“Sometimes,” he said. “But mostly the people I care about are dead. Speaking of which, I got in touch with Santa Monica College. Novato did register for summer session, but he dropped out after a week.”
“Long enough to get his name listed at the Employment Center.”
“That’s what I thought too. Probably why he registered in the first place. No ID, no references, would have been hard to find a job.”
“Dinwiddie would have liked the student thing. He yearns for school days.”
“My question,” Milo said, “is why Novato would want a low-paying job if he was selling dope.”
“A cover? Smith said they were getting sophisticated.”
“Maybe. Be that as it may, I don’t know that any of it is worth pursuing. My source at the Holocaust Center flies in from Chicago this afternoon. Got an appointment down there at five- that’s the last thing I’m gonna do on it. Ever been there?”
“No.”
“You should see it. Everyone should.”
“I’m free at five.”
“You drive.”
Scaffolding and an enclosed wooden perimeter marked a construction zone next to a two-story building made of white brick and black marble.
“That’s the museum,” said Milo. “House of Tolerance. They just broke ground last month.”
Traffic was congested for a half-block radius around the site. Motors groaned, clay dust billowed, hammer thuds and saw whines rose above the combustive groan of idling engines. A hard hat in an orange vest stood in the middle of Pico, directing a crane as it backed up onto the boulevard. A female traffic cop whistled and white-gloved a steadily building herd of autos into submission.
Milo leaned toward the center of the Seville and looked in the rearview mirror. A moment later he looked again.
I said, “What is it?”
“Nothing.” His eyes swept back and forth.
“Come on, Milo.”
“It’s nothing,” he said. “A while back I thought someone might be on our tail. It’s probably nothing.”
“Probably?”
“Don’t get in an uproar.” He sat back.
“Where’d you see it?”
“Just before Motor, near Fox Studios. Probably my imagination- there doesn’t seem to be anyone back there now, but it’s too stacked up to be sure.”
“Maybe it wasn’t your imagination. I’ve had the same feeling a couple of times the last week.”
“That so?”
“I also put it down to imagination.”
“Probably was.”
“Probably?”
“Like I said, Alex, don’t get in an uproar. Even if there was someone, most likely it was the Department.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The car. Plymouth sedan. Flat gray, black-wall tires, radio antennae. Except for the narcs and all their confiscated hot rods, the Department hasn’t discovered special effects.”
“Why would the Department be following us?”
“Not us.
I said, “Frisk?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. It’s Kenny’s type of game, but it could be anyone. My persona’s never that grata.”
“But what about the ones who followed me? Guilt by association?”
“Ones? How many were there?”
“Two, both times. First in a brown Toyota, then some kind of sedan. Male and female the second time, I think.”
“Sounds kind of imaginative for the Department. When and where’d it happen?”
“Both times were at night. Coming out of restaurants. The first time I was by myself, in Santa Monica. The second was this past Sunday night, with Linda. Melrose near LaBrea.”
“How long did they stay with you?”
“Not long.” I told him about driving into the gas station to avoid the brown Toyota.
He smiled. “Flashy move, Double-0-Seven. They show any signs of noticing you after you pulled into the station?”
“No. Just drove right by.”
“What about the second time?”
I shook my head. “I pulled off onto a side street and they were gone.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a tail,” he said. “And no similarities to the one I just saw. This was one guy- male Cauc, standard issue. And he didn’t just stay right on our tail. He hung back- the way they teach you in cop school. That’s what caught my eye- the spacing. Professionalism. A civilian would have missed it.
“Yours is real, mine’s baloney?”
“Just keeping a sane perspective,” he said. “Mine’s probably baloney too.”
He sat back, made a show of stretching his legs and yawning.
The crane was finally gone and we advanced. As I turned the corner, Milo checked out the cars that sped by.
“Nothing,” he said. “Forget the whole thing.”
We parked in the visitors’ lot in back of the center and walked around to the front entrance. After passing through a metal detector, we signed in with a plainclothes guard in an open booth. He was young, sharp-featured, with cropped black hair, a strong chin, and hard eyes.
Milo showed ID and said, “We’re here to see Judy Baumgartner.”
“Wait, please,” said the guard. Some kind of accent. He stepped back several feet and made a call.
“Israeli,” said Milo. “Since the swastikas, they use ex-secret-service guys as security. Very stubborn. They can be a real pain in the ass to deal with, but they get the job done.”
The guard returned to the counter. “She’ll be a few minutes. You can wait up there.” He pointed to a short, open flight of stairs. Above it was a landing backed with a black-and-white mural of wide-eyed faces. Frightened faces. It reminded me of the TV broadcast the day of the sniping.
Milo said, “How about we look at the exhibit?”
The guard shrugged. “Sure.”
We took the open stairs clown to the basement level. Dark hallway, the sounds of typing and ringing phones. A few people traveled the corridor, purposeful, busy.
To the right of the stairs was a black door marked EXHIBIT in small steel letters.
“Temporary,” he said, “until the museum’s done.”
He opened the door to a room about thirty feet square, paneled gallery-white, gray-carpeted, and very cool. Photo blowups lined the walls.
Milo began walking. I followed.
The first picture: storm troopers kicking and beating elderly Jews on the streets of Munich.
The second, stolid-looking citizens marching with placards:
