The Murder Book

Dark, empty block, no one around- no, there was someone. A figure emerging from the shadows. Walking west. Walking quickly.

'A source?' said Milo, as the shape took form. Female form.

Schwinn tightened his tie knot. 'Stay put and keep the engine going.' He got out of the car, quickly, got to the sidewalk just in time to meet the woman. Her arrival was heralded by spike heels snapping on the pavement.

A tall woman- black, Milo saw, as she shifted into the streetlight. Tall and busty. Maybe forty. Wearing a blue leather mini and a baby blue halter top. Jumbo pile of henna-colored waves atop her head, what looked to be ten pounds of hair.

Schwinn, standing facing her, looking even skinnier than usual. Legs slightly spread. Smiling.

The woman smiled back. Offered both cheeks to Schwinn. One of those Italian movie greetings.

A few moments of conversation, too low for Milo to make out, then both of them got in the backseat of the unmarked.

'This is Tonya,' said Schwinn. 'She's a good pal of the department. Tonya, meet my brand-new partner, Milo. He's got a master's degree.'

'Ooh,' said Tonya. 'Are you masterful, honey?'

'Nice to meet you, ma'am.'

Tonya laughed.

'Start driving,' said Schwinn.

'Master's degree,' said Tonya, as they pulled away.

At Fifth Street, Schwinn said, 'Turn left. Drive into the alley behind those buildings.'

'Masturbator's degree?' said Tonya.

'Speaking of which,' said Schwinn. 'My darling dear.'

'Ooh, I love when you talk that way, Mr. S.'

Milo reduced his speed.

Schwinn said, 'Don't do that, just drive regular- turn again and make a right- go east. Alameda, where the factories are.'

'Industrial revolution,' said Tonya, and Milo heard something else: the rustle of clothing, the sprick of a zipper undone. He hazarded one look in the rearview, saw Schwinn's head, resting against the back of the seat. Eyes closed. Peaceful smile. Ten pounds of henna bobbing.

A moment later: 'Oh, yes, Miss T. I missed you, did you know that?'

'Did you, baby? Aw, you're just saying that.'

'Oh, no, it's true.'

'Is it, baby?'

'You bet. Miss me, too?'

'You know I do, Mr. S.'

'Every day, Miss T?'

'Every day, Mr. S.- c'mon, baby, move a little, help me with this.'

'Happy to help,' said Schwinn. 'Protect and serve.'

Milo forced his eyes straight ahead.

No sound in the car but heavy breathing.

'Yeah, yeah,' Schwinn was saying now. His voice weak. Milo thought: This is what it takes to knock off the asshole's smugness.

'Oh yeah, just like that, my darling… dear. Oh, yes, you're… a… specialist. A… scientist, yes, yes.'

CHAPTER 7

Schwinn told Milo to drop Tonya off on Eighth near Witmer, down the block from the Ranch Depot Steak House.

'Get yourself a hunk of beef, darling.' Slipping her some bills. 'Get yourself a lovely T-bone with one of those giant baked potatoes.'

'Mr. S.,' came the protest. 'I can't go in there dressed like this, they won't serve me.'

'With this they will.' Another handful of paper pressed into her hand. 'You show this to Calvin up front, tell him I sent you- you have any problem, you let me know.'

'You're sure?'

'You know I am.'

The rear door opened, and Tonya got out. The smell of sex hung in the car. Now the night filtered in, cool, fossil-fuel bitter.

'Thank you, Mr. S.' She extended her hand. Schwinn held on to it.

'One more thing, darling. Hear of any rough johns working the Temple-Beaudry area?'

'How rough?'

'Ropes, knives, cigarette burns.'

'Ooh,' said the hooker, with pain in her voice. 'No, Mr. S., there's always lowlife, but I heard nothing like that.'

Pecks on cheeks. Tonya clicked her way toward the restaurant, and Schwinn got back in front. 'Back to the station, boy-o.'

Closing his eyes. Self-satisfied. At Olive Street, he said: 'That's a very intelligent nigger, boy-o. Given the opportunity a free, white woman woulda had, she woulda made something of herself. What's that about?'

'What do you mean?'

'The way we treat niggers. Make sense to you?'

'No,' said Milo. Thinking: What the hell is this lunatic about?

Then: Why hadn't Schwinn offered the hooker to him?

Because Schwinn and Tonya had something special? Or because he knew?

'What it says,' offered Schwinn. 'The way we treat niggers, is that sometimes smart doesn't count.'

Milo dropped him off at the Central Division parking lot, watched him get into his Ford Fairlane and drive off to Simi Valley, to the wife who liked books.

Alone, at last.

For the first time since the Beaudry call, he was breathing normally.

He entered the station, climbed the stairs, hurried to the scarred metal desk they'd shoved into a corner of the Homicide room for him. The next three hours were spent phoning Missing Persons bureaus at every station and when that didn't pay off, he extended the search to various sheriff's substations and departments of neighboring cities. Every office kept its own files, no one coordinated, each folder had to be pulled by hand, and MP skeleton crews were reluctant to extend themselves, even on a 187. Even when he pressed, emphasized the whodunit aspect, the ugliness, he got resistance. Finally, he hit upon something that pried cooperation and curses on the other end: the likelihood of news coverage. Cops were afraid of bad press. By 3 A.M., he'd come up with seven white girls in the right age range.

So what did he do, now? Get on the horn and wake up worried parents?

Pardon me, Mrs. Jones, but did your daughter Amy ever show up? Because we've still got her listing as missing and are wondering if a sackful of tissue and viscera cooling off in a coroner's drawer just might be her?

The only way to do it was preliminary phone contact followed by face-to-face interviews. Tomorrow, at a decent hour. Unless Schwinn had other ideas. Something else to correct him about.

He transcribed all the data from his pad onto report sheets, filled out the right forms, redrew the outline of the girl's body, summarized the MP calls, created a neat little pile of effort. Striding across the room to a bank of file cabinets, he opened a top drawer and pulled out one of several blue binders stored in a loose heap. Recycled binders: When cases were closed, the pages were removed and stapled, placed in a manila folder, and shipped over to the evidence room at Parker Center.

This particular blue book had seen better times: frayed around the edges with a brown stain on the front cover