“No, you guys. It happened near Venice and Highland. But that’s not what I want to tell you. The body had just gone to the morgue, and I came back to chart and the cops who brought the guy in were in the cubicle next door and I heard them talking. Going on about their pensions, sick leave, department benefits. Then one said something about a detective in West L.A. division who’d tested HIV-positive and put in for retirement. The other cop said, ‘Guess, what goes ‘round comes round.’ Then they both laughed. Not a joyful laugh. A mean laugh.”

Rick picked up a chopstick and seesawed it between two fingers. Looked into Milo’s eyes. Touched Milo’s hand.

Milo said, “I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“Didn’t assume you had, or you’d have told me.”

Milo withdrew his hand, stood, and got himself a beer.

Rick stayed at the table, continued to play with the chopstick. Tilting it deftly, precisely. A surgeon’s grace.

Milo said, “It’s bullshit. I’da heard.”

“I just thought it was something you’d want to know.”

“Highland and Venice. What the hell would Wilshire Division know about West L.A.? What the hell would blues know about D’s?”

“Probably nothing . . . Big guy, is there something I should know? Some tight spot you’ve gotten yourself into?”

“Why? What does this have to do with me?” Milo didn’t like the defensiveness in his own voice. Thinking: the goddamn department rumor mill. Then thinking: Health Facilitator. You never know . . .

Rick said, “Okay,” and started to get up.

Milo said, “Wait,” and came around and stood behind Rick and put his hands on Rick’s shoulders. And told him the rest of it.

CHAPTER

22

I got on the computer, typed in “Paris Bartlett” as a keyphrase on several search engines, and came up with nothing.

Next, I tried “Playa del Sol” and its English translation: Sun Beach, and connected to hundreds of resort links all over the world. Costa del Sol. Costa del Amor. Playa Negra. Playa Blanca. Playa Azul. Sun City. Sunrise Beach. Excursion packages, time shares, white sand, blue water, adults only, bring the kids. Also, a guy who’d devoted an obsessive site to the old song “Cuando Caliente El Sol.” The joys of the information age . . .

I stuck with it for hours, felt my eyes crossing and broke for a midnight sandwich, a beer, and a shower before returning to the screen. By 2 A.M., I was fighting sleep and nearly missed the article in a three-year-old issue of The Resort Journal elicited by yet another try at Playa del Sol. This time, I’d logged on to a pay service—a business-oriented data bank that I hadn’t used since last fall, when I’d considered selling a lot of municipal bonds. I clicked my assent to pony up by credit card and continued.