"Close the damn case is what's expected of you, but do it with discretion. What does that mean? Fine, I'll tell you: Do not go public on anything prior to my approval. No unnecessary ruffling of feathers, no loose talk about Windsor Prep being a den of iniquity, no stomping into the place like a storm trooper, no intimidation of administration, faculty, students, janitors, the squirrels that scurry up their damn trees, the birds that fly in their damn airspace."

"What about the three teachers Freeman named?"

"They will be made available to you. Have you checked out Freeman's boyfriend yet, the Italian guy?"

"All I've done so far is visit the scene and read the file, sir. What there is of it."

"What there is of it is enough for you to start on. Begin with the boyfriend. Who kills women? Men they're involved with. The Italian turns up absolutely clean, you'll have access to the teachers. Don't pester me until then. And no emails about the case to me or anyone else, the same goes for recording phone calls. The sole chronicle will be the murder book, you will chart strictly in accordance with the regs. That means no speculating in print. Or verbally to any civilian or any member of the department other than me. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Furthermore, when you are not writing or consulting said murder book, you will keep it locked in your desk. The same goes for your daily notes and your message slips. Even your damn Post-its will be locked up. And don't photocopy anything until I've reviewed the material." Spearing a shrimp. "Other than that, it's business as usual."

"What about Dr. Delaware?"

"Now that you've made him a fait accompli, I might as well take advantage of him. I'm sure there'll be no problem because he knows that indiscreet psychologists get bitten hard by the medical board."

Tipping the brim of his suede cap, he winked. "Not that it would ever come to that, Doctor."

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER
5

We left the chief mulling flan versus flourless chocolate cake.

As the unmarked idled, Milo found Sal Fidella's cell number in his pad and called.

"Helpful fellow, ready to meet us right now, onward to Sherman Oaks." He looked up the address in his Thomas Guide. "Hmm... this says it's Van Nuys. Maybe Ol' Sal's a little pretentious. Be nice if he turns out to be a degenerate psychopath and lies about everything?"

I said, "Be nicer if the chief's kid had a low IQ."

The house was a Spanish one-story on Burdette Court just north of Burbank Boulevard, turned mangy by flaking gray spray-coat.

A brown seventies Corvette occupied the driveway. The neighborhood ranged from spotless cottages sporting pride-of-ownership gardens to dumps with paved-over frontage hosting trailers and junkers.