Jonathan Kellerman - The Murder Book

Mini-Specs hung back as the Cossacks entered the restaurant, Garvey in a flat-footed waddle, Bobo swaggering and bopping his head in time to some private melody. The chauffeur returned to the car and began backing out, and Specs walked past the pink ladies' expectant smiles. The Town Car turned south on Robertson, drove a block, pulled to the curb, went dark.

Specs remained out in the lot for a few seconds, looking around- but at nothing in particular. Facing the Taurus, but Milo caught no sign the guy saw anything that bothered him. No, this one was just full of random nervous energy- hands flexing, neck rotating, mouth turned down, the tiny lenses of his glasses darting and catching street light, a pair of reflective eggs.

Guy made him think of a crooked accountant on audit day. Finally, Specs ran his finger under his collar, rotated his shoulders, and made his way to the pleasures of leonine hemoglobin.

No additional diners materialized during the thirty-seven minutes Milo sat there. When one of the untipped valets looked at her watch, stepped out to the sidewalk, and lit up a cigarette, he got out of the Taurus and loped across the street.

The girl was a gorgeous, little red-haired thing with blue-blue eyes so vivid the color made its way through the night. Maybe twenty. She noticed Milo approaching, kept smoking. The cigarette was wrapped in black paper and had a gold tip. Shermans? Did they still make those?

She looked up when he was three feet away and smiled through the cloud of nicotine that swirled in the warm night air.

Smiling because Milo had his latest bribe visible. Two twenties folded between his index and tall fingers, backed by a freelance journalist cover story. Forty bucks was double what he'd paid the Pakistani POB clerk but the valet- her tag said Val- was a helluva lot cuter than the clerk. And as it turned out, a lot easier to deal with.

Ten minutes later he was back in the Taurus, cruising past the Town Car. Mt. Chauffeur was snoozing with his mouth open. A shaved-head Latino guy. The redhead had supplied Mini-Spec's ID.

"Oh, that's Brad. He works with Mr. Cossack and his brother."

"Mister Cossack?"

"Mr. Garvey Cossack. And his brother." Blue-eyed glance back at the restaurant. "He co-owns this place, along with…" A string of celebrity names followed. Milo pretended to be impressed.

"Must be a jumping place."

"It was when it opened."

"No more, huh?"

"You know," she said, rolling her eyes.

"How's the food?"

The parking cutie smiled and smoked and shook her head. "How would I know? It's like a hundred bucks a plate. Maybe when I get my first big part."

Her laugh was derisive. She added: "Maybe when pigs fly." So young, so cynical.

"Hollywood," said Milo.

"Yeah." Val looked back again. All the other girls were loafing, and a few were smoking. Probably keeping their weight down, thought Milo. Any of them could've modeled.

Val lowered her voice to a whisper: "Tell the truth, I hear the food sucks."

"The name can't help. Lion's Blood."

"Ick. Isn't that gross?"

"What kind of cuisine is it?"

"Ethiopian, I think. Or something African. Maybe also Latino, I dunno- Cuban, maybe? Sometimes they've got a band and from out here it sounds kind of Cuban." Her hips pistoned, and she snapped her fingers. "I hear it's on its way out."

"Cuban music?"

"No, silly. This place."

"Time for a new job?" said Milo.

"No prob, there's always bar mitzvahs." Stubbing out her cigarette, she said, "You don't happen to ever work for Variety , do you? Or The Hollywood Reporter ?"

"Mostly I do wire service stuff."

"Someone's interested in the restaurant?"

Milo shrugged. "I drive around. You've got to dig if you wanna find oil."

She looked at the Taurus and her next smile was ripe with sympathy. Another L.A. loser . "Well, if you ever do Variety , remember this name: Chataqua Dale."

Milo repeated it. "Nice. But so is Val."

A cloud of doubt washed over the blue eyes. "You really think so? 'Cause I was wondering if Chataqua was maybe, you know, over the top."

"No," said Milo. "It's great."

"Thanks." She touched his arm, let the cigarette drop to the pavement, ground out the butt, got a dreamy look in her eyes. Audition fever. "Well, gotta go."

"Thanks for your time," said Milo, reaching into his pocket and slipping her another twenty.

"You are soooo nice," she said.

"Not usually."

"Oh, I bet you are- let me ask you, you meet people, right? Know any decent agents? 'Cause mine is an asshole."

"Only agents of destruction," he said.

Puzzlement lent the beautiful young face temporary complexity. Then her actor's instincts cut in: Still not comprehending, but recognizing a cue, she smiled and touched his arm again. "Right. See you around."

"Bye," said Milo. "By the way, what does Brad do?"

"Walks around with them," she said.

"A walking-around guy."

"You got it- they all need them."

"Hollywood types?"

"Rich types with gross bodies."

"Know Brad's last name?"

"Larner. Brad Larner. He's kind of a jerk."

"How so?"

"He's just a jerk," said Val. "Not friendly, never smiles, never tips. A jerk."

He drove the two blocks to Santa Monica Boulevard, made a right turn, and circled back to Melrose, this time approaching the corner from the east and parking just up from the shuttered Chinese place. The rest of the boulevard was taken up by art galleries, all closed, and the street was dark and quiet. He got out, stepped over the Chinese place's heavy chain, and walked across a lot starting to sprout weeds through the cracks and dotted with mounds of dry dog shit. Finding himself a nice little vantage point behind one of the dead restaurant's gateposts, he waited, taking in the Chinese place's grimness up close- black paint flaking, bamboo shredding.

Another dream rent asunder; he liked that.

Nowhere to sit, so he continued to stand there, well concealed, watching nothing happen at Sangre de Leon for a long time. His knees and back began to hurt, and stretching and squatting seemed to make matters worse. Last Christmas, Rick had bought a treadmill for the spare bedroom, used it religiously every morning at five. Last month, he'd suggested that Milo give regular exercise a try. Milo hadn't argued, but neither had he complied. He was no good in the morning, usually pretended to be asleep when Rick left for the ER.

He checked his Timex. The Cossacks and Brad "the jerk" Larner had been inside for over an hour, and no other patrons had materialized.

Larner was no doubt the Achievement House director's son. The harasser's son. Yet another link between the families. Daddy putting up Crazy Sister Caroline at Achievement House, buying jobs for himself and Junior.

Connections and money. So what else was new? Presidents were selected the same damn way. If any of this provided a hook to Janie Ingalls, he couldn't see it. But he knew- on a gut level- that it did matter. That Pierce Schwinn's forced retirement and his own transfer to West L.A. had resulted from more than Schwinn's dalliances with street whores.

Twenty-year-old fix, John G. Broussard doing the dirty work.

Schwinn had sat on whatever he'd known for two decades, pasted photos in an album, finally decided to break silence.

Why now?

Maybe because Broussard had reached the top and Schwinn wanted his revenge to be a gourmet dish.

Using Milo to do the dirty work…

Then he falls off a docile horse…

Headlights from the north end of Robertson slapped him out of his rumination. Two sets of lights, a pair of vehicles approaching the Melrose intersection. The traffic signal turned amber. The first car passed through legally and the second one ran the red.