When he was gone, Milo scowled at the computer. “Garbage in, garbage out… So what's with the Arafat look, Alex- scratch that in view of present company- the porcupine look?”
“I rushed over to the library, didn't take the time to shave.”
“That's half a day's worth?”
I nodded.
“Taking those testosterone pills, again?”
I flexed a bicep and grunted and he gave a tired smile.
Sharavi came back with the tea. Scalding, slightly sweet, the mint flavor gliding above the heat.
As I sipped, I used one of the phones to call my service.
“Hi, Doctor, there's just one. A Loren Bukovsky, from… looks like Mensa. Though it says here he asked for Al. The girl- a new one- tried to tell him different but he insisted you were Al. You do get some strange ones, Dr. Delaware, but that's your business, right?”
“Right. What did Mr. Bukovsky have to say?”
“Let's see- sorry, this new one has terrible penmanship… it looks like he
“What does it say, Joyce?”
“If you have the poor taste to want to… looks like
“That's all of it?”
“He also said don't call back, he's not interested in you. How rude, huh?”
“Very,” I said. “But maybe he's got his reasons.”
“Strong opinions,” said Milo, writing down Bukovsky's name.
“And now it's out that we're looking into Meta. Sorry.”
“But at least we know the bookstore's worth looking into.” He turned to Sharavi. “How about using some of that illegal DMV access on Mr. Bukovsky and Ms. Lambert?”
Sharavi put his mug down and faced the computer.
Moments later:
“Loren A. Bukovsky, an address on Corinth Avenue, Los Angeles, 90064.”
“West Los Angeles,” said Milo. “Minutes from the station. Might as well pay him a visit.”
“When should I visit Spasm?” I said.
“Let me check out Bukovsky first.”
Sharavi said, “If Bukovsky has something interesting to say, perhaps Dr. Delaware can do more than just drop in at Spasm.”
“Such as?”
“If Meta still holds meetings, he could try to attend. Who better than a Ph.D.? He could pose as someone interested in-”
“Forget it,” said Milo.
Sharavi blinked but didn't move, otherwise. “All right.”
“And don't think about going yourself, Superintendent.”
Sharavi smiled. “Me? I lack the qualifications.”
“The same goes for any of your people.”
“My people?”
“Put it out of your mind. No undercover operations that I don't know about.”
“All right.”
“All right? Just like that, huh?”
“Just like that.”
Saying it in a near-whisper but for the first time, the Israeli was showing emotion. The faintest tightening around the golden eyes, a twitch along the jawline.
“I'm doing my best to cooperate,” he said softly.
“I'm a skeptic and a pessimist,” said Milo. “When things go too smoothly it worries me.”
Sharavi's jaw relaxed and he brought up a smile- mechanically, as if evoking data from the computer.
“Shall I make your life difficult, then, Milo?”
“Why break a trend?”
Sharavi shook his head. “I'm going to eat.”
He left the room again and Milo thumbed absently through the printout in the bin. “I'll try to interview Bukovsky today. And call Ponsico's parents. I just hope this whole Ponsico thing hasn't gotten us too far afield.”
He got up and paced. The house was small and I could hear Sharavi working in the kitchen.
“If I visit the bookstore,” I said, “I could sound out the Lambert woman, see if I can get her to talk about Meta.”
“Alex-”
“In an unobtrusive way. Even if the killer's a Meta member, that doesn't make the whole group a homicidal cabal. And if I did get into a meeting and was able to look them all over-”
“Delete the thought, Alex.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because Sharavi suggested it?”
He whipped around, glaring. “Ten points off for a very bad guess.”
“Hey,” I said, “I'm brutally frank 'cause I care.”
He started to retort, dropped his shoulders, laughed. “Look at this. I'm trying to protect you and you're dissing me. You think it's a smart idea hobnobbing with a group of genetic snobs, one of whom could be a goddamn serial killer?”
“I don't think attending one meeting is going to put me in danger.”
He didn't answer.
“Also,” I said, “I think Sharavi's involvement still bothers you to the point where you run the risk of throwing the baby out.”
He rubbed his face hard and fast. “This is great. Him on one side and you on the other… for all I know he's got this goddamn room bugged.”
“Okay, I'll shut up. Sorry.”
He grimaced. Laughed again. Circled the room.
“What the hell am I doing here- yeah, yeah, you're right, having to deal with him
“Sure,” I said. “But unless some progress is made on the killings, you run the risk of a dozen more blankets. As in task force.”
“What is this, tough
“It's for your own good, sonny boy.”
“Dr. Castor Oil- you really want to play secret agent, don't you? Couple of days with Mr. Mossad and you're itching for code names and fountain-pen cameras.”
“That's me,” I said. “Agent Double-O-Shrink. License to interpret.”
Sharavi returned with a sandwich on a cheap plastic plate. Tuna and lettuce on egg bread. Very little tuna.
He put the plate down next to the phones. His face said he had no appetite.
“I have two police scanners. The one in the kitchen was on. A call just went out on one of your tactical bands. Central Division Homicide detectives calling in a dead body in an alley. A 187 cutting. It's probably unrelated, but next to the body was a white cane. I thought you should know.”
Picking up the sandwich, he took a small, decisive bite.
