The Murder Book

by Jonathan Kellerman

  The Cossack brothers had a bad attitude. Like every other rich kid in L.A.

  The sister, on the other hand, sounded anything but typical— if Schwartzman could be believed. And if Schwartzman's suspicion about her dog was right, Sister Cossack's quirkiness was something to worry about.

  Seventeen years old made Caroline Cossack an age peer of Janie Ingalls and Melinda Waters. A rich girl with a wild side and access to the right toys might very well have attracted two street kids.

  Taking black boys home. Racism aside, that spelled rebel. Someone willing to push the envelope.

  Dope, a couple of party girls venturing from Hollywood into uncharted territory . . . still, it came down to nothing more than rumor, and he had nowhere to take it.

  He stared at the empty party house, took in Bel Air silence, shabby grace, a lifestyle he'd never attain. Feeling out of his element, every inch the ignorant rookie.

  And now he had to report back to Schwinn.

  This is a whodunit. This likes to munch on your insides, then shit you out in pellets . . .

  The bastard's reproachful voice had crept into his head and camped there, obnoxious but authoritative.

  While Milo'd spun his wheels, Schwinn had come up with the single useful lead on the Ingalls case: the tip that had led them straight to Janie's father.

  A source he wouldn't identify. Not even bothering to be coy, coming right out and accusing Milo of spying for the brass.

  Because he knew he was under suspicion? Maybe that's why the other D's seemed to shun the guy. Whatever was going on, Milo'd been shoved square in the middle of it . . . he had to push all that aside and concentrate on the job. But the job— going nowhere— made him feel inadequate.

  Poor Janie. And Melinda Waters— what was the chance she was alive? What would she look like when they finally found her?

  It was nearly noon and he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. But he could find no reason to stop for grease. Had no appetite for anything.

  CHAPTER 10

  He arrived back at the station wondering if Schwinn had returned and hoping he hadn't. Before he made it to the stairwell, the desk sergeant said, "Someone's waiting for you," without looking up.

  "Who?"

  "Go see for yourself. Interview Five."

  Something in the guy's voice pinged Milo's gut. "Interview Five?"

  "Uh-huh." The blue kept his head down, busy with paperwork.

  An interrogation room. Someone being questioned— a suspect for Ingalls in custody so soon? Had Schwinn pulled off another solo end run?

  "I wouldn't keep them waiting," said the sergeant, writing something down, still avoiding eye contact.

  Milo peered over the counter, saw a crossword puzzle book. "Them."

  No answer.

  Milo hurried down the too-bright corridor that housed the interview rooms and knocked on Five. A voice, not Schwinn's, said, "Come in."

  He opened the door and came face-to-face with two tall men in their thirties. Both were broad-shouldered and good-looking, in well-cut charcoal suits, starched white shirts, and blue silk ties.

  Corporate Bobbsey twins— except one guy was white— Swedish pink, actually, with a crew cut the color of cornflakes— and the other was black as the night.

  Together they nearly spanned the width of the tiny, stale room, a two-man offensive line. Black had opened the door. He had a smooth, round head topped by a razor-trimmed cap of ebony fuzz and glowing, hairless, blue-tinged skin. The clear, hard eyes of a drill instructor. His unsmiling mouth was a fissure in a tar pit.

  Pinkie hung toward the rear of the tiny room, but he was the first to speak.

  "Detective Sturgis. Have a seat." Reedy voice, Northern inflection— Wisconsin or Minnesota. He pointed to the room's solitary chair, a folding metal affair on the near side of the interrogation table, facing the one-way mirror. The mirror, not even close to subterfuge, every suspect knew he was being observed, the only question was by whom? And now Milo was wondering the same thing.

  "Detective," said the black man. Offering him the suspect chair.

  On the table was a big, ugly Satchell-Carlson reel-to-reel tape recorder, the same gray as the twins' suits. Everything color-coordinated— like some psychology experiment and guess who was the guinea pig . . .

  "What's going on?" he said, remaining in the doorway.

  "Come in and we'll tell you," said Pinkie.

  "How about a proper introduction?" said Milo. "As in who are you and what's this all about?" Surprising himself with his assertiveness.

  The suits weren't surprised. Both looked pleased, as if Milo had confirmed their expectation.

  "Please come in," said Black, putting some steel into "please." He came closer, stepped within inches of Milo's nose, and Milo caught a whiff of expensive aftershave, something with citrus in it. The guy was taller than Milo— six-four or -five— and Pinkie looked every bit as big. Size was one of the few advantages Milo figured God had given him; for the most part, he'd used it to avoid confrontation. But between these guys and the Wagnerian Dr. Schwartzman it had been a bad day for exploiting body type.

  "Detective," said Black. His face was strangely inanimate— an African war mask. And those eyes. The guy had presence; he was used to being in charge. That was curious. Since the Watts riots, there'd been some race progress in the department, but for the most part it was lip service. Blacks and Mexicans were despised by the brass, shunted to dead-end patrol jobs in the highest-crime segments of Newton, Southwest, and Central, with scant chance for advancement. But this guy— his suit looked like mohair blend, the stitching on the lapels, hand-sewn— what kind of dues had he paid and who the hell was he?

  He stepped aside and as Milo entered the room, nodded approvingly. "In terms of an introduction, I'm Detective Broussard and this is Detective Poulsenn."

  "Internal Affairs," said Poulsenn.

  Broussard smiled. "In terms of why we want you here, it would be better if you sat down."

  Milo settled on the folding chair.

  Poulsenn remained in the far corner of the interrogation room, but cramped quarters placed him close enough for Milo to count the pores in his nose. If he'd had any. Like Broussard, his complexion glowed like a poster for clean living. Broussard positioned himself to Milo's right, angled so Milo had to crane to see his lips move.

  "How do you like Central Division, Detective?"

  "I like it fine." Milo chose not to strain to meet Broussard's eyes, kept his attention on Poulsenn but stayed inert and silent.

  "Enjoying homicide work?" said Broussard.

  "Yes, sir."

  "What about homicide work do you like, specifically?"

  "Solving problems," said Milo. "Righting wrongs."

  "Righting wrongs," said Broussard, as if impressed by the originality of the response. "So homicide can be righted."

  "Not in the strict sense." This was starting to feel like one of those stupid grad school seminars. Professor Milrad taking out his frustration on hapless students.

  Poulsenn checked his fingernails. Broussard said, "Are you saying you enjoy trying to achieve justice?"

  "Exactly—"

  "Justice," said Poulsenn, "is the point of all police work."

  "Yes, it is," said Broussard. "Sometimes, though, justice gets lost in the shuffle."

  Slipping a question mark into the last few words. Milo didn't bite, and Broussard went on: "A shame when that happens, isn't it, Detective Sturgis?"

  Poulsenn inched closer. Both IA men stared down at Milo.

  He said, "I'm not getting the point of—"

  "You were in Vietnam," said Broussard.

  "Yes—"

  "You were a medic, saw lots of action."

  "Yes."

  "And before that you earned a master's degree."

  "Yes."

  "Indiana University. American literature."

  "Correct. Is there some—"

  "Your partner, Detective Schwinn, never went to
college," said Broussard. "In fact, he never finished high school, got grandfathered in back when that was acceptable. Did you know that?"

  "No—"

  "Nor did Detective Schwinn serve in any branch of the military. Too young for Korea, too old for 'Nam. Have you found that a problem?"

  "A problem?"

  "In terms of commonality. Developing rapport with Detective Schwinn."

  "No, I . . ." Milo shut his mouth.

  "You . . .?" said Broussard.

  "Nothing."

  "You were about to say something, Detective."

  "Not really."

  "Oh, yes you were," said Broussard, suddenly cheerful. Milo craned, involuntarily. Saw his purplish, bowed lips hooked up at the corners. But Broussard's mouth locked shut, no teeth. "You were definitely going to say something, Detective."

  "I . . ."

  "Let's recap, Detective, to refresh your memory. I asked you if Detective Schwinn's lack of higher education and military service had posed a problem for you in terms of rapport and you said, 'No, I . . .'. It was fairly obvious that you changed your mind about saying what you were going to say."

  "There's no problem between Detective Schwinn and myself. That's all I was going to say. We get along fine."

  "Do you?" said Poulsenn.

  "Yes."

  Broussard said, "So Detective Schwinn agrees with your point of view."

  "About what?"

  "About justice."

  "I— you'd have to ask him."

  "You've never discussed weighty issues with Detective Schwinn?"

  "No, as a matter of fact, we concentrate on our cases—"

  "You're telling us that Detective Schwinn has never verbalized any feelings about the job to you? About righting wrongs? Achieving justice? His attitude toward police work?"

  "Well," said Milo, "I can't really pinpoint—"

  Poulsenn stepped forward and pushed the RECORD button on the Satchell-Carlson. Kept going and ended up inches from Milo's left side. Now both IA men were flanking him. Boxing him in.

  Broussard said, "Are you aware of any improper behavior on the part of Detective Schwinn?"

  "No—"

  "Consider your words before you speak, Detective Sturgis. This is an official department inquiry."

  "Into Detective Schwinn's behavior or mine?"

  "Is there a reason to look into your behavior, Detective Sturgis?"

  "No, but I didn't know there was any reason to look into Detective Schwinn's behavior."

  "You didn't?" said Poulsenn. To Broussard: "His position seems to be that he's unaware."

  Broussard clicked his tongue. Switched off the recorder, pulled something out of a jacket pocket. A sheaf of papers that he waved. Milo was craning hard now, saw the front sheet, the familiar layout of a photocopied mug shot.

  Female arrestee, dead-eyed and dark-skinned. Mexican or a light-skinned black. Numbers hanging on her chest.

  Broussard peeled off the sheet, held it in front of Milo's eyes.

  Darla Washington, DOB 5-14-54, HT. 5-06 WT. 134.

  Instinctively, Milo's eyes dropped to the penal code violation: 653.2

  Loitering for the purpose of prostitution . . .

  "Have you ever met this woman?" said Broussard.

  "Never."

  "Not in the company of Detective Schwinn or anyone else?"

  "Never."

  "It wouldn't be in the company of anyone else," said Poulsenn, cheerfully.

  Nothing happened for a full minute. The IA men letting that last bit of dialogue sink in. Letting Milo know that they knew he was the least likely man in the room to engage a female hooker?

  Or was he being paranoid? This was about Schwinn, not him. Right?

  He said, "Never saw her anywhere."

  Broussard placed Darla Washington's sheet at the bottom of the stack, flashed the next page.

  LaTawna Hodgkins.

  P.C. 653.2.

  "What about this woman?"

  "Never saw her."

  This time, Broussard didn't push, just moved to the next page. The game went on for a while, a collection of bored/stoned/sad-eyed streetwalkers, all black. Donna Lee Bumpers, Royanne Chambers, Quitha Martha Masterson, DeShawna Devine Smith.

  Broussard shuffled the 653.2 deck like a Vegas pro. Poulsenn smiled and watched. Milo kept outwardly cool but his bowels were churning. Knowing exactly where this was going.

  She was the eighth card dealt.

  Different hair than last night's red extravagance— a bleached blond mushroom cloud that made her look ridiculous. But the face was the same.

  Schwinn's backseat tumble.

  Tonya Marie Stumpf. The Teutonic surname seemed incongruous, where had that come from—

  The mug shot danced in front of him for a long time, and he realized he hadn't responded to Broussard's, "And this woman?"

  Broussard said, "Detective Sturgis?"

  Milo's throat tightened and his face burned and he had trouble breathing. Like one of those anaphylactic reactions he'd seen as a medic. Perfectly healthy guys surviving firefights only to keel over from eating peanuts.

  He felt as if he'd been force-fed something toxic . . .

  "Detective Sturgis," Broussard repeated, nothing friendly in his tone.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "This woman. Have you seen her before?"

  They'd been watching the unmarked, surveilling Schwinn and him— for how long? Had they been spying the Beaudry murder site? Snooped during the entire time he and Schwinn had been riding together?

  So Schwinn's paranoia had been well justified. And yet, he'd picked up Tonya Stumpf and had her do him in the backseat, the stupid, no-impulse-control, sonofa—

  "Detective Sturgis," Broussard demanded. "We need an answer."

  A whir from the table distracted Milo. Tape reels, revolving slowly. When had the machine been switched on, again?

  Milo broke out in a full-body sweat. Recalling Schwinn's tirade in front of Bowie Ingalls's building, the sudden, vicious distrust, convinced Milo was a plant, and now. . . .

  Told you so.

  "Detective," said Broussard. "Answer the question. Now."

  "Yes," said Milo.

  "Yes, what?"

  "I've seen her."

  "Yes, you have, son," said Broussard, crouching low, exuding citrus and success.

  Son. The asshole was only a few years older than Milo, but it was clear who had the power.

  "You definitely have seen her."

  They kept him in there for another hour and a half, taping his statement then replaying it, over and over. Explaining that they wanted to make sure everything had copied accurately, but Milo knew the real reason: wanting him to hear the fear and evasiveness in his own voice in order to instill self-loathing, soften him up for whatever they had in store.

  He copped only to the basic details of Tonya's pickup— stuff they knew already— and resisted the pressure to elaborate. The room grew hot and rancid with fear as they changed the subject from Tonya to Schwinn's comportment, in general. Picking at him like gnats, wanting to hear about Schwinn's political views, racial attitudes, his opinions about law enforcement. Prodding, pushing, cajoling, threatening Milo subtly and not-so-subtly, until he felt as alive as chuck steak.

  They returned to probing sexual details. He maintained his denial of witnessing any actual sexual encounters between Schwinn and Tonya or anyone else. Which was technically correct, he'd kept his eyes on the road, had harbored no desire to rearview peep the blow job.

  When they asked about the conversation between Schwinn and Tonya, he gave them some bullshit story about not hearing because it had all been whispers.

  "Whispers," said Broussard. "You didn't think that was unusual? Detective Schwinn whispering to a known prostitute in the backseat of your department-issue vehicle?"

  "I figured it for work talk. She was an informant, and Schwinn was pressing her for info."

  Waiting for the obvious next question: "Info on what?
" But it never came.

  No questions at all about Janie Ingalls's murder or any other case he and Schwinn had worked.