Milo said, “So you’re wrapping up.”
“As if. Now I’ve got to go through a huge load of washing machines, dishwashers, and fridges bound for Dubai, record serial numbers, then escort it to the plane.”
Milo said, “I’m here to rescue you.”
Freeman said, “Man, I’d love to be rescued but my captain’s here.” He lowered his voice. “Involved.”
Milo said, “One jacked truck brings out the brass?”
“The flight supervisor is my captain’s sister.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, indeed,” said Freeman. “I get free, you’ll be the first to know.”
* * *
—
Next step, conferencing with the regulars. He told Binchy to replace Alicia Bogomil downtown, ordered her to alternate with Reed on the Westside drive-bys. It seemed a needless bit of shuffling. Then I got it.
Everyone said, “Yes, sir.”
When he hung up, I said, “Despite what John said, a Westside bust is more likely and you want to keep Sean out of it.”
He shot a long look my way. “All of a sudden you analyze human behavior? Oh, yeah, that’s your gig. Am I wrong? Sean hasn’t been himself since the balcony.”
“You’re not but once this is over I’ll talk to him.”
“Thanks—it’s pushing six, let’s get some grub.”
* * *
—
We walked north on Butler into the din and haze of Santa Monica Boulevard at rush hour.
I said, “Here’s more analysis. You haven’t told me to go home because you think it’ll get psychological.”
“It already is,” he said. “The whole thing is out there. I can’t tell you how much three a.m. time I’ve spent thinking about the limo and trying to get it.” Big grin. “Now you’re gonna tell me there’s no explanation.”
“Congratulations. You have now added oracle to your résumé. Where are we eating?”
“Indian okay?”
“Always.”
* * *
—
Given Milo’s appetite and, more important, his Diamond Jim tipping, he gets warm welcomes at every tavern and restaurant we enter. The Indian storefront around the corner from the station kicks it up to adulation.
Over the years, he’s handled a few disruptive customers and street people, convincing the bespectacled, sari-draped woman who owns the place that he’s invincible.
This evening, the place was humming, mostly with uniforms and plainclothes cops. She grants Milo credit for that, as well. There’s some truth to it; he’s left brochures in the big detective room and has been known to talk the place up.
The table he likes—at the rear, facing the street—was unoccupied and topped by a Reserved place marker though he’d made no reservation. The woman beamed like someone spotting a long-lost relative at an airport arrival gate.
Heads turned as she hugged us—me, briefly, Milo, longer.
Heads rotated back to nutrition when Milo shot the room a George Patton scowl.
Before our butts hit the chairs, the woman was pouring us spiced iced tea and leaving the pitcher on the table. A jog to the kitchen and back produced naan bread, crisp chili-laced wheat crackers and dip bowls of chutney, hot pepper sauce, and cilantro with garlic.
As Milo tucked a napkin under his chin, she said, “There’s lobster and lamb, both are extremely fresh.”
“Can’t refuse that—you?”
I said, “The same.”
“Excellent! I bring a platter.”
She brought creamed spinach with homemade paneer cheese first. And butter chicken. And three varieties of kebab.
Four types of lentil.
As the table filled, Milo’s eyebrows climbed.
“Appetizers, Captain.”
“Lieutenant.”
“You will be captain one day. Then general.”
When she left, he said, “She doesn’t realize she just hexed me.”
We began eating.
Six minutes later, with lobster and lamb yet to arrive, Moe Reed phoned.
“They’re on the move, L.T.! Left the house in the Rolls, drove to Sunset, and are heading east. I’m two lengths behind.”
Milo ripped off the napkin. “Damn, both Alicia and Sean are in transit. Any idea how close they are?”
“I called them first, they’re both in traffic. Alicia’s at Beverly and Western, Sean’s on Santa Monica near La Brea. Waze says at least twenty for both of them. I figured they should both hold till we know if the Kiersteads are going downtown or stopping somewhere else.”
“Good thinking, Moses. For the time being, have them pull over and stay ready. Tailing the Rolls any problem? Not the tac band, I don’t trust it, let’s keep it cellular, everyone on conference.”
“Got it, L.T. Finally something happens.”
* * *
—
We stood and put cash on the table. Milo scooped up my contribution and stashed it in the breast pocket of my jacket. His payment was three times the cost of a lavish feast.
The woman emerged with a family-sized bowl of salad. “No! Lobster is almost ready!”
“Emergency, sorry.”
“I will pack it up for you.”
“Thanks, but no time.” He eyed one of the plainclothes cops. “Bill, just got a Code Two, would you mind taking whatever she gives you and putting it in the big fridge?”
Bill said, “Sure, but I might kype some.”
The woman said, “No need, sir, I’ll put in extra for you. For assisting him.” She scurried off.
Bill said, “You some sort of god? Maybe the one with the elephant head?”
“Blasphemy,” said Milo as we rushed out. He paused at the door. “The name is Ganesha.”
CHAPTER
49
We took Milo’s Impala. Just as he turned east on Santa Monica, Reed phoned in again.
“I was wondering if they’d go north on Benedict but they just passed the Beverly Hills Hotel. She’s driving, he’s kicking back and smoking what looks like a doobie—okay, they’re turning south onto Beverly Drive…now we’re at that insane intersection where all those streets come together…”