He talked to each worker, using LAPD Spanish and a relatively soft, detached approach. No one admitted to buying dry ice. Most of the men claimed not to know what it was.
One guy’s eyes moved a lot and Milo asked for his I.D. first. Close to fifty, tall, thin, balding, droopy mustache. A California driver’s license was handed over with shaking hands. Milo’s request for backup paper brought a shrug. Handing the man his business card, he said, “Amigo, you help me, I help you.”
Downcast eyes.
“Anything you wanna tell me now about a guy wears a UC Irvine shirt?”
“No, boss.”
Milo pointed to the card. “See that? Lieutenant. That means big boss
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“You
Elise Freeman’s DMV picture elicited a blank stare. Same for the other men. Milo handed out five cards, told the men cooperating would bring good luck. Five blank faces stared back.
Heading back to the car, Milo re-read the jumpy guy’s stats. “Hector Ruiz, lives in Beverly Hills north of the boulevard where the estates are. Some forger’s got a sense of humor.”
“Maybe he was a live-in employee.”
“Oh, sure, they dress him in livery and call him Jeeves. So… you see any obvious reason for a day laborer to need thirty pounds of ice? And the quantity’s damn close to the techies’ estimate.”
“Unless Anteater picked his shirt with significance, my bet’s on a paid buy to muddy the trail.”
“Or nervous little dude’s our killer.” Laughing. “Like I believe that.”
His cell played Beethoven’s “Fur Elise.” Dark joke? No sense asking.
A twenty-second conversation ensued. Milo’s part consisted of several “yessirs.” Each one lowered his posture.
He pocketed the phone. “Summoned to the mount, A-sap.”
“Have fun.”
“We, not me.”
“I’m invited?”
“You’re demanded.”
CHAPTER
4
In dream traffic, the police chief’s office at Parker Center is a twenty-minute eastbound glide from Van Nuys.
Change of venue and bad traffic turned the drive into a seventy-minute, westbound stop-and-fume.
The Stagecoach Bistro abutted the ninth hole of a Calabasas country club built to look exclusive but open to anyone who could come up with the monthly.
As we drove toward the restaurant’s gravel lot, perfect lawns and barbered pepper trees ill suited for the climate gave way to dust and rustic fencing. The sprinkle of cars out front included a navy Lincoln Town Car that Milo identified as the chief’s civilian ride. No bodyguard, no auxiliary vehicle in sight.
The building was logs and shingles. A posted menu listed a French chef and described the fare as “nouveau- Tex-Mex-Thai comfort cuisine.”
A perky ponytailed hostess guided us to a redwood picnic table tucked in a corner of a patio shaded by vegetation that fit: ancient California oaks, twisted by centuries of Santa Ana winds. The chief had concealed himself behind the rhino-thick trunk of the granddaddy tree.
He continued chopsticking as we sat, pointed to two menus.
Comfort cuisine translated to heroic portions and headache-inducing prose.
The chief’s rectangular platter was two feet wide.
“What’re you having, sir?”
“Number Six.”
The chief said, “Seeing as you’re a gourmet, Sturgis.”
“Appreciate that, sir.”
The chief lowered the brim of a gray suede baseball cap. Instead of the usual black suit and five-hundred- dollar tie, he wore jeans and a brown leather bomber jacket. The hat and mirrored aviator shades obscured a healthy portion of his mercilessly pitted, oddly triangular face. Additional tortured flesh was shielded by a bushy white mustache.
He’s one of the few people who make Milo looked unscathed.
Another ponytailed girl came over, lofting a handheld computer. “What’re you guys having today?”
Milo said, “Number Six.”
I scanned the menu and ordered an elk burger with bison bacon.
The chief said, “Watching your cholesterol, Dr. Delaware?”
“I like bison.”
“You and Buffalo Bill. And the Plains Indians. You have Native American in your background, right?”
“Along with a lot of other stuff.”
“Mongrel, just like me.”
I’d never heard he was anything but Irish.
He said, “Got some Seneca in there. Or so my paternal grandmother claimed. Can’t be sure of that, though. Woman was a serious drinker.” Twirling his chopstick. “Just like your father.”
I didn’t respond.
He removed the sunglasses. Small black eyes scanned my face like a dermatologist probing for lesions. “Clouds the judgment, serious drinking.”
I said, “It’s a problem in some families.”
He turned to Milo. “What the hell were you thinking taking him along to the Freeman scene without authorization, then bullshitting Creighton about it? Didn’t you figure he’d check with me?”
“I assumed he would, sir.”
Down went the chopstick. “It was a
“No, sir. It was a
“You can’t do your job without him? We’re talking some kind of psychological dependency here?”
“We’re talking preference based on past experience, sir.”
“You need a shrink on board to function?”
“When cases are unusual and Dr. Delaware has time, I find his input helpful. I thought you agreed, so I didn’t foresee any objection.”
“And Creighton?”
“Creighton’s a bureaucrat.”
The chief retrieved the stick, rolled it impressively from finger to finger. The black eyes divided their time between Milo and me. “You didn’t foresee any objection.”
“Based on—”
“I get it. But it’s still bullshit. Amazing the doctor still puts up with you.”
Twice, the chief had offered me important-sounding jobs with the department that I’d turned down.
“I can see the value of shrinkery for weird cases, Sturgis, but I’m not sensing any psychosexual horror on this one.”
