Nod; his hair scraped the table. “Twan didn’t trust him. Twan was smarter than us. But that day…”

His eyes clenched. “Oh, God, this is so…” He flung one hand over his cheek.

Milo touched his shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing.”

Maisonette sat up, stared at something miles away. Sunken cheeks vibrated. His eyes were red and wet. “Twan went in there ’cause we said it was cool. Zint paid us fifty bucks to convince Twan it was cool. Will didn’t want to admit what happened to him, same with me. We told Twan it was cool to go in there and he did and we never saw him again and now nobody’s going to forgive me.”

Howard Zint, diabetic, tubercular, HIV-positive, made the deal from a prison infirmary bed.

Two extra candy bars a month and no additional sentence.

He told the tale concisely, with no emotion.

Antoine Beverly had resisted Zint’s overtures, tried to escape the van. Zint hit him in the face and Antoine’s head snapped back, colliding against the edge of a miniature slot machine Zint had just purchased.

Zint drove to the undeveloped wilderness north of the La Cienega oil fields and buried the boy on a dune, somewhere on the eastern edge of what was now the Kenneth Hahn Recreational Area.

Sixteen years later, he drew a map.

Development had resected the land in some places, augmented others. It took a while to find the spot.

Bones.

The autopsy revealed no serious head injury but did highlight multiple cut-marks on Antoine’s ribs.

Ever the con, Zint had reached for one more guilt-minimizing lie.

There was talk about negating the agreement and putting him on trial for murder.

Sharna and Gordon Beverly said, “Just give us Antoine and leave us alone.”

The funeral was held on a beautiful autumn morning. Over two hundred friends, relatives, and well-wishers, the predictable sprinkle of politicians, journalists, and “community activists” trawling for photo ops.

Bradley Maisonette was nowhere to be found and neither was Wilson Good. Good and Andrea had been staying at a motel in Tarzana, picked up their dog the day before we’d found Maisonette, left town for parts unknown.

Milo said, “Hopefully someplace without a pier.”

After the ceremony, we queued up to pay our respects.

Gordon Beverly clasped our hands, moved forward as if to embrace us, stopped himself.

Sharna Beverly pushed aside her veil. Her face was carved mahogany, her eyes clear and dry.

“You did it, Lieutenant.”

Taking Milo’s face in both hands, she kissed each cheek. Lowered the veil.

Turned away and waited for the next person in line.

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER
39

Robin pulled an all-nighter and had the mandolin bound and varnished six hours before her patron was due to arrive.

She wrapped it in green velvet, carried it to the dining room table.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

“He just called, definitely sounded off.”