The Murder Book

Next came Bosc's honorable discharge from the Coast Guard; he'd been stationed at Avalon, on Catalina Island. Probably earned himself a nice golden tan while discharging his duty in scuba gear.

At the back of the album were five pages of Polaroids showing Bosc screwing a variety of women, all young and blonde and buxom, the emphasis upon close-up insertion and Bosc's grinning face as he kneaded breasts and pinched nipples and rear-ended his companions. The girls all wore sleepy expressions. None seemed to be playing for the camera.

Stoned cuties caught unawares. All appeared to be in their early to midtwenties, with big bleached hair and out-of-fashion do's that made Milo think small-town cocktail waitress. A few plain ones, one or two real lookers, for the most part an average-looking bunch. Not up to the level of the babes in the porno videos, but the same general type. Another indication Bosc had a limited range.

Milo searched for the hidden camera, figuring it would be focused on the bed, and found it quickly. Little pencil- lens gizmo concealed in the VCR box. Sophisticated bit of apparatus; it stood out among the general shoddiness of Bosc's apartment and made Milo wonder. Also stashed in the box were several tightly rolled joints and half a dozen tabs of Ecstasy.

Kiss the girls and make them stoned. Naughty, naughty.

He returned to the scrapbook, flipped to the next page. Wasn't really surprised at what he found, but still, the confirmation was unsettling and sweat gushed from every pore.

Certificate of Bosc's graduation from the L.A. Police Academy ten years ago. Then a group shot and an individual photo of Bosc in his probationer's uniform. Clean-cut, made-for-TV cop; that same obnoxious grin.

The subsequent paperwork recounted Bosc's LAPD progress. A couple years of North Hollywood patrol before promotion to Detective-I and transfer to Valley Auto Theft, where he'd spent three years as an investigator and left as a D-II.

Cars. Fast-track promotion for a hot-wire cowboy. Bastard probably had a collection of master keys to every known make and model hidden somewhere. With that kind of know-how and equipment, boosting Rick's Porsche and returning it vacuumed and wiped clean of prints would've been a sleepwalk for Detective Bosc.

After car-time, the guy had been moved downtown to Parker Center Records, then Administration.

Then a year with Internal Affairs.

Finally: a kick up to D-III and his current assignment.

Administrative Staff at Chief Broussard's office.

The bastard was an executive aide to John G.

Milo disconnected the pencil camera, brought it and the homemade pornos and the dope back to the living room. Bosc was still working on maintaining his mellow but Milo's footsteps opened his eyes and when he saw what Milo was showing him, he flinched.

Then he recovered. Smiled. 'Gee, you must be a detective.'

Milo held an E-tab under Bosc's nose. 'Bad boy, Craig.'

'I'm supposed to be worried?'

'Pocketful of felonies, Georgie Porgie.'

'Another country heard from,' said Bosc.

'You think John G.'s gonna protect you? Something tells me the chief doesn't know about your film career.'

Bosc's eyes got hard and cold, offering a glimpse of the meanness that lurked beneath the pretty-boy facade.

He said, 'What I think is you're fucked.' Laughter. 'In the ass. Then again…'

Milo hefted the camera and the drugs.

Bosc said, 'You think you're seeing something, but you're not. None of that exists.' He shook his head and chuckled. 'You are so fucked.'

Milo laughed along with him. Stepped forward. Placed his foot on one of Bosc's shins and bore down.

Bosc cried out in agony. Tears filled his eyes as he struggled to twist away.

Milo lifted his shoe.

'You asshole-fuck,' Bosc panted. 'You stupid faggot fuck.'

'S'cuse me, Craig-o.'

'Go ahead,' said Bosc, catching his breath. 'You're only digging your own grave.'

Milo was silent.

Bosc's smile returned. 'You just don't get it, do you? This is L-fucking-A. It's not what you do, it's who you know.'

'Connections,' said Milo. 'Got yourself an agent, yet?'

'If you had a brain, you'd be an ape,' said Bosc. 'You gain access to my premises with a clear B &E/kidnap combo, then add assault. We're talking major felony, prison time to the next millennium. You think any of that shit you're holding's going to stand up evidentiary-wise? I'll say you planted it.'

Milo fanned the photos. 'It's not my dick in these.'

'That's for sure,' said Bosc. 'Yours would be half the size and packed in fudge.'

Milo smiled.

'You're out of it, man,' said Bosc. 'Have been from the beginning, always will be. No matter how many 187s you close. No good deed goes unpunished, man. The longer you keep me here, the more screwed you are, and so is your shrink buddy.'

'What does he have to do with it?'

Bosc smiled and closed his eyes again, and for a moment Milo thought the guy would revert to silence. But a few seconds later, Bosc said, 'It's a game. You and the shrink are pawns.'

'Whose game?'

'Kings and bishops.'

'John G. and Walter Obey and the Cossack brothers?'

Bosc's eyes opened. Cold again. Colder. 'Stick your head up your ass and get yourself a clue. Now let me go, and maybe I'll help you out.' Snapping out the order.

Milo placed the contraband on a table. Paced the room, as if considering compliance.

Suddenly, he hurried back to Bosc's side, kneeled down next to Bosc, placed the tip of his finger on Bosc's shin. Precisely on the spot where his shoe had dug in.

Bosc began to sweat.

'Chess analogy,' said Milo. 'How erudite, Bobby Fischer. Now tell me why you ripped off my car and put on that show at the hot dog stand and rented a post-office box under Playa del Sol and were snooping around my house today.'

'All in a day's work,' said Bosc.

'At John G.'s request?'

Bosc didn't answer.

Milo pulled out his gun and pressed the barrel into the soft, tan flesh under Bosc's chin.

'Details,' he demanded.

Bosc's lips jammed shut.

Milo retracted the weapon. As Bosc laughed, Milo said, 'Your problem, Craig, is you think you're a knight, but you're a shit-eating pawn.' He rapped the butt of the gun against Bosc's shin, hard enough to evoke an audible crack.

He waited for Bosc to stop crying, then raised the gun again.

Bosc's panicked eyes followed the weapon's ascent, and he scrunched his eyes and sobbed out loud.

Milo said, 'Craig, Craig,' and began to lower the weapon.

Bosc yelled, 'Please, please, no!' Began jabbering.

Within minutes, Milo had what he wanted.

Good old Pavlovian conditioning. Would Alex be proud?