A frickin’ aristocrat in a frickin’
Kat got in, beaming. What had started off as a shitty night was going to end up a cool story.
As the Bentley glided away, Kat thanked the woman again.
The woman nodded and switched on the stereo. Something classical – God what a sound system, it was like being in a concert hall.
“If there’s any way I can repay you…”
“That won’t be necessary, dear.”
Big-framed woman, sturdy bejeweled hands.
Kat said, “Your car’s
The woman smiled and turned up the volume.
Kat sat back and closed her eyes. Thought of Rianna and Bethie with the fake-o shirts.
Telling
The Bentley cruised silently up the Pass. Cushy seats, alcohol, weed, and the adrenaline drop plunged Kat into sudden, nearly comatose sleep.
She was snoring loudly when the car made a turn, climbed smoothly into the hills.
Headed for a dark, cold place.
CHAPTER 2
I was having lunch with Milo at the Surf Line Cafe in Malibu when the call came in.
No reason for either of us to be here other than gorgeous weather. The restaurant’s a clapboard bungalow with wall-sized windows and a wide plank deck, perched high on the west side of PCH, just south of Kanan Dume Road. At half a mile from the ocean with no view of the water, it was misnamed. But the food’s fantastic and even at that distance you can smell the salt.
It was one p.m. and we were out on the deck eating barbecued yellowtail and drinking beer. Milo was back from a week in Honolulu, where he’d managed to preserve a skim-milk pallor. Bad light brings out the worst of his complexion – the lumps, the acne pits, the scowl lines, gravity tugging at mastiff jowls. Today’s light was glorious but the best it could do was obscure the rough spots.
Despite that and the ugliest aloha shirt I’d ever seen, he looked good. None of the twitches and split-second winces that betray his attempt to hide the pain in his shoulder.
The shirt was a riot of puce elephants, aqua camels, and ocher monkeys on a sea of olive-green rayon that clung to his kettledrum torso.
The Hawaiian trip had followed a twenty-nine-day stay in the hospital: recuperating from a dozen shotgun pellets embedded in his left arm and shoulder.
The shooter, an obsessive psychopath, was dead, sparing everyone the nuisance of a trial. Milo had dismissed his own injuries as “a stupid goddamn flesh wound.” I’d seen the X-rays. Some of the pellets had missed his heart and lung by millimeters. One chunk of deer shot was too deep to remove without causing serious muscle injury, hence the winces and twitches.
Despite all that, only a three-day hospitalization had been projected. On the second day, a staph infection set in and he ended up on antibiotic drips for nearly a month. Sequestered on the VIP floor because he lived with Dr. Rick Silverman, director of the E.R.
Bigger rooms and better food didn’t help where it counted. His fever ran high and at one point his kidney function didn’t look good. Eventually, he pushed through and started griping about the accommodations and the twenty-one-year-old actress in the corner suite up the hall. Her official diagnosis was “Exhaustion.” The hospital’s detox director had virtually moved in.
Two paparazzi had managed to breach security, only to be tossed unceremoniously by one of the starlet’s private security guards.
I said, “They don’t get her, maybe they’ll settle for you.”
“Oh, sure,
He worked his way out of the bed, stomped out into the hall, and glared at the rent-a-cop hovering near his door. The guy moved on.
“Intrusive asshole.”
Definitely on the mend.
After discharge, he pretended everything was fine. Rick and Robin and I and everyone else who knew him pretended not to notice the stiffness and the loss of energy. The department physician insisted he take some downtime and his captain wouldn’t debate the issue.
Milo and Rick had been talking about a tropical vacation for months but when the time came, Milo ’s mood suggested an impending prison sentence.
He sent me a single postcard: gargantuan Samoan sumo wrestlers tussling on white sand.
A:
Having a great blah blah blah yawn yawn yawn. These are the locals. A few more luaus and there goes my modeling contract.
Primitively yours,
M.
Now he finished his second beer and said, “What are you smirking about?”
“Didn’t know I was.”
“I’m a trained observer. You were.”
I shrugged.
“It’s the shirt, right?”
“The shirt’s great.”
“Lucky for you there’s no polygraph around. What, you don’t dig authentic island
“Elephants in Oahu?”
“Dr. Literal.” He rolled rayon between sausage fingers. “I’da found one with Freud analyzing a mahimahi I’da brought it back for you.”
“The macadamia nuts were fine.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He brushed black hair off his forehead, called for another beer, finished it fast. Bright green eyes took in the view of the highway below. His eyelids half lowered.
“You okay?”
“Back to work tomorrow, the leisure thing was driving me out of my mind. Problem is, once I get to the office, there’s nothing to do. No new cases, period – let alone an interesting one.”
“How do you know?”
“I e-mailed the captain yesterday.”
I said, “Quiet time in West L.A. ”
“Calm before the storm, or worse.”
“What would be worse?”
“No storm.”
He insisted on paying and was reaching for his billfold when his cell squawked. I used the opportunity to hand the waiter my credit card.
“Sneaky.” He clicked in, listened. “Okay, Sean, why not? But if a
