The Murder Book

jam caused by orange CalTrans cones blocking off the righthand lane.

Cones only, no work or workers in sight. The road agency was run by sadists and fools, but this time Milo blessed their mean little hearts as the congestion allowed him to jockey to the right, catch sight of the Saab's plates, copy them down. Traffic moved fifty feet. Milo cell phoned DMV, lied- Lord, he was getting good at it- liked it.

The plates came back to a one-year-old Saab owned by Craig Eiffel Bosc, address on Huston Street in North Hollywood, no wants or warrants.

The chrome sludge oozed another few yards, and Milo did some more rude maneuvering and managed to close the gap between the Dodge and the Saab to three cars. Three more stop-and-gos and a smooth but slow flow resumed and he was alongside the Saab, passing on the right, hoping the Dodge wouldn't register in his quarry's memory and if it did, that the blackened glass would cover him.

Another half a second was all he needed- mission accomplished.

The face was one he'd seen before. Mister Smiley. The asshole who'd accosted him at the hot dog stand, claiming to be Paris Bartlett.

Craig Eiffel Bosc.

Eiffel/Paris. Cute.

Bosc/Bartlett stymied him for a moment, then he got it: two varieties of pears.

How imaginative. Sell it to the networks.

Bosc/Bartlett was moving his head in time to music, oblivious, and Milo sped up, got two cars ahead of the Saab, used the next red light to peer through the intervening Toyota with its two little chicklets also bopping- to some bass-heavy hip-hop thing. He tried to get another look at Craig Eiffel Bosc but caught only the girls' hyperactivity and the Toyota 's windshield glare. The right lane opened up and he eased back into it, allowed the Toyota and the Saab to pass.

Glancing to the left without moving his head as Smiley Pear zipped by. Then catching up and keeping pace with the Saab just long enough to take a mental snapshot.

Smiley was in shirtsleeves- deep blue shirt- with his sky-colored tie loosened, one paw on the wheel, the other wrapped around a big fat cigar. The Saab's windows were untinted but shut, and the interior was clouded with smoke. Not thick enough, though, to obscure the smile on Craig Eiffel Bosc's SAG-handsome countenance.

Such a happy fellow, toking tobacco and cruising and grooving in his zippy little Swedish car on a sunny, California day.

On top of the world.

We'll see about that.

Craig Bosc took Coldwater Canyon into the Valley. Medium traffic made the tail easy. Not that Bosc would be looking out for him. The guy was no motor-pro- a real ninny for showing himself in plain view on Milo 's block. The cigar and his grin said he couldn't even imagine the tables turning.

At Ventura, the Saab turned right and drove into Studio City, where it pulled into the parking lot of a twenty- four-hour yuppie gym on the south side of the boulevard. Craig Bosc got out with a blue bag and half jogged to the front. One good arm push and he was through the door and gone.

Milo looked around for a vantage point. A seafood restaurant across Ventura offered a perfect view of the gym and the Saab. The surf-and-turf special sounded enticing- he was hungry.

Ravenous.

He indulged himself with an upgrade from the special: extra big lobster, Alaskan crab legs, sixteen-ounce top sirloin, baked potato with sour cream and chives, a mountain of fried zucchini. All that washed down with Cokes instead of beer, because he needed his wits.

He ate slowly, figuring Bosc would be in there for at least an hour, doing the old body-beautiful thing. By the time he'd asked for the check and was working on his third coffee refill, the Saab was still in plain view. He threw down money, hazarded a trip to the men's room, left the restaurant, and sat in the Dodge for another half hour before Bosc emerged with wet hair. Back in his street clothes- the blue shirt and black slacks- minus the tie.

Bosc bounced over to the Saab, disarmed the alarm, but instead of getting in, stopped to check his reflection in the side window. Fluffing his hair. Undoing the shirt's second button. Milo watched the asshole show off that big smile for the glass audience- Bosc actually turned his head here and there. Appreciating his own damn face from multiple angles.

Then Bosc got in the Saab and did an L.A. thing: drove less than a block before pulling into another parking lot.

A bar. Little cedar-sided cube stuffed between a sushi bar and a bicycle shop. A painted sign above the cedar door labeled the place as EXTRAS. A banner to the right advertised the psychic benefits of happy hour.

Half a dozen cars in the lot. Not too many happy people?

But Craig Bosc was. Grinning as he parked next to a ten-year-old Datsun Z, got out, checked his teeth in the side mirror, rubbed them with his index finger, went inside.

EXTRAS. Milo 'd never enjoyed the ambience, but he knew the bar by reputation. Watering hole for small-time actroids- pretty people who'd arrived in L.A. with a couple years of Stanislavski or summer stock or college theater under their belts, fueled by Oscar fantasies but settling, a thousand cattle calls later, for the occasional walk-ons and crowd scenes and nonunion commercials that comprised 99.9 percent of movie work.

Craig Eiffel Bosc, Master Thespian.

Time for a bad review.

Bosc stayed in the bar for another hour and a half and emerged alone, walking a little more slowly and tripping once. When the guy resumed driving west on Ventura, he'd slowed to ten miles under the limit and was doing that dividing line nudge that made it clear he was under the influence.

A 502 stop would offer the opportunity for a face-to-face with Bosc, but pulling the turkey over for a deuce was the last thing Milo wanted. Being off duty, the most he could pull off would be a citizen's arrest. That meant holding on to Bosc while calling a patrol car, then having the blues take over and losing any hope of private time with Mr. Smiles.

So he continued tailing the Saab and hoped Bosc wouldn't attract law enforcement attention or run someone over.

Another short ride- two blocks to a strip mall near Coldwater, where Bosc went shopping for groceries at a Ralphs, deposited two paper bags in the Saab's trunk, made a five-minute stop at a mailbox rentals place, and returned to the car with a stack of envelopes under his arm.

Mail drop, same setup as the West Hollywood POB where he'd registered as Playa del Sol. The tail resumed, with Milo two lengths behind as Bosc turned right on Coldwater, traveled north past Moorpark and Riverside, then east on Huston.

Quiet street, apartments and small houses. That made it a tough follow-along, even with the quarry oblivious and slightly intoxicated. Milo waited at the corner of Coldwater and Huston and kept his eye on the Saab. The blue car traveled one block, then another, before hooking left.

Hoping Bosc didn't live in some security building with a subterranean garage, Milo waited half a minute, wheeled his way up a block and a half, parked, got out and continued on foot toward the spot where he'd estimated the Saab had come to rest.

Luck was with him. The blue car was out in the open, sitting in the driveway of a one-story, white stucco bungalow.

The house had a cement lawn and no fence. A couple of scraggly palms brushing the front facade were the only concessions to green. The driveway was twenty feet of cracked slab, barely long enough for a single vehicle, and it ended at the house's left side. No backyard. The bungalow sat on a fractional lot- a sliver that had escaped tear- down and development- and behind the tiny house, on the rear-neighboring property, loomed a four-story apartment complex.

The glamour of Hollywood.

Milo returned to the Dodge and drove twenty feet past the bungalow. Plenty of parked cars, here, but he