hurried back behind the trees, and followed the old man's descent down the wooden staircase.
He loaded the bag on the station wagon's passenger seat, got behind the wheel, stalled a couple of times, finally fired the engine. Backing away from the house with excruciating slowness, he took a long time to complete a three-way turn. Battling with the wheel- manual steering. A small man, face intent, hands planted at 10 o'clock-2 o'clock, just the way they teach you in Driver's Ed. Sitting so low his head was barely visible above the door.
Crouching low, I waited until he drove past. The old Chevy's tired suspension wasn't up to the semipaved road, and it creaked and whined as it bounced by. Bert stared straight ahead, didn't notice me or the Seville. I waited till he'd passed from view, then jumped in my own chariot. Power steering gave me an edge, and I caught up in time to spot the wagon lurching east on 33.
I sat at the intersection as the Chevy diminished to a dust mote on the horizon. The empty road made following too risky. I was still wondering what to do when a pickup truck loaded with bags of fertilizer came to a rolling stop behind me. Two Hispanic men in cowboy hats- farmworkers. I motioned them around and they passed me and turned left. Interposing themselves between Bert and me.
I set out behind the truck, lagging a good ways behind.
A few miles later, at the 33-150 intersection, the truck kept going south and Bert managed a torturous, overcautious right onto 150. I stayed with him but increased my distance, barely able to keep the wagon in sight.
He drove another couple of miles, past private campgrounds and a trailer park and signs announced the impending arrival of Lake Casitas. The public reservoir doubled as a recreational facility. For all I knew the paper bag was filled with bread crumbs, and Bert was planning to feed the ducks.
But he veered off the road well before the lake, swinging north at a corner that housed a single-pump filling station and a one-room bait shop and grocery.
Another unmarked trail, this one dotted thinly with unpainted cabins, set well back from the road. A hand- painted sign at one of the first properties advertised homemade berry cobbler and firewood; after that, no messages. The underbrush grew thick here, nurtured by a shade-canopy of ancient oaks and pittosporum and sycamores so twisted they seemed to writhe. Bert bounced along for another two miles, oblivious to my presence, before slowing, and turning left.
Keeping my eye on the spot where he'd disappeared, I pulled over and waited for two minutes, then followed.
He'd gone up a gravel drive that continued for two hundred feet, then angled to the left and vanished behind an unruly hedge of agave- the same spiky plants that fronted his own house. No building in sight. Once again, I parked and continued on foot, hoping the wagon's destination was measured in yards, not miles. Staying off the gravel for quiet's sake, and walking on the bordering greenery.
I spotted the Chevy another hundred feet up, stationed haphazardly in the dirt lot of a tin-roofed, green- boarded house. Larger than a cabin, maybe three rooms, with a sagging front porch and a stovepipe chimney. I edged closer, found myself a vantage point behind the continuing agave wall. The house was nestled by forest but sat on a dry-dirt clearing, probably a firebreak. Diminishing sunlight spattered the metal roof. A poorly shaped apricot tree grew near the front door, ungainly and ragged, but its branches were gravid with fruit.
I stayed there for nearly half an hour before Bert reemerged.
Pushing a man in a wheelchair. I recalled the chair in his living room.
Keeping it for a friend, he'd said.
Despite the mildness of the afternoon, the man was wrapped in a blanket and wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Bert pushed him slowly, and his head lolled. Bert stopped and said something to him. If the man heard, he gave no indication. Bert locked the chair, went over to the apricot tree, picked two apricots. He handed one to the man, who reached for it very slowly. Both of them ate. Bert held his hand to the man's mouth and the man spit the pit into his palm. Bert examined the seed, placed it in his pocket.
Bert finished his own apricot, pocketed that pit, too.
He stood there, looking up at the sky. The man in the wheelchair didn't budge.
Bert unlocked the chair, pushed it a few feet farther. Angled the chair and allowed me to catch a glimpse of the passenger's face.
Huge mirrored sunglasses below the straw hat dominated the upper half. The bottom was a cloud of gray beard. In between was skin the color of grilled eggplant.
I stepped out of the trees, made no attempt to muffle the crunch of my footsteps on gravel.
Bert turned abruptly. Locked eyes with me. Nodded.
Resigned.
I came closer.
The man in the wheelchair said, 'Who's that?' in a low, raspy voice.
Bert said, 'The fellow I told you about.'
CHAPTER 37
Craig Bosc lay prone on his living room carpet, smiling again. Plastic tie-cuffs from Milo 's cop kit bound his ankles together, and another set linked to the metal cuffs around his wrists secured him to a stout sofa leg.
Not a hog-tie, Milo had pointed out, just a nice submissive position. Letting the guy know that any resistance would result in something more painful.
Bosc offered no comment. Hadn't uttered a word since telling Milo he was in big trouble.
Now his eyes were closed, and he kept the smile pasted on his face. Maybe acting, but not a drop of sweat on his movie star face. One of those psychopaths with a low arousal rate? Despite Milo's having the upper hand, Bosc looked too damn smug, and Milo felt moisture running down his own armpits.
He began searching the house. Bosc opened his eyes and laughed as Milo walked around the kitchen opening cabinets and drawers, checking Bosc's bachelor fridge- beer, wine, pina colada mix, three jars of salsa, an open can of chili-con-whatever. As Milo checked the freezer, Bosc chuckled again, but when Milo turned to look at him, the guy's eyes were shut tight and his body had gone loose and he might've been napping.
Nothing hidden behind the ice trays. Milo moved to the bedroom, found a closet full of designer duds, too many garments for the space, everything crammed together on cheap wire hangers, some stuff crumpled on the floor among two dozen pairs of shoes. On the top shelf were three tennis rackets, a hockey stick, an old deflated basketball, and a fuzzy, blackened, leather thing that had once been a football. Joe Jock's sentimental memories.
A pair of thirty-pound Ivanko dumbbells sat in the corner, next to a sixty-inch TV, VCR-DVD combo. A mock- walnut video case held action thrillers and a few run-of-the-mill porno tapes in lurid boxes: busty blondes playing orifice-bingo.
Bosc's three-drawer dresser offered up rumpled underwear and socks and T-shirts and gym shorts. It wasn't till Milo hit the bottom drawer that things got interesting.
Buried beneath a collection of GAP sweatshirts, were three guns: a 9mm identical to Milo 's department issue, a sleek black Glock complete with German instructions, and a silver derringer in a black leather carrying case. All three loaded. Additional ammo was stored at the rear of the drawer.
Next to the guns was a small cache that added up to Bosc's personal history.
A North Hollywood High yearbook, fifteen years old, revealed that Craig Eiffel Bosc had played tight end for the varsity football squad, pitched relief for the baseball team, and served as a basketball point guard. Three letters. Bosc's grad shot showed him to be clean-cut and gorgeous, flashing that same cocky smile.
Next came a black leatheroid scrapbook with stick-on letters that spelled out SIR CRAIG on the cover. Inside were plastic-sheathed pages that made Milo flash to the murder book.
But nothing bloody, here. The first page held a certificate from Valley College attesting that Bosc had earned a two-year associate degree in communications. From North Hollywood High to Valley. Both were within a bicycle ride to Bosc's house. Valley Boy hadn't moved around much.
