“Because you never found him.”

“Could be, Milo. ’Cause we’re good at what we do. Maybe when it first happened we weren’t. Like I said, I was a college kid, what did I know? And Mom was all torn up, you remember how the insurance companies were jerking us around—one day we’re doing the funeral, the next day we’re fighting to stay out of bankruptcy. So maybe Burns didn’t get looked for like he should. But later I sent guys out for him, we’ve still got him on our list—look, I’ll show you.”

He got up, pushed the paneled door hard, was gone for a few moments, came back with a piece of paper that he dropped on the counter.

Wilbert Lorenzo Burns’s wanted sheet. Mug shot in full face and profile, the usual necklace of numbers. Medium-dark face, well-formed features that were soft and boyish—what would have been a pleasant face but for the hype eyes. Burns’s long hair protruded in wooly tufts, as if it had been yanked. His statistics put him at six-two, one-sixty, with knife-scars on both forearms and the back of the neck, no tattoos. Wanted for PC’s 11375, 836.6., 187. Possession with intent to sell, escape after remand or arrest, homicide.

“’I think of him from time to time,” said Georgie, between bites of wet sandwich. “Probably he is dead. He was a hype, what’s those fuckheads’ life expectancies, anyway? But you learn different, call me.”

CHAPTER

18

As we left the bail bond office, a meter reader’s go-cart pulled up behind the Seville. Milo said, “Let’s get going,” and we ran for the car. The reader got out with his little computerized instrument of evil, but I peeled away before he could punch buttons.

“Close call,” said Milo.

“Thought you had clout,” I said.

“Clout’s an ephemeral thing.”

I turned the corner, headed back to the station.

He said, “So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“Georgie’s demeanor.”

“I don’t know Georgie.”

“Even so.”

“He seemed to get edgy when you brought up Burns.”

“He did, at that. Normally, he’s even-tempered, you never hear him swear. This time he was tossing out the f-word.”

“Maybe recalling his father’s murder got him worked up.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re wondering if he did take care of Burns. But you’re unlikely to ever know.”

“Thought you were supposed to make people feel better.”

“Purification through insight,” I said, pulling up near the Westside staff parking lot and letting the Seville idle. Milo remained in place, long legs drawn up high, hands flat on the seat.

“Screw Schwinn,” he finally said.

“That would be easy,” I said. “If it was really about Schwinn.”

He glared at me. “More purification?”

“What are friends for?”

A few minutes later: “Why the murder book? If he really wanted to help, all he had to do was call and give me the facts.”