'Stay back, Alex,' he said, and jabbed the revolver into the man's kidneys.
'Alex?' the man giggled. 'How cosy. He's one, too?'
'Move it,' barked Milo. With one hand on the scruff of the man's neck and the other on his weapon, he prodded his prisoner down the hill. I followed several paces behind.
Two cars were parked on the turnaround: Milo's unmarked bronze Matador and the grey RX-7 I'd seen at the Chancellor house. Milo's eyes searched the area, then settled on a eucalyptus. Keeping the.38 pressed into the bearded man's sacrum, he pushed him against the trunk of the tree, face forward, and kicked the insides of his feet until they spread. Then he undid the cuffs and slammed one of the man's arms around the tree.
'Hug it,' he ordered.
The man embraced the eucalyptus, and Milo cuffed him again and slipped his hand inside a pocket of the man's jeans.
'Ooh, feels heavenly.' The man laughed.
Having taken out a set of car keys, Milo walked to the RX-7 and unlocked the driver's door.
'Illegal search,' hollered the man.
'File a complaint,' said Milo, squeezing his big body inside the sports car. After several minutes of rummaging, he exited empty-handed and walked around to the rear. After opening the hatchback, he lifted the storage deck and pulled out a hard-shell case. He put it on the ground and unlatched it.
Inside was a disassembled Uzi.
'A regular arsenal, Ernie. Concealing this is going to get you in deep shit.'
'Fuck you. It's in Mr. Chancellor's name. He got it okayed by the muckamucks.'
'Chancellor was a gun freak?'
'No, asshole. He wanted first-class protection.'
'Which you really gave him.'
'Go butt-fuck yourself, Fruitfly.'
Milo smiled tightly.
'If I were you, I'd worry about my own anal sphincter, Ernie. You'll be spending tonight behind bars, and we both know how former gendarmes do in lockup.'
The man clamped his jaws shut. His eyes were wild.
Milo took the weapons and locked them in the trunk of the Matador. Then he got into the front seat and called for backup.
The man started growling. He looked at me and laughed.
'You're a witness, Alex. I just came here to talk to you and Fruitfly sucker-punched me.'
Milo came out of the car and told him to shut up. The man responded with a stream of invective. I tried to talk to my friend.
'Milo-'
He held up his hand to silence me, took out a notebook, and started writing. A moment later a black-and-white with its lights flashing roared up the hill and came to a sudden stop. A second squad car followed seconds later. Two patrolmen jumped out of the first car, one out of the second. All three had their hands on their holsters. Milo waved them over and gave them instructions. As he talked, they looked at the man cuffed to the tree and nodded. The man started swearing. One of the cops went over and stood by him.
The prisoner started to laugh and taunt his guard, who remained impassive.
The conference broke up. A second patrolman joined the one guarding the bearded man. Together they unlocked the cuffs, freed his arms, drew them behind his back, recuffed him, and pushed him down into the rear of the Matador. One of them got in next to him. Milo waited until they'd settled, then slid across the front seat. The remaining
officer walked toward me. He was young and dark and had a strong cleft chin. His badge said DesJardins.
'I'd like to take your statement, sir.'
'There's not much to tell.'
'Whatever, sir.'
I told him the little that I knew and asked him what was going on.
'A little disturbance, sir.'
He turned to leave.
'Who's the guy with the beard?' I asked.
'A bad guy,' he said, and walked away.
Milo got out of the Matador. The uniforms removed the bearded man from the car and transferred him to one of the black-and-whites. One cop got in the back with him; the other took the wheel. Milo gave Desjardins the weapons he'd confiscated, and the young officer put them in the trunk of his black-and-white, closed it, and got into the driver's seat. Both drivers started up their engines and drove off.
The road was suddenly silent. Milo leaned against the Matador, let out a deep breath, and ran his hands over his face.
'What the hell was that all about?' I asked.
'His name's Erno Radovic, and he's a first-class psycho.'
'Chancellor's bodyguard?'
'Yeah?' he said, surprised.
'Horace Souza mentioned his name. Said he was unstable.'
'That's an understatement. He followed you home from Chancellor's place. I saw him and tagged along.'
'You were there? I didn't see you.'
'I was parked around the corner. Radovic's still a suspect, and I've been keeping my eye on him.'
'When you were calling in, he said he came here to talk to me. What did he want?'
'For what it's worth he claims to be investigating Chancellor's murder on his own and wants to pump you for information about the kid.'
'He's got to know I wouldn't talk to him.'
'Alex, with this guy, logic doesn't enter into it. I've known him for a long time. He used to be a cop; we were in the same class at the academy. Even as a cadet he was a John Wayne crazy, used his gun as a dick. Once he got out on the streets, he was a disaster waiting to happen - five fatal shootings in seven years, a whole bunch more borderline assaults. All blacks. They put him in Vice, and he roughed up hookers. Gave him a desk job, and he alienated the brass. No one wanted him, so he was transferred from division to division. West L.A. was his last stop; he spent three months there in Records, before they kicked him out on psych disability. The day he showed up he got on my case and never got off - perfumed notes in my locker addressed to Detective Tinkerbell, that kind of crap.'
'Sounds like a strange one to be working for a guy like Chancellor.'
'Not really. I always figured him as latent. Maybe he got in touch with it, and it blew his mind. That's only one of the reasons we're looking at him closely. In any event, he's dangerous. If you see him, stay away.'
'What's his supposed reason for investigating the case?'
'He says it's out of loyalty to Chancellor, that your guy, Souza, is setting up to sully the boss's name and he wants to keep the record straight. But who the hell knows? On top of being crazy the guy's a noted liar. Maybe he's covering his own ass 'cause he knows we're still interested in him, or maybe he's just floating through fantasyland, playing detective. He used to be a PI - after he was booted off the force, he wangled himself a licence - and before Chancellor took him in and made the city a safer place, he did some work for lawyers. But he didn't last at it. Too goddamned volatile, used muscle instead of manners. Did you notice how he laughed all the time?'
I nodded.
'He does it when he's pissed. Weird.' He tapped his head. 'The wiring's not right up there, Alex. You'd know more about it than I would. The main thing is keep your distance. I've filed enough paper to keep him behind bars
for a couple of days, but he'll be out eventually. So watch out.'
' I hear you.'
'I know you do - right now. But we both know you have this tendency to get obsessive and forget little things like personal safety. Okay?'
He gave me a sour look and opened the door of the Matador.
'Where are you going?' I asked.
'Back on the job,' he answered, looking away.
'Just like that, huh?'
He shrugged, got in the car, and closed the door. The window was rolled down, and I leaned in through the opening.
'Milo, what the hell is going on with you? A month goes by, and I don't hear from you. I try to reach you, and you don't return my calls. For all I know, you've crawled into some cave and rolled a rock across the opening. Now you show up, bust some maniac on my property, and play the it's-all-in-a-day's-work routine.'
'I can't talk abo
ut it.'
'Why the hell not?'
'We're working opposite sides of the Cadmus case. Just being seen with you is a no-no. If Radovic weren't such an explosive freak, I would have called for assistance and had someone else bust him.'
'Maybe so, but that doesn't explain why you were incommunicado before I got involved in the case.'
He chewed on his lip and put the keys in the ignition. Switching on the radio, he listened to it belch police calls before flicking it off.
'It's complicated,' he said.
'I've got time.'
He shot out his wrist, glanced at his Timex, then stared out the windshield.
'I really can't stay here, Alex.'
'Some other place, then. Where we won't be spotted.'
He smiled. 'Cloak and dagger, huh?'
'Whatever it takes, my friend.'
Gazing at the dashboard, he used his hands to slap a nervous drumbeat against his thighs. Several seconds passed.
'There's this place,' he said finally, 'near the airport, on Aviation. The Golden Eagle. You sit and get soused and listen to the pilots gab with the control tower. I'll be there at nine.'
My first thought was: A cocktail lounge, he's off the wagon.
'See you there,' I said.
He started up the Matador, and I held out my hand. He looked at it as if were some kind of rare specimen. Then suddenly his Adam's apple bobbed, and he reached out with both his big padded paws, squeezed my fingers hard, and let go. A minute later he was gone.
THE GOLDEN Eagle was a one-storey trapezoid of chocolate stucco on a bleak industrial stretch stacked with warehouses and chain-linked auto storage lots. The lounge squatted in the shadows of the San Diego Freeway overpass, so close to the LAX runways that the jet roar caused the glasses above the bar to quiver and tinkle like keys on a vibraphone. Despite the location, the place was jumping.
The gimmick was aural voyeurism: Cushioned headsets wired into the sides of each hexagonal table enabled the tipplers to eavesdrop on cockpit banter, and a wall of plate glass exposed a lateral view of the runway.
I got there at nine and found the place dark and smoke-filled. All the tables were taken; Milo wasn't at any of them. The bar was a pine semicircle coated with an inch of epoxy resin and padded with sausage-coloured vinyl. Smiling salesmen bellied up to it, drinking, eating nachos, and tossing lines at stewardesses on layover. Waitresses in salmon-coloured microdresses and seamed mesh stockings pardoned their way through the crowd, trays aloft. In a corner of the room was a small plywood stage. A skinny middle-aged man in a kelly green suit, open-necked lime green shirt, and stacked-heel oxblood patent oxfords sat in the middle of it, tuning an electric guitar. Nearby were a microphone and an amplifier. Atop the amplifier was a synthesised rhythm box; in front of it, a propped cardboard sign that read THE MANY MOODS OF SAMMY DALE in gilt-edged calligraphy. Sammy Dale wore a goatee and a dark toupee that had come slightly askew, and he looked as if he were in pain. He finished tuning, adjusted the rhythm box until it emitted a rumba beat, and said something unintelligible into the microphone. Eight beats later he was crooning a mock-Latin rendition of 'New York, New York' in a whispery baritone.
I retreated to a corner of the bar. The bartender looked like a moonlighting college boy. I ordered a Chivas straight up and, when he brought it, tipped him five dollars and asked him to get me a table as soon as possible.
'Thanks. Sure. We've got a couple of campers tonight, but that one over there should be clearing soon.'
'Great.'
I got the table at nine-fifteen. Milo showed up ten minutes later, wearing beige jeans, desert boots, a brown polo shirt untucked, and a bold plaid sportcoat. He scanned the room as if searching for a suspect, found me, and shambled over. A waitress followed him like a lamprey pursuing a bass.
'Sorry I'm late,' he said, sinking into the chair. A 747 was coming in for a low landing, and the plate glass was vibrating and awash with light. At the next table a black couple wearing headphones pointed up at the plane and smiled.
'Can I get you something?' asked the waitress.
He thought for a moment.
'Beefeater and tonic, easy on the tonic.'
'G and t, Beef, low t,' mumbled the waitress, scribbling. Looking at my half-empty glass, she smiled.
'Another for you, sir?'
'No, thanks.'
She hurried off and returned quickly with the drink, a cardboard coaster, and a bowl of nachos. Milo thanked her, ate a handful of chips, and fished the lime wedge from his glass. After sucking on it thoughtfully, he raised his eyebrows, ate the pulp, placed the rind in an ashtray, and swallowed half the drink.
'Radovic's in for forty-eight hours tops.'
'Thanks for the tip.'
'Anytime.'
We drank in silence. Waves of bar chatter filled the room, as impersonal as white noise. Sammy Dale, having inexplicably programmed the rhythm box to a slow waltz, was singing about doing things his way.
'Is he a serious suspect?' I asked.
'You're in the enemy camp,' he said, smiling faintly, 'and I'm not supposed to be fraternising with you, let alone handing out investigative details.'
'Forget I asked.'
'Nah,' he said, finishing his drink and calling for another. 'It's nothing Souza doesn't already know. Besides, I don't want you building up false hope about Cadmus's being innocent and chasing after Radovic, so I'll tell you: No, he's not a serious suspect; Cadmus is still our main man. But Radovic's crazy enough for us to want to keep an eye on him, at least as a co-conspirator. Okay?'
'Okay.'
He met my glance, then stared at the tabletop.
'What I can't understand,' he said, 'is how you let yourself get roped into doing a dim cap.'
'I'm not roped into anything. I'm collecting facts without obligation.'
'Oh, yeah? Word has it Souza considers you a prize witness - to the tune often grand.'
'Where'd you hear that?' I asked angrily.
'DA's office. Don't be so surprised; news travels fast on a case like this. They dragged me in the other day and pumped me for information about you, weren't a bit happy when I told them you weren't a sleaze. Not that my
say-so will stop them from trying to make you look like the ultimate whore if you take the stand.'
I told him of my intention to return the money.
'Very noble. But you won't start smelling sweet until you walk off the case.'
'I can't do that.'
'Why not?'
'Professional obligation.'
'Aw, come on, Alex, when's the last time you saw the kid? Five years ago? What do you owe him?'
'I could have done better by him five years ago. I want to be sure I do my best now.'
He leaned forward scowling. In the stingy light of the lounge his complexion seemed ghostly.
'Pretty abstract, pal. And pure crap. You never did a half-assed job in your life. Besides, no matter what he was then, he's a bad guy now, and nothing you do is gonna change that.'
'In other words, you're sure he's guilty.'
'Hell, yes,' he answered through a mouthful of ice.
The second drink arrived. As I watched him down it, I realised how worn out he looked.
'Speaking of walking off the case,' I said, 'why haven't you? Working with a couple of homophobes like White-head and Cash can't be a barrel of laughs.'
He laughed bitterly.
'Like I have a choice.'
'I thought you had flexibility in assignments.'
'That's the way it used to be, when Don Miller was in charge. But Miller died a couple of months ago.'
His face sagged, and he tried to hide it behind his glass. I knew he'd been fond of his captain, a tough but tolerant man who'd recognised his ability as a detective and hadn't let his homosexuality get in the way.
'What happened?'
'He keeled over on the twelfth hole at Rancho Park. Clogged arteries, probably had chest pains for a while but never told anyone.
' He shook his head. 'Forty-eight years old, left a wife and five kids.'
'That's terrible. I'm sorry to hear it, Milo.'
'A lot of folks were sorry The man was a prince. Damned inconsiderate of him to check out early like that. The asshole they replaced him with is a piece of garbage by the name of Cyril Trapp. Used to be the biggest booze-hound, pillhead, and whore freak in Ramparts Division. Then he found Jesus and became one of those born again scrotes who think everyone who doesn't agree with him deserves the gas chamber. He's opined in public that faggots are moral sinners, so needless to say, he adores me.'
Jonathan Kellerman - Alex 03 - Over the Edge Page 18