — me, briefly, Milo, longer.
Heads rotated back to nutrition when Milo shot the room a George Patton scowl.
Before our butts hit the chairs, the woman was pouring us spiced iced tea and leaving the pitcher on the table. A jog to the kitchen and back produced naan bread, crisp chili-laced wheat crackers and dip bowls of chutney, hot pepper sauce, and cilantro with garlic.
As Milo tucked a napkin under his chin, she said, “There’s lobster and lamb, both are extremely fresh.”
“Can’t refuse that — you?”
I said, “The same.”
“Excellent! I bring a platter.”
She brought creamed spinach with homemade paneer cheese first. And butter chicken. And three varieties of kebab.
Four types of lentil.
As the table filled, Milo’s eyebrows climbed.
“Appetizers, Captain.”
“Lieutenant.”
“You will be captain one day. Then general.”
When she left, he said, “She doesn’t realize she just hexed me.”
We began eating.
Six minutes later, with lobster and lamb yet to arrive, Moe Reed phoned.
“They’re on the move, L.T.! Left the house in the Rolls, drove to Sunset, and are heading east. I’m two lengths behind.”
Milo ripped off the napkin. “Damn, both Alicia and Sean are in transit. Any idea how close they are?”
“I called them first, they’re both in traffic. Alicia’s at Beverly and Western, Sean’s on Santa Monica near La Brea. Waze says at least twenty for both of them. I figured they should both hold till we know if the Kiersteads are going downtown or stopping somewhere else.”
“Good thinking, Moses. For the time being, have them pull over and stay ready. Tailing the Rolls any problem? Not the tac band, I don’t trust it, let’s keep it cellular, everyone on conference.”
“Got it, L.T. Finally something happens.”
We stood and put cash on the table. Milo scooped up my contribution and stashed it in the breast pocket of my jacket. His payment was three times the cost of a lavish feast.
The woman emerged with a family-sized bowl of salad. “No! Lobster is almost ready!”
“Emergency, sorry.”
“I will pack it up for you.”
“Thanks, but no time.” He eyed one of the plainclothes cops. “Bill, just got a Code Two, would you mind taking whatever she gives you and putting it in the big fridge?”
Bill said, “Sure, but I might kype some.”
The woman said, “No need, sir, I’ll put in extra for you. For assisting him.” She scurried off.
Bill said, “You some sort of god? Maybe the one with the elephant head?”
“Blasphemy,” said Milo as we rushed out. He paused at the door. “The name is Ganesha.”
Chapter 49
We took Milo’s Impala. Just as he turned east on Santa Monica, Reed phoned in again.
“I was wondering if they’d go north on Benedict but they just passed the Beverly Hills Hotel. She’s driving, he’s kicking back and smoking what looks like a doobie — okay, they’re turning south onto Beverly Drive... now we’re at that insane intersection where all those streets come together...”
Honks in the background.
“That was close,” said Reed. “Texting idiot in a Maserati just ran the stop sign, nearly T-boned a tourist bus... everyone at the intersection trying to figure when to go, who designed this... okay, the prey’s turning left onto Canon Drive... staying on Canon going south... full stop at Elevado... have to make a full-fledged full stop, hopefully they haven’t made me, no reason they should... I’ll pull over and keep visual contact.”
Thirty seconds later. “Still south on Canon, got two cars between us again, the Rolls is easy to keep tabs on... another stop at Carmelita... they roll through... he’s a litterbug, flicked his butt out the window... she’s driving slowly, doesn’t look like they’re talking so they definitely haven’t made me... okay, now there’s a line of cars stopped at the red at Canon and Santa Monica, they’re not in the turn lane so they’re continuing south.”
I said, “Canon’s the new Restaurant Row in B.H., so maybe dinner.”
Milo said, “If we’re lucky. Be fun to ruin their appetite — Alicia and Sean, you still hearing this? Head over here. Code Two, no sound effects.”
“Roger, Loot,” said Binchy.
“Same here,” said Bogomil.
Reed said, “The light’s green but no one’s moving, more fools texting... all right, now we’re crossing Santa Monica... you’re right, Doc, tables on the sidewalk, people stuffing their faces everywhere. A whole bunch of pedestrian traffic... the Rolls just pulled over to a valet stand, looks like it handles... a bunch of restaurants. I’m pulling over in a loading zone thirty, forty feet up, watching through my rearview... they’re out of the Rolls... both are wearing white, not exactly virgins, huh? Sunglasses... she just handed the keys to a valet then... here we go, a place called... La Pasta. They just walked around to the side and went in... nothing yet, maybe they’re staying inside... nope, here they are, being shown to a sidewalk table right in front... maître d’ or whatever you call him is smiling at them... now he’s gone... they’re settling in... taking off their sunglasses... I’ll find legit parking — okay, there’s a city lot across the street, I’ll circle back on foot.”
Milo said, “We’ll be there in ten, Moses. Observe from where you won’t be seen. That goes for everyone.”
He phoned the Beverly Hills Police Department, used his rank until he reached the lieutenant in charge, a man named Fosburgh.
“We need to arrest two homicide suspects on your turf. I thought you should know.”
“Homicide,” said Fosburgh. “Shit. We talking gang guys coming to our turf to party? We should probably get involved.”
Milo said, “Nothing like that. Outwardly respectable folk from Little Holmby.”
“You’re kidding. What’d they do?”
“The Benedict Canyon limo thing.”
“That? I was wondering how it was going. Rich psychos or ghetto trash renting in Holmby?”
“Respectable,” said Milo.
“Wow,” said Fosburgh. “Guess I should thank you ’cause a few yards south it would’ve been ours. What do you need?”
“Nothing at this point, I’m figuring to keep it extremely low-key, just wanted to do right by you.”