managed to find a spot between a van and a pickup that afforded him a clean, diagonal view. Bosc's gym-bar- shopping excursion had taken up most of the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to drop. Milo sat there, his 9mm resting on his hip, the weapon substantial and cool and comforting, and he felt better than he had in a long time.
Maybe Bosc was in for the evening, because by 5 P.M. he hadn't shown himself, and lights had gone on in the white bungalow's front rooms. Lacy curtains obscured the details, but the fabric was sheer enough for Milo to make out flashes of movement.
Bosc shifting from room to room. Then, at nine, a window on the right side of the house went cathode-blue. TV.
Quiet night for Master Thespian.
Milo climbed out of the Polaris, stretched the stiffness from his joints, made his way across the street.
He rang the bell, and Bosc didn't even bother to shout out a 'Who's there?' just opened it wide.
The actor had changed into khaki shorts and a tight black T-shirt that hugged his actorly physique. One hand gripped a bottle of Coors Light. The other held a cigarette.
Casual, loose, eyes bloodshot and droopy. Until Milo's face registered and Bosc's well-formed mouth dropped open.
The actor didn't react to the roust like an actor would- like any kind of civilian would. His legs spread slightly and he planted his feet, the beer bottle jabbed at Milo's chin and the cigarette's glowing tip headed for Milo's eyes.
Split-second reaction. Tight, little martial arts ballet.
Milo was mildly surprised, but he'd come ready for anything and retracted his head. The vicious kick he aimed at Bosc's groin landed true, as did the chop to the back of Bosc's neck, and the guy went down, putting an end to any debate.
By the time Bosc had stopped writhing on the floor and the green had gone out of his complexion, his hands were cuffed behind him and he was panting and struggling to choke out words and Milo was kicking the door shut. He lifted Bosc by the scruff and dumped him on the black leather couch that took up most of the living room. The rest of the decor was a white beanbag chair, a huge digital TV, expensive stereo toys, and a chrome-framed poster of a wound red Lamborghini Countach.
Bosc sprawled on the sofa, moaning. His eyes rolled back and he retched and Milo stepped back from the expected projectile puke. But Bosc just dry heaved a couple of times, got his eyes back on track, looked up at Milo.
And smiled.
And laughed.
'Something funny, Craig?' said Milo.
Bosc's lips moved a bit, and he struggled to talk through the grin. Sweat globules as big as jelly beans beaded up his forehead and rolled down his sculpted nose. He flicked one away with his tongue. Laughed again. Spit at Milo's feet. Coughed and said, 'Oh yeah. You're in
CHAPTER 35
I sped up Highway 33, sucking in the grass-sweet air of Ojai. Thinking about Bert Harrison living here for decades, light-years from L.A. For all that, the old man had been unable to avoid the worst the city had to offer.
As I approached the bank of shops that included O'Neill & Chapin, I eased up on the gas pedal. The stationery shop was still shuttered and a CLOSED sign was propped in the window of the Celestial Cafe. Midway through town, I turned onto the road that led up to Bert's property, drove a hundred feet from his driveway, and parked behind a copse of eucalyptus.
Bert's old station wagon was parked out in front, which told me nothing. Perhaps he'd left for his overseas trip and had been driven to the airport. Or his departure was imminent, and I'd enter to find him packing.
Third choice: He'd lied about the journey, wanting to discourage me from returning.
I admired Bert, wasn't eager to examine the possibilities. Returning to the Seville, I swung back onto the highway. Ready to tap the source, directly.
The entry to Mecca Ranch was latched but unlocked. I freed the arm, drove through, closed the gate behind me, and motored up under the gaze of circling hawks- maybe the same birds I'd seen the first time.
The corral floated into view, glazed by afternoon sun. Marge Schwinn stood in the center of the ring, wearing a faded denim shirt, tight jeans and riding boots, her back to me. Talking to a big stallion the color of bittersweet chocolate. Nuzzling the animal, stroking its mane. The sound of my tires crunching the gravel made her turn. By the time I was out of the Seville, she'd left the enclosure and was heading toward me.
'Well, hello there, Dr. Delaware.'
I returned the greeting, smiling and keeping my voice light. The first time I'd met her, Milo hadn't introduced me by name or profession. Suddenly I felt good about the trip.
She pulled a blue bandana from her jeans pocket, wiped both hands, offered the right one for a firm, hard shake. 'What brings you up here?'
'Follow-up.'
She pocketed the bandana and grinned. 'Someone think I'm crazy?'
'No, ma'am, just a few questions.' I was looking into the sun and turned my head. Marge's face was well shaded, but she squinted, and her eyes receded into a mesh of wrinkles. The denim shirt was tailored tight. Her breasts were small and high. That same combination of girlish body and old woman's face.
'What kind of questions, Doctor?'
'For starts, have you thought of anything new since Detective Sturgis and I visited?'
'About…?'
'Anything your husband might've said about that unsolved murder we discussed.'
'Nope,' she said. 'Nothing about that.' Her eyes drifted to the corral. 'I'd love to chat, but I'm kind of in the middle of things.'
'Just a few more things. Including a sensitive topic, I'm afraid.'
She clamped both hands on hard, lean hips. 'What topic?'
'Your husband's drug addiction. Did he overcome his habit by himself?'
She dug a heel into the dirt and ground it hard. 'Like I told you, by the time I met him, Pierce was past all that.'
'Did he have any help getting there?'
A simple question, but she said, 'What do you mean?' She'd maintained the squint, but her eyes weren't shut tight enough to conceal the movement behind the lids. Quick shift down to the ground, then a sidelong journey to the right.
Another bad liar. Thank God for honest people.
'Did Pierce have any drug treatment?' I said. 'Was he ever under the care of a doctor?'
'He really didn't talk about those days.'
'Not at all?'
'He was past it. I didn't want to rake things up.'
'Didn't want to upset him,' I said.
She glanced over at the corral again.
I said, 'How did Pierce sleep?'
'Pardon?'
'Was Pierce a sound sleeper or did he have trouble settling down at night?'
'He was pretty much a-' She frowned. 'These are strange questions, Dr. Delaware. Pierce is gone, what difference does it make how he slept?'
'Just general follow-up,' I said. 'What I'm interested in specifically is the week or so before the accident. Did he sleep well or was he restless?'
