Walking back to the Seville, he said, “Something that smells of evidence, I’m starting to feel like a real-life detective, gee whiz. The question is where to take it. Can’t exactly march into the boardroom at Cossack Development and accuse the brothers of being scumbag killers.”

“Can’t confront John G. Broussard, either.”

“A working cop never mentions John G. Broussard in polite company. Did you see that piece in the paper about him this morning?”

“No.”

“The mayor approved him for a raise but the police commission has the authority and they say no way. Last few weeks, the Times has printed a few other less-than-complimentary comments about John G.’s management style.”

“Broussard’s on the way out?” I said.

“Good chance. He must’ve finally annoyed the wrong people.” As we neared the parking structure, his cell phone squawked and he slapped it to his ear. “Hello—hey, how’s it—what? When? Where are you? Okay, just stay right there—no, just stay put, I’m with Alex over at the U., we’ll be there in ten.”

He hung up and sped up to a jog. “That was Rick. Someone stole the Porsche.”

“Where?” I said, matching his pace.

“Right out of the doctors’ lot at Cedars. You know how he loves that car . . . he sounded shook up, c’mon let’s go.”

I broke speed laws and made it to the Cedars-Sinai complex in fifteen minutes. Rick was waiting at the corner of Beverly Boulevard and George Burns Avenue wearing a long white coat over blue scrubs. Except for surgeon’s fingers that never ceased flexing, he was motionless.

As I pulled to the curb, Milo bounded out of the Seville, rushed to Rick’s side, and listened as Rick talked. At a casual glance, they appeared to be two middle-aged men exhibiting no obvious physical affection but the bond between them was obvious to me and I wondered if anyone else could see it. Wondered about something else, too: Hot Dog Heaven, where Paris Bartlett had accosted Milo, was only a block away, and the fast-food stand’s picnic tables afforded a full frontal view of the hospital. Sometimes Milo dropped in at Cedars to have lunch with Rick, or just to say hi. Had he been watched, and if so, for how long?

Then I thought about the two cops gabbing in the ER cubicle. Supposedly unaware of Rick’s presence in the next booth. But maybe the chat about the HIV detective forced to retire had been for his benefit.

Throw in Bartlett’s little display, the call from LAPD Personnel, and a stolen car, and it added up to psychological warfare.

As Milo and Rick talked, I sat in the driver’s seat and looked around. All I saw was a flood of anonymous faces and cars, the usual L.A. ratio of one pedestrian to five hundred vehicles.