one-man squad on a nasty 187 like Janie. His main gig was guarding Willie and Caroline in Watts because your family loved Willie.'
Broussard said, 'I walked on eggshells with that… with Willie. The family always pushed for him. I bought my wife a spanking new Sedan de Ville and she lent it to him. An IA man's car at the scene of a murder.'
A trace of whine had crept into the chief's voice. Suspect's defensiveness. The bastard's discomfort flooded Milo with joy. He said, 'What'd you tell the family when Willie disappeared?'
'That he'd burned up in the house. I wanted to put an end to it.' Broussard cocked his head to the right. Two rows over. 'Far as they're concerned, he's here. We had a quiet family ceremony.'
'Who's in the coffin?'
'I burned papers in my office, put the ashes in an urn and we buried it.'
'I believe you,' said Milo. 'I believe you'd do that.'
'As far as I knew, Willie really was dead. Lester died in that fire and the Russian got ambushed and I knew it all had to do with Willie, so why wouldn't Willie be dead? Then he calls me a week later, sounding half-dead, telling me he's burnt and sick, send him money. I hung up on him. I'd had enough. I figured he'd last, what- a few months? He had a serious addiction.'
'So you made him dead.'
'He did that to himself.'
'No, John, Vance Coury did that to him last night. Sliced him in half with a MAC 10. I buried him with my own hands- hey, if you want, I'll retrieve what's left of him, you can dig up that urn, and we'll make everything right.'
Broussard shook his head, very slowly. 'I thought you were smart, but you're stupid.'
Milo said, 'We're a good team, you and me, John. Between the two of us, we get everything tied up nice and neat. So who pushed Schwinn off that horse? Did you do it yourself or send a messenger, like old Craig? My guess is a messenger because a black face in Ojai would be conspicuous.'
'No one pushed him. He had an epileptic seizure and fell down a gully. Took the horse with him.'
'You were there?'
'Craig was there.'
'Ah,' said Milo. Thinking: Alex would laugh. If he'd reached the stage where he could laugh.
'Believe what you want,' said Broussard. 'That's what happened.'
'What I believe is Schwinn's sending you the book loosened your bowels. All these years you thought the guy was just a speed-freak burnout, and he turns out to have a long memory. And pictures.'
Broussard's smile was patronizing. 'Think logically: A few moments ago you constructed an elaborate theory about my desire to eliminate competition. If that's true, why would Schwinn's reactivating the Ingalls murder bother me? On the contrary, if the Cossacks could be implicated-'
'Except that Schwinn knew you'd put the original fix in. Once he was out of the way, you figured out a way to make everything work for you. You're nothing if not adaptable, John.'
Broussard sighed. 'Now you're being obstinate. As I told you, the directive was related to Schwinn's-'
'So what, John? If Walt Obey's half as righteous as you claim, he likes you because you've convinced him you're a choirboy. Schwinn comes forward, makes noises, sullies your rep, it's a threat to your executive wet dream. So he had to go, too. It's like bowling, isn't it? Human tenpins. Set 'em up, knock 'em down.'
'No,' said Broussard. 'I sent Craig to talk to Schwinn. To find out exactly what he knew. Why would I kill him? He could've been useful to me. Without him, I turned to you.'
'A seizure.'
Broussard nodded. 'Craig was driving to Schwinn's ranch, saw Schwinn ride his horse out the gates and followed along. There was a- there was contact, and Craig introduced himself and Schwinn got hostile. He'd wanted me to respond personally, not send a delegate. The man was presumptuous. Craig tried to reason with him. To get the facts of the case. Schwinn denied he'd had anything to do with the book, then he started to rave about DNA- finding semen samples, solving everything overnight.'
'Except there were no samples,' said Milo. 'Everything had been destroyed. Schwinn would've loved hearing that.'
'He was irrational, tried to charge Craig on horseback, but the horse wouldn't cooperate. Craig did his best to calm Schwinn down, but Schwinn started to dismount and suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he began salivating and convulsing. The horse must've panicked and lost its footing. It tumbled into the gully, Schwinn had one foot caught in the stirrup, got dragged, his head collided with a rock. Craig ran to help him, but it was too late.'
'So Craig left the scene.'
Broussard didn't answer.
'Terrific story,' said Milo. 'Forget building cities, John. Write a screenplay.'
'Maybe I will,' said Broussard. 'One day, when it's no longer raw.'
'When what isn't?'
'The pain. None of this has been easy for me.'
Broussard's left cheek ticked. He sighed. Injured nobility.
Milo hit him.
CHAPTER 48
The blow connected square with the chief's nose and knocked him flat on his rear.
Broussard sat in the dust fronting Janie's grave, blood streaming from his nostrils, striping his Italian shirt, the beautiful golden tie, crimson deepening to rust as it met the pinstripe of his custom-made lapel.
He said, 'It's good I already have a broad nose.'
Smiling. Taking hold of the silk foulard in his breast pocket and wiping away the blood.
Making no attempt to get to his feet.
'You're immature, Detective. That's your problem, always has been. Reducing everything to black-and-white, the way a child does. Maybe it's tied in with your other problem. Generally arrested development.'
'Maturity's highly overrated,' said Milo. 'Mature people act like you.'
'I survive,' said Broussard. 'My grandfather never learned to read. My father went to college, then to music school, learned classical trombone but couldn't get a job so he worked his whole life as a porter at the Ambassador Hotel. Your problem can be concealed. You were born with unlimited opportunities, so spare me the pious lectures about morality. And don't even think about hitting me again. If you raise your hand to me, I'll shoot you and make up a plausible story to justify it.'
He patted his left hip, revealed the bulge under the pinstripe. Just a few subtle inches afforded by great tailoring.
'You could shoot me, anyway,' said Milo. 'Sometime when I'm not expecting it.'
'I could, but I won't,' said Broussard. 'Unless you make it necessary.' He pressed silk to his nose. Blood continued to flow. 'If you act reasonably, I won't even send you the cleaning bill.'
'Meaning?'
'Meaning you've gotten it all out of your system and are prepared to return to work under new circumstances.'
'Such as?'
'We forget about this, you're promoted to lieutenant. Assigned to a division of your choosing.'
'Why would I want to push paper?' said Milo.
'No paper, you'll be a lieutenant detective,' said Broussard. 'Continue to work cases- challenging cases, but you pull a lieutenant's salary, enjoy a lieutenant's prestige.'
'That's not the way it works in the department.'
'I'm still the chief.' Broussard got to his feet, pretended to accidentally spread a flap of his double-breasted jacket, offered a full view of the 9mm nestled in a tooled-leather holster the color of fine brandy.
'You toss me a bone, and I go away,' said Milo.
