Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

"No," said Milo. "The other case is also old and cold. Actually went down before your dad."

"And this never came to light when you guys were looking for that murderous fuck?"

"No, Georgie. Burns isn't officially a suspect on the other one. His name just came up, that's all."

"I see," Georgie repeated. "Actually, I don't." He rolled a wrist, and muscles bulged in his forearm. "What, things are so relaxed around the corner that they've got you chasing ghosts?"

"Sorry to bring up old crap, Georgie."

"Whatever, Milo, we all got our jobs. Back then I was a kid, first-year college, Cal State Northridge, I was going to become a lawyer. Instead, I got this." Pudgy hands spread.

Milo said, "I just wanted to verify that you guys never caught any wind of Burns."

Nemerov's eyes were ash-colored slits. "You don't think I'd tell you if we did?"

"I'm sure you would, but-"

"We go by the law, Milo. Making our living depends on it."

"I know you do, Georgie. Sorry-"

Georgie picked up his sandwich. "So who else did Burns off?"

Milo shook his head. "Too early to let that out. When you guys were looking for him did you uncover any known associates?"

"Nah," said Nemerov. "Guy was a fucking loner. A dope-head and a bum and a scumbag. Today, those Legal Aid assholes would call him a poor, poor pitiful homeless citizen and try to get you and me to pay his rent." His mouth twisted. "A bum. My dad always treated him with respect and that's how the fuck repaid him."

"It stinks," said Milo.

"It stinks bad. Even after all this time."

"Your dad was a good guy, Georgie."

Nemerov's gray slits aimed at me. "My dad could read people like a book, Doctor. Better than a shrink."

I nodded, thinking: Boris Nemerov had misread Willie Burns in the worst possible way.

Georgie rested one beefy arm on the countertop and favored me with a warm gust of garlic and brine and mustard.

"He could read 'em, my dad could, but he was too damn good, too damn soft. My mom tortured herself for not stopping him from going to meet the fuck that night. I told her she couldn'ta done nothing, Dad got an idea in his head, you couldn't stop him. That's what kept him alive with the Communists. Heart of gold, head like a rock. Burns, the fuck, was a loser and a liar but he'd always made his court dates before so why wouldn't my dad see the best in him?"

"Absolutely," said Milo.

"Ah," said Nemerov.

The door in the rear panel pushed open and seven hundred pounds of humanity emerged and filled the office. Two men, each close to six-six, wearing black turtlenecks, black cargo pants, black revolvers in black nylon holsters. The larger one- a fine distinction- was Samoan, with long hair tied up in a sumo knot and a wispy mustache-goatee combo. His companion wore a red crew cut and had a fine-featured, baby-smooth face.

Georgie Nemerov said, "Hey."

Both monsters studied us.

"Hey," said Sumo.

Red grunted.

"Boys, this is Detective Milo Sturgis, an old friend from around the corner. He investigated the scumfuck who murdered my dad. And this is a shrink the department uses because we all know cops are crazy, right?"

Slow nods from the behemoths.

Georgie said, "These are two of my prime finders, Milo. This here's Stevie, but we call him Yokuzuna, 'cause he used to wrestle in Japan. And the little guy's Red Yaakov, from the Holy Land. So what's new, boys?"

"We got something for you," said Stevie. "Out back, in the van."

"The 459?"

Stevie the Samoan smiled. "The 459 and guess what? A bonus. We're leaving the 459's crib- idiot's right there in bed, like he doesn't believe anyone's gonna come looking for him and in two secs we've got him braceleted, are taking him out to the car and a window shade in the next-door house moves and some other guy's staring out at us. And Yaakov says, waitaminute, ain't that the 460 we been looking for since the Democratic convention?"

Yaakov said, "Det stoopid guy Garcia, broke dose windows and reeped off all dot stereo."

"Raul Garcia?" said Georgie. He broke into a grin. "No kidding."

"Yeah, him," said Stevie. "So we go in and get him, too. Both of them are out there in back, squirming in the van. Turns out they played craps together- neighborly spirit and all that. They actually asked us to loosen the bracelets so they could play in the van."

Georgie high-fived both giants. "Two for one, beautiful. Okay, let me process the papers, then you can take both geniuses over to the jail. I'm proud of you boys. Come back at five and pick up your checks."

Stevie and Yaakov saluted and left the way they'd come in.

"Thank God," said Georgie, "that criminals are retarded." He returned to his chair and picked up his sandwich.

Milo said, "Thanks for your time."

The sandwich arced toward Nemerov's mouth, then paused inches from its destination. "You actually going to be looking for Burns again?"

"Should I?" said Milo. "I figure if he was findable, you guys woulda brought him in a long time ago."

"You got that," said Georgie.

Knots formed along Milo's jawline as he sauntered closer to the counter. "You think he's dead, Georgie?"

Nemerov's eyes shifted to the left. "That would be nice, but why would I think that?"

"Because you never found him."

"Could be, Milo. 'Cause we're good at what we do. Maybe when it first happened we weren't. Like I said, I was a college kid, what did I know? And Mom was all torn up, you remember how the insurance companies were jerking us around- one day we're doing the funeral, the next day we're fighting to stay out of bankruptcy. So maybe Burns didn't get looked for like he should. But later I sent guys out for him, we've still got him on our list- look, I'll show you."

He got up, pushed the paneled door hard, was gone for a few moments, came back with a piece of paper that he dropped on the counter.

Wilbert Lorenzo Burns's wanted sheet. Mug shot in full face and profile, the usual necklace of numbers. Medium-dark face, well-formed features that were soft and boyish- what would have been a pleasant face but for the hype eyes. Burns's long hair protruded in wooly tufts, as if it had been yanked. His statistics put him at six-two, one-sixty, with knife-scars on both forearms and the back of the neck, no tattoos. Wanted for PC's 11375, 836.6., 187. Possession with intent to sell, escape after remand or arrest, homicide.

" 'I think of him from time to time," said Georgie, between bites of wet sandwich. "Probably he is dead. He was a hype, what's those fuckheads' life expectancies, anyway? But you learn different, call me."

As we left the bail bond office, a meter reader's go-cart pulled up behind the Seville. Milo said, "Let's get going," and we ran for the car. The reader got out with his little computerized instrument of evil, but I peeled away before he could punch buttons.

"Close call," said Milo.

"Thought you had clout," I said.

"Clout's an ephemeral thing."

I turned the corner, headed back to the station.

He said, "So what do you think?"

"About what?"

"Georgie's demeanor."

"I don't know Georgie."

"Even so."

"He seemed to get edgy when you brought up Burns."

"He did, at that. Normally, he's even-tempered, you never hear him swear. This time he was tossing out the f-word."

"Maybe recalling his father's murder got him worked up."

"Maybe."

"You're wondering if he did take care of Burns. But you're unlikely to ever know."

"Thought you were supposed to make people feel better."

"Purification through insight," I said, pulling up near the Westside staff parking lot and letting the Seville idle. Milo remained in place, long legs drawn up high, hands flat on the seat.