Private Eyes

Lewis kicked the cement with one boot heel and blew smoke through his nose. “What is this, Meet the Press?”

“Any reason not to tell me, Brad?”

“You’re a civilian, for one.”

Milo said nothing.

Lewis said, “Maybe even a suspect, for two.”

“Right,” said Milo. “What is this, Brad? Fucking Murder She Wrote?”

Turning his stare on Lewis. They were the same height but Milo outweighed Lewis by fifty pounds. Lewis stared back, smoking, stone-faced, and didn’t answer.

Milo near-whispered a single word that sounded like “Gonzales.”

Lewis’s gaze faltered. The cigarette in his mouth dipped, then arced upward as his jaw tightened.

He said, “Look, Sturgis, I can’t fuck around with this. At the very least there’s a conflict of interest- like if we end up coming out to Pasadena and talking to the family about this.”

“The family, as it stands right now,” said Milo, “is an eighteen-year-old girl who just found out her mother’s dead and doesn’t even have a body to bury ’cause it’s at the bottom of the goddam dam. Sheriff’s just waiting for it to float-”

“All the more reason-”

“That happens, it’ll be loads of fun for her, right, Brad? ID-ing a floater? Meanwhile, she’s been cooped up in the house for the last few days, tons of eyewitnesses, so she sure as hell didn’t run the piece-o-shit over, and she sure as hell didn’t put any contracts out on him. But if you think there’s some advantage to coming around and getting her really freaked out, be my guest. Deal with their lawyer- guy’s uncle was Hammerin’ Harmon Douse. Captain Spain always did appreciate guys taking the initiative.”

Lewis puffed and dragged and stared at his cigarette as if it were a thing of wonder.

“If that’s where it leads, bet your ass I’ll be there,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Milo said, “Be my guest, Brad.”

The dark detective finished talking to the homeless men and gave a dismissing wave. They dispersed, some of them entering the mission, others drifting up the street. He came over, wiping his palms on his blazer.

“This is the famous Milo Sturgis,” said Lewis, between rapid drags on his cigarette.

The shorter man looked perplexed.

Lewis said, “Heavyweight champ from West L.A.- went one round with Frisk?”

Another second of confusion, then insight spread across the shorter man’s baby features. Revulsion followed a moment later. A pair of hard brown eyes shifted to me.

“And this,” said Lewis, “is the family doctor- family that’s been interested in our d.b. Maybe he can look at that knee of yours, Sandy.”

The other detective wasn’t amused. He buttoned his jacket and when he turned to Milo, he might have been regarding a floating body.

Milo said, “Esposito, right? You used to be over at Devonshire.”

Esposito said, “You came around here earlier and talked to the deceased. What about?”

“Nothing. He wouldn’t talk.”

“That’s not what I asked,” said Esposito, clipping his words. “Regarding what specifics was your intention to talk with the deceased?”

Milo paused- weighing his words or unraveling the syntax. “His possible involvement in the death of my client’s mother.”

Esposito didn’t appear to have heard. He managed to back his body away from Milo while pushing his head forward. “What do you got to tell us?”

Milo said, “Ten to one it’ll come down to something stupid. Interview the residents of this resort and find out the last person McCloskey short-portioned on the hash line.”

“Save your advice,” said Esposito, moving back farther. “I’m talking information.”

“As in whodunit?”

“As in.”

Milo said, “Afraid I can’t help you with that.”

Lewis said, “The hash-line theory doesn’t cut it, Sturgis. The residents of this resort don’t tend to have cars.”

“They get day jobs once in a while,” said Milo. “Driving, delivering. Or maybe McCloskey just met up with someone who didn’t like his face. Wasn’t much of a face.”

Lewis smoked and said nothing.

Esposito said, “Brilliant.” To me: “You got something to add?”

I shook my head.

“What can I say?” said Milo. “You bought yourselves a whodunit, for a change.”

Lewis smoked.

Esposito said, “And you got nothing that would take the who out of the dunit?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Milo. Smiling. “Well, maybe not that good, but I’m sure you’ll work at improving it.”

He began walking past the two of them, heading for the front door of the mission. I tried to follow but Lewis stepped in front of me. “Hold on, Sturgis,” he said.

Milo looked back. His forehead was knotted.

Lewis said, “What’s your business in there, now?”

“Thought I’d see the priest,” said Milo. “Time for confession.”

“Right,” said Esposito, smirking. “Priest gonna grow a beard, listening.”

Lewis laughed, but it sounded obligatory. “Maybe it’s not the optimal time,” he said to Milo.

“I don’t see any yellow tape, Brad.”

“Maybe it’s still not optimal.”

Milo put his hands on his hips. “You’re telling me this is a restricted scene because the d.b. once bunked here, but it’s okay for vagrant scumbags to come in and out? Harmon Junior’s gonna love that, Brad. Next time he and the chief meet up on the links they’re gonna share a few yucks over that one.”

Lewis said, “What is it, three months? And you’re already acting like a fucking suit.”

Milo said, “Bullshit. You’re the one with the invisible tape, Brad. You’re the one all of a sudden turned careful.”

Esposito said, “We don’t have to take this shit,” and unbuttoned his coat. Lewis held him back, puffing like a chimney. Then he dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, watched it smolder, and moved aside.

Esposito said, “Hey.”

Lewis said, “Fuck it,” with enough savagery to shut Esposito’s mouth. To me: “Go ahead. Move it.”

I stepped forward and Milo put his hand on the door.

“Don’t fuck anything up,” said Lewis. “And don’t get in our way- I mean it. I don’t care how many fucking lawyers you’ve got behind you, hear me?”

Milo pushed the door open. Before it closed, I heard Esposito’s voice mutter, “Maricon.”

Then laughter, very forced, very angry.

***

A TV was on in the big aqua room. Some sort of cop show flashed on the screen, and forty or so pairs of drooping eyes followed the crunch-and-rattle fantasy.

“Thorazine city,” said Milo, his voice cold as Freon. Anger as therapy…

We’d gotten halfway across the room when Father Tim Andrus appeared from around a corner, wheeling a coffee urn on an aluminum cart. Plastic-wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups filled the cart’s bottom shelf. The priest’s clerical shirt was olive-drab, worn over faded blue jeans, the knees of the pants scraped white. Same white high-top