Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"Maybe I'll try that," said Milo.

Broussard's jaw set. "Stay away from that gentleman."

"Is that an official order, Chief?"

"It's sound advice, Detective."

"Then who?" said Milo. "Who the hell fixed it?"

Broussard ran a finger under his collar. Full sun had brought the sweat out on his brow, and his skin glistened like a desert highway.

"It wasn't like that," he finally said. "No one ordered the Ingalls investigation stopped, per se. The directive- and it was a departmental directive, straight from the top, the very top- was to effect damage control on Pierce Schwinn's many years of felonious conduct. Because Schwinn was spinning out of control, heavily addicted to amphetamines, taking extreme risks. He was a ticking time bomb, and the department decided to defuse him. You just happened to get the wrong partner. It could've been worse for you. You were spared because you were a rookie and had never been observed participating in Schwinn's transgressions. Except for one instance, when you were observed picking up a known prostitute in your on-duty car and chauffering her and Schwinn around. But I chose to overlook that, Detective. I had you transferred to greener pastures rather than drummed out in disgrace."

"Is this the dramatic moment where I'm supposed to thank you?" Milo cupped a hand to his ear. "Where's the goddamn drumroll?"

Broussard's mouth curled downward in disgust. "Suit yourself and be dense."

"I didn't need your largesse, John. When I picked that hooker up I had no idea what was going to happen, figured her for an informant."

Broussard smiled. "I believe you, Detective. I had a pretty good notion that you wouldn't participate in any backseat calisthenics with a woman."

Milo 's face grew hot.

Broussard said, "Don't get all indignant on me. I won't pretend to understand what you are, but it doesn't bother me. Life's too short for intolerance. I know what it's like to be on the outside, and I've given up on the whole idea of changing the way people feel. Let bigots feel any way they want to, as long as they don't misbehave."

"You're a paragon of tolerance."

"Not tolerance, constructive apathy. I don't care about your amusements- don't care about you, period, as long as you do your job."

"When doing the job suits your interests," said Milo.

Broussard didn't reply.

"You're an outsider, huh?" said Milo. "For an outsider, you scampered up the ladder pretty quickly."

"Hard work and persistence," said Broussard, sounding as if he'd recited it a million times before. "And good luck. Plus a good deal of yassuh-mastah posterior-kissing." He unbuttoned his collar and loosened his tie. Aiming for casual, just one of the guys. His bearing said otherwise. "Back when I worked patrol, I used to tape pictures in my locker. Photographs of men I admired. Frederick Douglass, George Washington Carver, Ralph Bunche. One day I opened my locker and the pictures were ripped to shreds and the walls were decorated with 'Die, Nigger!' and other genial messages. I pasted every one of those photos together, and if you go into my office today, you'll see them hanging behind my desk."

"I'll have to take that on faith," said Milo. "Don't expect to be invited to your office anytime soon. Unlike that other worthy soul, Craig Bosc. I'm disappointed in you, John. Choosing a lowlife like that to run your errands."

Broussard worked his lips. "Craig has his talents. He went too far this time."

"What was the idiot's assignment? Spook me into focusing on the Ingalls case, the old reverse psychology? Just in case sending Delaware the murder book wasn't enough to kick me in gear?"

"The idiot's directive," said Broussard, "was to aim you at the case and keep you focused. I thought you'd be interested, but for a while things seemed to be lagging. It has been twenty years."

"So you steal my partner's car, float HIV-retirement rumors, have Bosc hit on me and make sure I get aimed at a POB that directs me to the Larners. Then you trail Dr. Delaware and set Coury on his trail. He could've died last night, you manipulative sonofabitch."

"He didn't," said Broussard. "And I don't deal in theoreticals. As I said, Craig grew overzealous. End of story."

Milo cursed, caught his breath, bent, and caressed the top of Janie's grave. Broussard's shoulders tensed, as if the gesture was insulting.

"You buy a gravestone and think you're absolved, John. This poor little girl molders for two decades, and you've allowed yourself to grow righteous. Schwinn sent you the book, and you made me part of the chain letter via Dr. Delaware. Why? It sure wasn't the search for justice."

The chief's face returned to wooden. Milo visualized him wiping the murder book clean of prints, contemplating the "contingencies," finally deciding to forward the death shots to someone sure to pass them along. Using Alex to spook him, throw him off, wanting him to have to fight to regain his bearings, convince himself it was a noble quest.

And if Milo hadn't bitten, Broussard would've found another way. There'd never been any real choice.

"You've got a reputation," said Broussard. "As a contrarian. I thought it was wise to harness that."

He shrugged, and the easy gesture turned Milo feverish. He locked his hands together, struggled not to hit Broussard, finally found his voice. "Why'd you want the case solved now?"

"Times change."

"What changed were your personal circumstances." Milo jabbed a finger at the gravestone. "You never gave a shit about Janie or the truth. Nailing Coury and the others became important because it was in your best interest, and boy, did you succeed. Bunch of dead guys in Ojai, couple more in S.B., the Cossacks bite it in Inglewood, and there's no reason to connect any of them. Now you're free to go about your merry way with Walt Obey's build-a-city game. That's what it's all about, isn't it, John? The old man's money. Fucking Esperanza."

Broussard stiffened.

"Esperanza, what horseshit," said Milo. "It means 'hope' and you're hoping it'll make you filthy-rich because you know you're a failure as chief, gonna have to leave the department soon under less-than-amiable circumstances, and Uncle Walt just happened to come up with an offer that'll make your pension seem like chump change. What's the deal, John? Chief of security for an entire city, maybe augmented by some bullshit corporate vice presidency? Hell, Obey's probably tossing in preferred shares of the project that could shoot you into a whole new fiscal galaxy. Augmenting what he's already gifted to your wife and daughter. Man of color as co-owner of a city - ain't old Walt liberal . Everything was looking rosy until some nasty competition cropped up. Because Obey's grand scheme includes comprehensive recreational facilities aka finally bringing the NFL back to L.A. The old man pulls that off and Esperanza land values skyrocket and you're lunching at the country club and pretending the stiffs over there like you. But the Cossacks had other ideas. Wanted to rejuvenate the Coliseum, or some other downtown venue. Had Germ Bacilla and Diamond Jim Horne on their side, brought those two clowns to dinner at that stupid restaurant they own, did the whole private-room thing with Uncle Walt. Trying to convince Uncle Walt to cash in his chips and go along with them. Once upon Uncle Walt mighta blown off bullshit like that, but maybe this time he was willing to listen . The fact that he showed up at Sangre de Leon and didn't invite you says he was open-minded, and that had to spook you, John. Because even though the Cossacks had never pulled off anything close to that scope, this time they'd lined up decent financing and City Council support. And most important, Obey's losing steam. Because he's getting old and his wife's sick- really sick. Ain't that a hoot, John? You've come this far, and it could all come crumbling down."