The Murder Book

He drove to a bar- a straight one on Eighth Street, not far from the Ambassador Hotel. He'd passed it several times, a shabby-looking place on the ground floor of an old brick apartment building that had seen better days. The few patrons drinking this late were past their prime, too, and his entrance lowered the median age by a few decades. Mel Torme on tape loop, scary-looking toothpicked shrimp and bowls full of cracker medley decorated the cloudy bar top. Milo downed a few shots and beers, kept his head down, left, and drove north to Santa Monica Boulevard, cruising Boystown for a while but didn't even wrestle with temptation: Tonight the male hookers looked predatory, and he realized he wanted to be with no one, not even himself. When he reached his apartment, images of Melinda Waters's torment had returned to plague him, and he pulled down a bottle of Jim Beam from a kitchenette cupboard. Tired but wired. Removing his clothes was an ordeal, and the sight of his pitiful, white body made him close his eyes.

He lay in bed, wishing the darkness was more complete. Wishing for a brain valve that would choke off the pictures. Alcohol lullabies finally eased him, stumbling, to bed.

The next morning, he drove to a newsstand and picked up the morning's Times and Herald-Examiner. No reporter had called him or Schwinn on the Ingalls murder, but something that ugly was sure to be covered.

But it wasn't, not a line of print.

That made no sense. Reporters were tuned in to the police band, covered the morgue, too.

He sped to the station, checked his own box and Schwinn's for jour-nalistic queries. Found only a single phone slip with his name at the top. Officer Del Monte from The Bel Air Patrol, no message. He dialed the number, talked to a few flat, bored voices before finally reaching Del Monte.

'Oh, yeah. You're the one called about parties.' The guy had a crisp, clipped voice, and Milo knew he was talking to an ex-military man. Middle-aged voice. Korea, not V.N.

'That's right. Thanks for calling back. What've you got?'

'Two on Friday, both times kids being jerks. The first was a sweet sixteen on Stradella, all-girls' sleepover that some punks tried to crash. Not local boys. Black kids and Mexicans. The girls' parents called us, and we ejected them.'

'Where were the crashers from?'

'They claimed Beverly Hills.' Del Monte laughed. 'Right.'

'They give you any trouble?'

'Not up front. They made like they were leaving Bel Air- we followed them to Sunset, then hung back and watched. Idiots crossed over near UCLA, then tried to come back a few minutes later and head over to the other party.' Del Monte chuckled, again. 'No luck, Pachuco. Our people were already there on a neighbor complaint. We ejected them before they even got out of the car.'

'Where was the second party?'

'That was the live one, big-time noise. Upper Stone Canyon Drive way above the hotel.'

The locale Schwinn's source had mentioned. 'Whose house?'

'Empty house,' said Del Monte. 'The family bought a bigger one but didn't get around to selling the first one and the parents took a vacation, left the kiddies behind and, big surprise, the kiddies decided to use the empty house for fun 'n' games, invited the entire damn city. Must've been two, three hundred kids all over the place, cars- Porsches and other good wheels, and plenty of outside wheels. By the time we showed up, it was a scene. It's a big property, coupla acres, no real close-by neighbors, but by now the closest neighbors were fed up.'

'By now?' said Milo. 'This wasn't the first time?'

Silence. 'We've had a few other calls there. Tried to contact the parents, no luck, they're always out of town.'

'Spoiled brats.'

Del Monte laughed. 'You didn't hear that from me. Anyway, what's up with all this?'

'Tracing a 187 victim's whereabouts.'

Silence. 'Homicide? Nah, no way. This was just kids partying and playing music too loud.'

'I'm sure you're right,' said Milo. 'But I've got rumors that my db might've attended a party on the Westside, so I've gotta ask. What's the name of the family that owns the house?'

Longer silence. 'Listen,' said Del Monte. 'These people- you do me wrong, I could be parking cars. And believe me, no one saw anything worse than drinking and screwing around- a few joints, big deal, right? Anyway, we closed it down.'

'I'm just going through the routine, Officer,' said Milo. 'Your name won't come up. But if I don't check it out, I'll be parking cars. Who owns the house and what's the address?'

'A rumor?' said Del Monte. 'There had to be tons of parties Friday night.'

'Any party we hear about, we look into. That's why yours won't stick out.'

'Okay… the family's named Cossack.' Del Monte uttered it weightily, as if that was supposed to mean something.

'Cossack,' said Milo, keeping his tone ambiguous.

'As in office buildings, shopping malls- Garvey Cossack. Big downtown developer, part of that bunch wanted to bring another football team to L.A.'

'Yeah, sure,' lied Milo. His interest in sports had peaked with Pop Warner baseball. 'Cossack on Stone Canyon. What's the address?'

Del Monte sighed and read off the numbers.

'How many kids in the family?' said Milo.

'Three- two boys and a girl. Didn't see the daughter, there, but she could've been.'

'You know the kids personally?'

'Nah, just by sight.'

'So the boys threw the party,' said Milo. 'Names?'

'The big one's Garvey Junior and the younger one's Bob but they call him Bobo.'

'How old?'

'Junior's probably twenty-one, twenty-two, Bobo's maybe a year younger.'

More than kids, thought Milo.

'They gave us no trouble,' said Del Monte. 'They're just a couple guys like to have fun.'

'And the girl?'

'Her I didn't see.'

Milo thought he picked up something new in Del Monte's voice. 'Name?'

'Caroline.'

'Age?'

'Younger- maybe seventeen. It was really no big deal, everyone dispersed. My message said you're Central. Where was your db found?'

Milo told him.

'There you go,' said Del Monte. 'Fifteen miles from Bel Air. You're wasting your time.'

'Probably. Three hundred partying kids just caved when you showed up?'

'We've got experience with that kind of thing.'

'What's the technique?' said Milo.

'Use sensitivity,' said the rent-a-cop. 'Don't treat 'em like you would a punk from Watts or East L.A. 'cause these kids are accustomed to a certain style.'

'Which is?'

'Being treated like they're important. If that doesn't work, threaten to call the parents.'

'And if that doesn't work?'

'That usually works. Gotta go, nice talking to you.'

'I appreciate the time, Officer. Listen, if I came by and showed a photo around, would there be a chance anyone would recognize a face?'

'Whose face?'

'The vic's.'

'No way. Like I said, it was a swarm. After a while they all start to look alike.'

'Rich kids?'