He frowned. “Damn men’s jail isn’t that far, either. Scrotes walking out to freedom, who knows what they’d do.”
He placed a call to Dr. Andrea Bauer, got voicemail. The same for Marcella McGann.
“Okay, let’s have a look at that gallery.”
* * *
—
The brief ride took us past residential and commercial buildings of varying ages and conditions and a fetid homeless encampment occupied by six vagrants, none of whom recognized Benny Alvarez or the woman in the black hat. The outdoor inhabitants seemed strangely serene when questioned, an attitude buttressed by Milo’s distribution of singles and cheap cigars. As we left, a man called out, “God bless you, General!”
The limestone building housing Verlang Contemporary was another holdover, flanked on the north by an eighties motel called The Flower Drum festooned with English, Japanese, and Korean signage and on the left by a two-story block cube housing New World Elegant Jewelers. (WE BUY GOLD!!!) Off in the distance, the pagoda roofs of Chinatown pierced the smog, strangely quaint against the brutalist towers of municipal government.
Verlang’s windows were dark but for a Closed sign. Same for two neighboring art emporia: AB-Original Gallery and The Hoard Collection. The building had two additional stories, no lights from within.
Milo said, “Entire place looks dead. Maybe not enough talent to go around.”
He drove to Hill Street, headed south to Sixth, then west. Traffic had congealed, tempers were fraying, horns farting. He switched on the police band and used it for background. The inflectionless, nonstop dialogue between dispatchers and patrol officers often lulls me drowsy. When I woke up, we were passing the county art museum on Wilshire just east of Fairfax.
He said, “Rise and shine. Let’s get some coffee.”
“Drop me at home and I’ll make a pot.”
“Not decaf, dude.”
“No prob.”
“Kenyan?”
“I think we’ve got that.”
“Think? I was hoping for a guarantee.”
“Life’s rough,” I said. “On the other hand, we definitely have biscotti. Robin baked some with candied citron.”
“Robin bakes?”
“Robin does anything she puts her mind to. One of the good things she got from her mother was a book of home recipes.”
“Biscotti,” he said. “Lovely language, Italian. Okay, fine, doesn’t have to be Kenyan. See? I’m doing what you tell me, being psychologically flexible.”
Sitting at my kitchen table, he downed three large mugs of Jamaican coffee and half a dozen biscotti before yawning.
Robin had come in two minutes ago and sat down with us. She smiled. “Want to take a nap, Big Guy?”
“Appreciate the offer but I’m calling it a day.” Leaning over, he pecked her cheek then bent and ruffled the folds of Blanche’s neck before pushing himself up.
I walked him out of the house and down to the Impala. “What’s next, Big Guy?”
“I do grunt work and you enjoy life. Something comes up, I’ll let you know.”
He walked to the driver’s side. Stopped, backtracked, squeezed my hand with both of his. Like being swaddled by oven mitts. “Yeah. Thanks.”
CHAPTER
9
Monday at two p.m., he called and said, “Three able detectives canvassing thoroughly, zero information.”
Tuesday at four p.m., he texted: Don’t know if it’s too short notice but Andrea Bauer’s coming by in an hour.
I’d just completed two custody reports and Robin would be working late, finishing a “dire emergency” repair on the neck of a celebrity rocker’s red-sparkle Telecaster. Koko Moe didn’t play a note and used the instrument the way a drum majorette employs a baton. But she needed to look “hot and hyper and hot,” and a limp, decapitated instrument wouldn’t cut it.
I went to Robin’s studio, kissed her, and looked at her workbench. “Artistic fulfillment.”
“We take it where we find it, darling.”
* * *
—
At two forty-seven, I arrived at Milo’s windowless, closet-sized office on the second floor of the West L.A. station. Other detectives work in a big room downstairs, saturated with human noise and clanging locker doors.
Years ago, my friend had been shoehorned into the apparently unworkable cell by a corrupt, soon-to-retire police chief who promoted Milo to lieutenant in return for silence about “errors of judgment” that would’ve jeopardized a huge city pension.
The chief felt smug, certain he’d gotten the better end of the deal. Unaware he’d earmarked the perfect den for this particular grizzly.
Lieutenants typically operate desks but Milo had leveraged the ability to keep working cases. When administrative tasks came up, he ignored them. Ditto memos, meetings, and paperwork outside the pages of blue-bound murder books.
Two subsequent chiefs had bristled, as organization men always do when iron rules rust. But their initial resolve to change things had fizzled: The department needed every bit of good P.R. it could cadge, and Milo’s success was too blatant to mess with.
The cramped space barely accommodates his desk and chair plus one additional hard-backed seat. The visitor’s throne might as well have my name engraved on a brass escutcheon as I’m the only person who occupies it. Witnesses and persons of interests are taken to interview rooms and when the young D.’s show up, they stand in the hall and report.
For the meeting with Dr. Andrea Bauer, Milo had selected the nearest of the rooms. But as we approached the Reserved sign dangling from the doorknob, he kept going.
I said, “Change your mind?”
“She’s from Montecito,” he said. “We’re offering valet service.”
We headed down the stairs, left the station, and stood near the curb. Butler Avenue was a steady stream of unmarkeds and official vehicles entering and exiting the staff lot across the street.
I said, “Why’s she coming here?”
“She called and offered. I don’t argue with someone with the net worth of a midsized Caribbean country.”
“You researched her finances.”
“After she called, I took a superficial look at the numbers. She’s coming down for a board meeting at The Music Center, figured it would be efficient to stop by. Still haven’t been able to reach her employee, McGann. I’m hoping Bauer can direct me.”