A five-year follow-up article reported no solve.
I said, “Dale signed the petition. He was living in the Safrans’ building when they disappeared.”
“Dale was chairman of the tenant board.”
“When he’s around, some people’s problems get solved, others stop breathing.”
“If there was a money motive, it wasn’t bargain real estate, Alex; Dale never bought a condo or any other residence in the city.”
“Maybe he was paid to do a job,” I said. “Wonder where his next stop was.”
“By any chance,” he said, “are you feeling some wanderlust?”
Finally, the inevitable foray to the fridge. Milo spread jam and butter on half a dozen pieces of bread, folded the first piece in half, pushed it into his mouth, and chewed slowly.
“Here’s the situation,” he said, gulping milk from the carton. “With two open cases and the need to stay on Antoine Beverly, I can’t leave. Chief offered me Sean or another rookie D, but Sean’s never flown further than Phoenix and I don’t want to start breaking in a greenhorn. When I brought up your name to His Importance he thought that would be a peachy idea as long as you don’t step ‘outside the boundaries of departmental procedures and can adhere to departmental guidelines.’”
“What’s the difference?”
“
Aborted vacation some time back with the woman I’d seen during the breakup. Through a mutual friend, I’d heard Allison was engaged…
“You can take Robin if you pay for her.”
“She’s in the middle of a big project.”
He ate another slice of bread. “So when can you leave?”
CHAPTER 21
I booked the nine p.m. red-eye to Kennedy out of Burbank the following day. The flight was delayed an hour due to “factors in New York,” and when the plane did arrive, the smiling woman behind the counter announced a refuel stop in Salt Lake City due to short runways at Bob Hope Airport and “wind issues.”
We boarded ninety minutes later and for the next six and a half hours, I sat with my knees bent at an interesting angle, sharing a row with a young tattooed couple who made out audibly. I tried to kill time by watching the satellite TV screen on my seat back during the intermittent periods it functioned. Shows about gardening, competitive cooking, and serial killers made me drowsy and I drifted in and out of sleep, woke to loving murmurs and slurping tongues.
The final time I roused, touchdown was half an hour away and the screen was fuzzy. I took another look at the contents of the business-sized envelope.
Single sheet of paper, Milo’s back-slanted cursive.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
By nine a.m. I was presenting myself to a droopy-lidded clerk in the closet-sized lobby of the Midtown Executive Hotel. The space was eye-searing bright and beautified by a rack of postcards, maps, and miniature
The clerk moved his lips while studying my reservation slip. “Bill’s being paid by some kind of voucher…”
“L.A. Police Department.”
“Whatever.” He checked a card file. “Doesn’t include incidentals.”
“You’ve got room service?”
“Nah, the phone. Rates are a ripoff, I’d use a cell.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“I need a credit card. Four thirteen. That’s the fourth floor.”
Cracking the door allowed me to squeeze into the room.
Eight by eight, with a lav half that size, all the charm of an MRI chamber.
A single mattress as thin as Tony Mancusi’s Murphy bed was wedged by a nightstand fashioned from a pink- blond mystery material. A nine-inch TV screwed to the wall fought for space with a snarl of wires. Completing the decor were a bolted-down floor lamp and a soiled watercolor of the Chrysler Building.
The sole window was stationary and double-paned, the glass thick enough to mute the din of West Forty-eighth and Broadway to a persistent, peevish grumble punctuated by random honks and clangs. Drawing the lint-colored drapes turned the room into a tomb but did nothing to lower the volume.
I stripped down, got under the covers, set the alarm on my watch for two hours hence, closed my eyes.
