Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“This is the famous Milo Sturgis,” said Lewis, between rapid drags on his cigarette.

The shorter man looked perplexed.

Lewis said, “Heavyweight champ from West L.A.- went one round with Frisk?”

Another second of confusion, then insight spread across the shorter man’s baby features. Revulsion followed a moment later. A pair of hard brown eyes shifted to me.

“And this,” said Lewis, “is the family doctor- family that’s been interested in our d.b. Maybe he can look at that knee of yours, Sandy.”

The other detective wasn’t amused. He buttoned his jacket and when he turned to Milo, he might have been regarding a floating body.

Milo said, “Esposito, right? You used to be over at Devonshire.”

Esposito said, “You came around here earlier and talked to the deceased. What about?”

“Nothing. He wouldn’t talk.”

“That’s not what I asked,” said Esposito, clipping his words. “Regarding what specifics was your intention to talk with the deceased?”

Milo paused- weighing his words or unraveling the syntax. “His possible involvement in the death of my client’s mother.”

Esposito didn’t appear to have heard. He managed to back his body away from Milo while pushing his head forward. “What do you got to tell us ?”

Milo said, “Ten to one it’ll come down to something stupid. Interview the residents of this resort and find out the last person McCloskey short-portioned on the hash line.”

“Save your advice,” said Esposito, moving back farther. “I’m talking information.”

“As in whodunit?”

“As in.”

Milo said, “Afraid I can’t help you with that.”

Lewis said, “The hash-line theory doesn’t cut it, Sturgis. The residents of this resort don’t tend to have cars.”

“They get day jobs once in a while,” said Milo. “Driving, delivering. Or maybe McCloskey just met up with someone who didn’t like his face. Wasn’t much of a face.”

Lewis smoked and said nothing.

Esposito said, “Brilliant.” To me: “You got something to add?”

I shook my head.

“What can I say?” said Milo. “You bought yourselves a whodunit, for a change.”

Lewis smoked.

Esposito said, “And you got nothing that would take the who out of the dunit?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Milo. Smiling. “Well, maybe not that good, but I’m sure you’ll work at improving it.”

He began walking past the two of them, heading for the front door of the mission. I tried to follow but Lewis stepped in front of me. “Hold on, Sturgis,” he said.

Milo looked back. His forehead was knotted.

Lewis said, “What’s your business in there, now?”

“Thought I’d see the priest,” said Milo. “Time for confession.”

“Right,” said Esposito, smirking. “Priest gonna grow a beard, listening.”

Lewis laughed, but it sounded obligatory. “Maybe it’s not the optimal time,” he said to Milo.

“I don’t see any yellow tape, Brad.”

“Maybe it’s still not optimal.”

Milo put his hands on his hips. “You’re telling me this is a restricted scene because the d.b. once bunked here, but it’s okay for vagrant scumbags to come in and out? Harmon Junior’s gonna love that, Brad. Next time he and the chief meet up on the links they’re gonna share a few yucks over that one.”

Lewis said, “What is it, three months? And you’re already acting like a fucking suit.”

Milo said, “Bullshit. You’re the one with the invisible tape, Brad. You’re the one all of a sudden turned careful. ”

Esposito said, “We don’t have to take this shit,” and unbuttoned his coat. Lewis held him back, puffing like a chimney. Then he dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, watched it smolder, and moved aside.

Esposito said, “Hey.”

Lewis said, “Fuck it,” with enough savagery to shut Esposito’s mouth. To me: “Go ahead. Move it.”

I stepped forward and Milo put his hand on the door.

“Don’t fuck anything up,” said Lewis. “And don’t get in our way- I mean it. I don’t care how many fucking lawyers you’ve got behind you, hear me?”

Milo pushed the door open. Before it closed, I heard Esposito’s voice mutter, “Maricon.”

Then laughter, very forced, very angry.

A TV was on in the big aqua room. Some sort of cop show flashed on the screen, and forty or so pairs of drooping eyes followed the crunch-and-rattle fantasy.

“Thorazine city,” said Milo, his voice cold as Freon. Anger as therapy…

We’d gotten halfway across the room when Father Tim Andrus appeared from around a corner, wheeling a coffee urn on an aluminum cart. Plastic-wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups filled the cart’s bottom shelf. The priest’s clerical shirt was olive-drab, worn over faded blue jeans, the knees of the pants scraped white. Same white high-top shoes he’d had on the first time; one of the laces had come loose.

He frowned, stopped, made a sharp turn away from us, and pushed the cart between rows of slumping men. The cart’s wheels were loose and kept sticking. Andrus maintained a jerky, weaving progress until he was next to the television. Bending low, he whispered to one of the men- a young, wild-eyed white youth in too-small clothing that gave him the look of an overgrown feral child. Not much older than a child, actually- late teens, maybe twenty, still larded with baby fat and suburban softness under a patchy chin-beard. But any semblance of innocence was destroyed by matted hair and scabbed skin.

The priest talked to him slowly, with exquisite patience. The young man listened, rose slowly, and began unwrapping a cup stack with shaky fingers. Filling a cup from the urn’s spigot, he started to raise it to his lips. Andrus touched his wrist and the youth stopped, bewildered.

Andrus smiled, spoke again, guided the youth’s wrist so that the cup was held out to one of the seated men. The man took hold of it. The chin-bearded youth stared and released it. Andrus said something and gave him another cup that he began filling. Some of the men had left their seats; a loose queue formed in front of the urn.

Andrus motioned at a scrawny man the color of photo film, slumped in the front row. The man got up and limped over. He and the youth stood side by side, not looking at each other. The priest smiled and instructed, setting up a two-man assembly line. Guiding and praising until a rhythm of filling and distribution had been established and the queue began to shuffle forward. Then he came over to us.

“Please leave,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Just a few questions, please, Father,” said Milo.

“I’m sorry, Mr.- I don’t remember what your name is, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do for you and I’d really appreciate it if you left.”

“The name is Sturgis, Father, and you didn’t forget. I never gave it to you.”

“No,” said the priest, “you didn’t. But the police did. Just a while ago. They also informed me you weren’t the police.”

“Never said I was, Father.”

Andrus’s ears colored. He plucked at his wispy mustache. “No, I suppose you didn’t, but you did imply it. I deal with deception all day, Mr. Sturgis- part of the job. But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Sorry,” said Milo. “I was-”

“An apology isn’t necessary, Mr. Sturgis. You can demonstrate your remorse by leaving and letting me attend to my people.”

“Would it have made a difference, Father? If I’d have told you I was a cop on temporary leave?”

Surprise on the priest’s lean face.

“What’d they tell you, Father?” said Milo. “That I’d been kicked off the force? That I was some kind of heavy-duty sinner?”