CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER
37

Two days after the rescue of Felicia and Emilio Torres, Milo was called to the chief’s office for what he assumed was a pat on the back.

That morning, we’d both been at the coroner’s and I stayed with him for the short ride to Parker Center.

The forensic pathologist had been asked to conduct a psychological autopsy and wanted my professional opinion on the psychological motivation behind Ansell “Dale” Bright’s self-mutilation, hormonal manipulation, and fascination with “macabre altruism.”

I’d rattled off a bunch of jargon that seemed to make everyone happy.

As Milo pulled into the headquarters staff lot, he said, “Why don’t you come up, His Majesty would probably like to meet you.”

“Probably?”

“He has his moods.”

“Thanks anyway, I’ll catch some air.”

He went inside and I took a walk. Nothing much to see but the fall air was clean for downtown L.A. and the homeless guys I passed seemed tranquil.

Half an hour later, I was back in front of headquarters and Milo was pacing.

“Been here long, Big Guy?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Short meeting,” I said.

“Cuz Jackson’s other claimed bodies have frittered to nothing, the only thing holding Texas back from spiking the bastard is Antoine.” Pointing his finger and beetling his brows. “‘Do something, Lieutenant.’”

“Not a word about Bright?”

“‘Cross-dressing bastard got what he deserved.’”

Back to the Hollywood Hills.

Watching Wilson Good’s house after dark.

A night of nothing, followed by a day of the same. Hard to find shelter on the high, sunny street but Milo really wasn’t hoping for much.

The second night, I offered to come along.

He said, “Too much free time?”

“Something like that.”

Mr. Dot-com’s executive secretary had phoned this morning, announcing her boss’s “intention to visit his commission” in three days. Robin was working overtime to assemble the mandolin.

She said, “You’re okay with being here?”

“Can I hold your tools?”

“When you get in a certain frame of mind, everything you say sounds suggestive.”

“And the problem is…”

“Absolutely nothing.”

I parked the Seville at the southern edge of Wilson Good’s street. Close enough for a long view of the house and the electric mesh gate that caged its frontage. A couple of low-voltage spots created useless puddles of illumination. Most of the enclosure was dark.

I said, “Where’s the Red Bull?”

Milo said, “Drank coffee all day.”

We settled in for the long haul.

No need to; two minutes later, we both spotted movement behind the mesh.

The man was trapped. Slinking into a corner, he ignored Milo’s command to show himself, huddled low, trying to look small.

Milo stood out of view, hand on gun. He’d used the weapon more this week than in months previous. “Out, pal. Let’s have a look at you.”

Freeway hum.