Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"You could shoot me, anyway," said Milo. "Sometime when I'm not expecting it."

"I could, but I won't," said Broussard. "Unless you make it necessary." He pressed silk to his nose. Blood continued to flow. "If you act reasonably, I won't even send you the cleaning bill."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you've gotten it all out of your system and are prepared to return to work under new circumstances."

"Such as?"

"We forget about this, you're promoted to lieutenant. Assigned to a division of your choosing."

"Why would I want to push paper?" said Milo.

"No paper, you'll be a lieutenant detective," said Broussard. "Continue to work cases- challenging cases, but you pull a lieutenant's salary, enjoy a lieutenant's prestige."

"That's not the way it works in the department."

"I'm still the chief." Broussard got to his feet, pretended to accidentally spread a flap of his double-breasted jacket, offered a full view of the 9mm nestled in a tooled-leather holster the color of fine brandy.

"You toss me a bone, and I go away," said Milo.

"Why not?" said Broussard. "Everything's been done that needs to be done. You solved the case, the bad guys are out of the picture, we all move on. What's the alternative, ruining both our lives? Because the worse you hurt me, the more pain you bring on yourself. I don't care how righteous you think you are, that's the way the world works. Think about Nixon and Clinton and all those other paragons of virtue. They got libraries, and all the people around them went down hard."

Broussard stepped closer. Milo could smell his citrus aftershave and his sweat and the coppery tang of the blood that had finally begun to dry above his mouth.

"I've kept records," said Milo. "A paper trail hidden where even you'll never find it. Something happens to me-"

"Oh, please, look who's talking about screenplays," said Broussard. "You want to throw around threats? Think about Dr. Silverman. Dr. Delaware. Dr. Harrison." Broussard laughed. "Sounds like a medical convention. You can be damaged beyond your wildest dreams. And to what end? What's the point?"

He flashed a smile. Winner's smile. A cold, damp wave of futility washed over Milo. Sapped; the blow to Broussard's nose had taken more out of him than it had out of its recipient.

Winners and losers, the patterns were probably set in place back in nursery school.

He said, "What about Bosc?"

"Craig has resigned from the department with substantial compensation, effective one week ago. He'll never go near you- that I can promise you."

"He does, he's a dead man."

"He realizes that. He's relocating to another city. Another state." Broussard wiped away blood, checked his handkerchief, found a clean corner and made sure it showed when he tucked the silk square back in his breast pocket. Buttoning his shirt and knotting his tie, he advanced even closer to Milo.

Breathing slowly, evenly. The bastard had sweet breath, minty-fresh. No more sweat on his ebony face. His nose had started to swell, looked a little off kilter, but nothing you'd notice once he got cleaned up.

"So," he said.

"Lieutenant," said Milo.

"Fast-track promotion, Detective Sturgis, once you choose your division. You can take some vacation time or jump right into work. Think of it as mutually constructive adaptation."

Milo stared into the flat, black eyes. Hating Broussard and admiring him. Oh great guru of self-deception, teach me to live as you do…

He said, "Fuck your promotion. I'll drop everything, but I don't want anything from you."

"How noble," said Broussard. "As if you had a choice."

He turned and walked away.

Milo remained by the grave, let his eyes wander over Janie's stone. Goddamn teddy bear.

Knowing there was nothing he could do, if he wanted to stay in the department, he'd take the offer and why the hell not, because anyone who mattered was dead and he was tired, so tired, and what was the alternative?

Making a choice. Not sure of what it would do to him- to his soul.

Someone else might have convinced himself that was courage.

Someone else wouldn't feel this way.

Bert Harrison's call came at 9 A.M. I'd been sleeping and tried to push the fatigue out of my voice, but Bert knew he'd woken me up.

"Sorry, Alex. I'll call back-"

"No," I said. "How're you doing?"

" I'm fine," he said. "Aimee is… she'll eventually come to grips with the loss. We'd begun dealing with it, because Bill didn't have long, and I was trying to prepare her. Despite that, of course, the shock was traumatic. For her sake, I'm emphasizing the quickness of it. His feeling no pain."

"I can back you up on that. It was instantaneous."

"You saw it… you must be-"

"I'm fine, Bert."

"Alex, I should've been honest with you all along. You deserved better from me."

"You had your obligations," I said. "Patient-doctor confidentiality-"

"No, I-"

"It's all right, Bert."

He laughed. "Listen to us, Alex. Alphonse, Gaston, Alphonse Gaston… you're really okay, son?"

"I really am."

"Because you bore the brunt of it as I stood by like a-"

"It's over," I said, firmly.

"Yes," he said. Several seconds passed. "I need to tell you this, Alex: You're such a good young man. I find myself calling you 'son' from time to time, because if I'd… oh this is silly, I just called to see how you were getting on and to let you know we're coping. The human spirit and all that."

"Indomitable," I said.

"What's the alternative?"

Milo had come by last night, and we'd talked through sunrise. I'd been thinking a lot about alternatives. "Thanks for calling, Bert. Let's get together. When things settle down."

"Yes. Absolutely. We must."

He sounded old and weak and I wanted to help him, and I said, "Soon you'll be getting back to your instruments."

"Pardon- oh, yes, definitely. As a matter of fact, I did get on-line early this morning. Came upon an old Portuguese gitarra on eBay that looks intriguing, if it can be restored. Tuned differently than a guitar, but you might be able to get some sound out of it. If I get it at the right price, I'll let you know and you can come up here and we'll make music."

"Sounds like a plan," I said. Happy to have any.

The next few days degraded to a blur of solitude and missed opportunity. I took a long time to muster the energy to call Robin, never found her in.

She didn't call back, not once, and I wondered if a new level had been descended.

I tried not to think about Janie Ingalls or any of the others, did a pretty decent job of cutting myself off, knew it was unlikely Allison Gwynn had read about Michael Larner's death in the Santa Barbara News-Press and that I should tell her. I couldn't dredge up the initiative for that, either.

I buried myself in housecleaning, yardwork, clumsy jogs, TV hypnosis, obligatory, tasteless meals, perusals of the morning paper- not a word of print about the bloody night in Ojai, the Larners, the Cossacks. Continued sniping at John G. Broussard by politicians and pundits were the only links to what had been my reality since receiving the murder book.

On an uncommonly mild Tuesday, I took an afternoon run and came back to find Robin sitting in the living room.

She had on a black T-shirt, black leather jeans, and the pair of lizard-skin boots I'd given her two birthdays ago. Her hair was long and loose, and she was made up and lipsticked and looked like a beautiful stranger.

When I went over to kiss her, I kept the bruised side of my face out of view. She offered me her lips but kept them closed. Her hand rested briefly on the back of my neck, then dropped off.