show up, all he talks about is this screenplay he's working on - real-life detective stuff. Warren Beatty loves it, you see, but they're just waiting for their agents to get together to cut a deal, blah-blah-blah.'
'Sounds like the L.A. blues.'
'You got it.'
He was talking clearly and seemed alert, so I started the car and headed back south. Talking about Cash had triggered an association to the bloodstained room he'd shown me this morning.
'Can we talk about the case?' I asked.
He was surprised by the abrupt turn in the conversation but collected himself quickly. Finishing the last of the coffee, he crumpled the cup and tossed it from hand to hand.
'Like I said before, no investigative details. Besides, what's there to talk about?'
'Open-and-shut, huh?'
'Close enough to it to answer my prayers.'
'Doesn't that bother you?'
'What success? Sure, but I'm learning how to cope with it.'
'I'm serious, Milo. Half a dozen homicides that have baffled the police for a year suddenly solve themselves. Don't you find that strange?'
'It happens.'
'Not very often and not in serial murders. Isn't a big part of the kick for serial killers hide-and-seek, playing ego games with authorities? They may throw out hints and tease the police, but they go out of their way to avoid detection. And plenty of them -Jack the Ripper, Zodiac, the Green River Strangler - kill for years and never get caught.'
'But plenty of 'em do, pal.'
'Sure, through bad luck or carelessness - like Bianchi and the Yorkshire Ripper. But they don't just sit there holding the knife and wait to get picked up. It doesn't make sense.'
'Slicing people into cold cuts doesn't make sense, either, but it happens - more often than you'd like to know. Now, can we change the subject?'
'There's something else that bothers me. Nothing in Jamey's history indicates sadism or psychopathy. He's profoundly psychotic, much too muddled to plan and carry out those slashings.'
'You're getting abstract again,' he said. 'I don't give a damn how you diagnose him; the bottom line's the evidence.'
'Let me ask you one more thing. Before you arrested him, did you have any other leads on the slashings?'
'You've gotta be kidding.'
'Did you?'
'What's the difference if we had four hundred leads? The case is solved.'
'Humour me. What were they?'
'Forget it, Alex. That's exactly the kind of stuff I don't wanna get into.'
'The defence has access to investigative records. I can get it from Souza, but I'd rather hear it from you.'
'Oh, yeah? Why's that?'
'Because I trust you.'
'I'm flattered,' he growled.
We drove in silence.
'You're a persistent bastard,' he said finally, 'but you
don't try to change me, so I won't try to change you. If I tell you, will you drop it?'
'Sure.'
'All right. No, we didn't have any leads to speak of. In a case like this you get plenty of information - people turning in their neighbours or ex-lovers. All of it dead-ended. The closest we got to anything of value was that three of the victims were seen going off with biker types before they disappeared. Now don't get excited. I said closest only because we cross-referenced everything and bikers came up three separate times. But if you know Boystown, you know that's no big deal; leather freaks abound, and the chickens pull ten, fifteen tricks a night, so they're bound to interact with some tough-guy types. Nevertheless, being dutiful public servants, we hit the pavement, checked out all the leather bars, and came up empty. Satisfied?'
'What kinds of bikers?'
'Bikers. Slobs on choppers. No names, no colours, no club ID, no physical description. It came to zilch because the parties responsible weren't cruising around all night on Harleys, Alex. They were hacking and choking pretty boys in the privacy of a big white house in Beverly Hills. All right?'
'All right.'
We arrived back at the Golden Eagle just before midnight.
'What are you driving?'
'The Porsche. It's over there.'
The bone white 928 was sandwiched between two Japanese compacts in a far corner of the lot, gleaming like a slice of moonlight. A young couple was admiring it, and when I coasted to a stop at the rear bumper, they looked up.
'Nice wheels,' said the man.
'Yeah,' said Milo, leaning out the window, 'crime pays.'
The couple looked at each other and hurried away.
'It's not nice to frighten the citizens,' I said.
'Gotta protect Dr. Rick's bitchin' wheels.'
'Think of it as a positive sign,' I said. 'You don't leave
fifty grand worth of car with someone you're not planning on seeing again.'
He considered that.
'Collateral on the relationship, huh?'
'Sure.'
He put his hand on the door handle.
'It was good seeing you, Milo,' I said.
'Ditto. Thanks for the shoulder and keep out of trouble.'
We shook hands, and he stepped out of the Seville, hitched up his jeans, and searched through jangling pockets for the car keys. Retrieving a gold-plated set, he looked back at the Porsche and smiled.
'Or at the very least, alimony.'
IT WAS twelve-twenty when I got home, but Robin was still up, wearing a T-shirt over nothing and reading in bed.
'After you left, I went back to the shop,' she explained. 'Rockin' Billy phoned from New York; he's coming into town and wants another custom guitar.'
I kissed the top of her head, undressed, and slipped in beside her.
'More fruit? What was it last time - a mango?'
'A six-stringed papaya.' She laughed. 'For the Tropical Dreams LP. No, this time he's gone high-tech. He's releasing a song next week called 'Buck Rogers Boogie' and he wants a solid body shaped like a ray gun to take on tour - chrome paint, LED readouts, synthesizer interface, the works.'
'Ah, art!'
'It's antiart, which is even more fun. Sometimes when I'm in the middle of one of his jobs and I start to feel silly, I pretend Marcel Duchamp is sitting in a corner of the shop, nodding approvingly.'
It was my turn to laugh.
'I'd like to see the thing when it's done,' I said, 'risk my life and blast off a few chords.'
'Come by when Billy picks it up. You might enjoy meeting him. Despite his looks, he's not your typical burned-out rocker. More of a long-haired businessman really.'
'Maybe I should meet the guy. You spend enough time with him.'
'Don't worry, darling, he's not my type. Too skinny.' She grew serious. 'How's Milo?'
I told her.
