I said, “You didn’t do anything out of line. I was reacting from my gut- as her protector. It would have been negligent for you not to consider her as a suspect. It would be negligent not to
“The facts,” he said. “We don’t got us too many of those…”
He seemed about to say more, but the freeway on-ramp appeared and he clamped his mouth shut and gave the Porsche gas. Traffic toward downtown was light, but it created enough of a roar to substitute for conversation.
We reached the Eternal Hope Mission shortly after ten and parked halfway down the block. The air smelled of ripening garbage and sweet wine and fresh asphalt, with a curious overlay of flowers that seemed to travel on a westerly breeze- as if the better parts of town had air-mailed a whiff of better homes and gardens.
The front facade of the mission was swimming in artificial light. That, and the moonglow, turned the aqua plaster icy-white. Five or six shabby men were congregated near the entrance, listening or pretending to listen to two men in business clothes.
As we got closer I saw that the talkers were in their thirties. One was tall and thin and fair with waxy-looking blond hair cut frat-boy short and an oddly dark mustache that hooked down at right angles to his mouth and resembled a fuzzy croquet wicket. He wore silver-rimmed eyeglasses, a gray summer-weight suit, and mocha- colored zip boots. The arms of the suit were a trifle too short. His wrists were huge. A note pad, identical to the ones Milo used, was in one hand, along with a soft-pack of Winstons.
The second man was short, stocky, and dark, clean-shaven and baby-faced. He had a Ritchie Valens pompadour, narrow eyes with lips to match, wore a blue blazer and gray slacks. He was the one doing most of the talking.
The two men stood in profile, neither of them seeing us.
Milo walked up to the taller one and said, “Brad.”
The man turned and stared. A few of the shabby men followed the stare. The darker man stopped talking, checked out his partner, then Milo. As if unleashed, the homeless men began to drift away. The darker man said, “Hold on, campers,” and the men stopped short, some of them muttering. The detective gave his partner an arched eyebrow.
The man Milo had called Brad sucked in his cheeks and nodded.
The other man said, “This way, campers,” and corralled the shabby men off to one side.
The taller man watched them until they’d passed out of earshot, then turned back to Milo. “Sturgis. How convenient.”
“What is?”
“I hear you’ve been down here already today. Which makes you someone I want to talk to.”
“That so?”
The detective transferred his cigarettes to the other hand. “Two trips in one day- pretty dedicated. Getting paid by the hour?”
Milo said, “What’s up?”
“Why all the interest in McCloskey?”
“Just what I told you when I checked in a couple of days ago.”
“Run it by me again.”
“The lady he burned is still gone. Real gone. Her family would still like to know if there’s a connection.”
“What do you mean,
Milo told him about Morris Dam.
The blond man remained impassive, but the hand around the cigarette pack tightened. Realizing it, he frowned and examined the pack, tugging at cellophane, using his fingertips to straighten the corners.
“Too bad,” he said. “Family must be shook up.”
“They’re not throwing any parties.”
The blond man gave a curdled smile. “You already rousted him twice. Why again?”
“First couple of times he didn’t have much to say.”
“And you thought you might convince him.”
“Something like that.”
“Something like that.” The blond man looked over at the dark man, who was still lecturing to the derelicts.
Milo said, “What gives, Brad?”
“What gives,” repeated the blond man, touching the rim of his eyeglasses. “What gives is that maybe life just got complicated.”
He paused, studying Milo. When Milo didn’t say anything, the blond man fished a cigarette out of the pack, put it between his lips, and talked around it. “Looks like we’ve got business together.”
Another pause for reaction.
From half a mile away the freeway rumbled. From half a block away came the sound of shattering glass. Brad’s partner kept talking to the derelicts. I couldn’t make out his words but his tone was patronizing. The shabby men looked nearly asleep.
The blond detective said, “Seems Mr. McCloskey met with an unfortunate situation.” Staring at Milo.
Milo said, “When?”
The detective felt around in his trousers pocket as if the answer were to be found there. He pulled out a disposable lighter, and ignited. The flame cast a two-second hobgoblin glow over his face. His skin was rough- sanded and knobby, with shaving bumps along the jawline. “Couple of hours ago,” he said, “give or take.” He squinted at me through glass and smoke, as if his releasing the information had made me someone to be reckoned with.
“Friend of the family,” said Milo.
The tall man kept scrutinizing me, inhaling and blowing out smoke without removing the cigarette from his mouth. He’d majored in stoicism and graduated with honors.
Milo said, “Dr. Delaware, Detective Bradley Lewis, Central Division Homicide. Detective Lewis, Dr. Alex Delaware.”
Lewis blew smoke rings and said, “A doctor, huh.”
“
“Ah.”
I tried to look doctoral.
Milo said, “How’d it happen, Brad?”
“What?” said Lewis. “This some kind of a bounty thing? Getting paid for bringing the good news back to the family?”
Milo said, “It won’t bring her back, but yeah, I can’t imagine they’ll mourn.” He repeated his question.
Lewis pondered answering it, finally said, “Back alley a few blocks south and east of here- the industrial area between San Pedro and Alameda. Auto versus pedestrian, auto winning with a first round KO.”
“If it’s hit and run, why are you guys on it?”
“What a sleuth,” said Lewis. “Hey- d’you ever do police work?”
Grinning.
Milo didn’t talk or move.
Lewis smoked and said, “As it happens, the auto didn’t take any chances, according to the techs. Ran over him once, then backed up and did it at least twice more for good luck. We’re talking road pizza with all the toppings.”
He turned to me, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, and flashed a sudden, wolfish grin. “Family doctor, huh? You look like a civilized gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving sometimes, right?”
I smiled back. His grin widened, as if we’d just shared a terrific joke.
“Doctor,” he said, chain-lighting a second cigarette and grinding out the first on the sidewalk, “you wouldn’t by any remote chance have used your Mercedes or BMW or whatever to put poor Mr. McCloskey out of his misery, would you, sir? Quick confession and we can all go home.”
I kept smiling and said, “Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Darn,” said Lewis. “I hate whodunits.”
“The car was German?” said Milo.
