The Murder Book

'I know.'

'What do you want done to it?'

'I'm not sure.'

He smirked. 'Can't think of any contest you'd enter that in- unless it's one of those AIDS things.'

'AIDS things?'

'They're trying shows, now. To raise money for AIDS. Some little fruit came in, wanted me to cherry up his '45 BMW.'

'Take the job?' I said.

The cupped hand waved off the question. 'Seventy-nine Seville,' he said, as if offering a diagnosis. 'It's still gonna be a box unless we get radical. And then there's the engine. It sucks.'

'It's been good to me. No problems in fifteen years.'

'Any rust on the belly?'

'Nope. I take care of it.'

'Right,' he said.

I said, 'It's here, if you want to see it.'

He glanced down at the calculator. Punched numbers as I stood there. 'Where's here?'

'Out in front.'

He snickered. 'In front.' He stood to six-three. His upper body was massive, with meaty shoulders and a swelling gut, outsized for the narrow hips and long, stalky legs that supported it. Tight, black, plain-front slacks slimmed the legs further and accentuated the effect. On his feet were black crocodile boots with silver straps banding the shins. He came around the desk jangling. Walked right past me and out of the garage.

Out at the curb, he laughed.

'Tell you what, we wreck it, give you four hundred bucks, call it a day.'

I laughed back. 'Like I said, it's been good to me.'

'Then leave it the hell alone- what the hell would you want to do with this?'

'I was thinking about turning it into a convertible.'

'Figures,' he said. 'What, chain-saw the roof off?'

'Only car you can do that with is a Rolls Silver Cloud,' I said. 'Not enough tensile strength in any other chassis. I was figuring take the roof off, strengthen the frame, install an automatic soft-cover with a mohair liner, rechrome, and do a custom-color. You guys still doing lacquer?'

'Illegal,' he said. 'Listen, man, you want a convertible, go buy yourself one of those little Mazdas.'

'I want this car converted.'

He turned his back.

I said, 'Too complicated for you?'

He stopped. Caught his lower lip between his teeth and bit down. The pouches beneath his eyes rode up and obscured the bottom half of the irises. The two homeboys working on the Stutz looked our way.

Coury kept his lip between his teeth and rotated his jaw. 'Yeah, that's it,' he said. 'Too complicated.'

He left me standing there and walked back toward the lot. But he only made his way halfway through, paused by the Stutz. As I drove away he was watching.

CHAPTER 30

Milo stared into his coffee cup, pretended the soil-colored liquid was a bog and he was sinking.

If this was a normal case, he'd have gotten himself backup. As much as he hated meetings and personalities and all the other crap that went with teamwork, multiple suspects demanded it.

An army of suspects on Janie. Six, with Luke Chapman dead. And then there was after-burn: Walt Obey and Germ Bacilla and Diamond Jim.

And the glue that held it all together: J.G. Broussard.

And now, yet another unknown: Alex's theory about a rogue cop.

Milo 'd spent some time thinking about that, trying to come up with a possible name, but all he could conjure was an abstraction. Some asshole doing Pierce Schwinn's postmortem bidding, playing games and yanking his strings. Someone with the gall to rip off Rick's car and return it detailed, with a nice little gift.

Vance Coury was in the car biz and wasn't that a coincidence? But Coury sure wouldn't have delivered the real murder book.

So maybe the use of the car meant someone was pointing him toward Coury. Or was he really getting overly complicated, now?

The anger that had percolated within him since the first murder book had surfaced kept rising in his gorge.

Coury. The bastard shaped up as a sadist and a rapist and a control freak. Maybe the dominant one in the group. If he and his rich buds were cornered, they'd be likely to ambush the enemy, cut his throat, and burn his body.

One army deserved another, and all he had was Alex.

He laughed silently. Or maybe he'd let out sound because the old lady in the second booth over looked up, startled, and stared at him with that antsy expression that takes hold of people when they confront the weird.

Milo smiled at her, and she retracted her head behind her newspaper.

He was back at DuPars in Farmers Market, trying to sort things out. Vance Coury had stayed in his head because it had been Coury who'd raped Janie the first time and maybe initiated the scene that led to Janie's murder.

Normally, he'd have investigated the hell out of the guy. But… then something hit him. Maybe there was a safe way to learn more.

He threw money on the table and left the coffee shop. The old woman's stare followed his path to the door.

The Shining Light Mission was five stories of brick-faced stucco painted corn yellow and sided by rusting gray fire escapes. No friezework, no moldings, not the slightest nod to design. It reminded Milo of one of those drawings little kids do when asked to render a building. One big rectangle specked with little window squares. The place even tilted. As a hotel, the Grande Royale had been anything but.

Old men with collapsed jaws and runny eyes years past self-torment loitered in front and every one of them greeted Milo with the excessive amiability of the habitual miscreant.

Knowing exactly what he was- no way could he be taken for anything else. As he entered the mission, he wondered if the cop aura would stick after he left the department. Which might be sooner rather than later; going up against the chief wasn't a formula for career longevity.

Even an unpopular chief who might be leaving soon himself. Milo had been scouring the papers for Broussard stories, and this morning he'd found yet another one in the Times. Pontification on the chief's rejected raise by two members of the police commission. Defying the mayor who'd appointed them, which meant they were serious.

'Chief Broussard represents a long-entrenched police culture that contributes to intracommunity tension.'

Politico-blab for 'Update your resume, J.G.'

Broussard had come into office in the aftermath of the Rampart scandal, and the commission had offered no hint at new corruption. The chief's problem was his personality. Arrogance as he bucked the commission at every turn. In that sense, the chief still thought like a cop: Civilian meddling was the enemy. But Broussard's imperious nature had alienated the wrong people, well past the point where even pals like the mayor and Walt Obey could help him.

Then again, maybe Broussard didn't care about losing his job, because he had something waiting in the wings.

Converting his unpaid position as security consultant to Obey's Esperanza project into a nice, fat corporate gig that would guarantee him long-term status and bucks, keep the wife in Cadillacs and whatever else floated her