The date was January 5. Fourteen days after Caroline Cossack had checked out of—or had been taken from—Achievement House.

I did an instant photocopy on the machine, then read the text.

(AP) Los Angeles police are investigating the shooting death of one of their own, in what appears to be a homicide and attempted cover-up by arson. The body of Lester Louis Poulsenn, formerly a detective with the department’s Internal Affairs Unit and recently appointed to the Metro Major Crimes Unit, was found inside a burning house in Watts. Poulsenn, 39, a thirteen-year LAPD veteran, was discovered by firefighters dispatched to put out a blaze at the private residence on West 156th Street. A police spokesman said Poulsenn had been shot twice in the head in what appeared to be an execution-style killing.

“This is a rough neighborhood, with lots of gang activity,” said the source, who neither confirmed nor denied reports that Poul-senn had been in Watts on official business. The structure, a single-family dwelling that had been vacant for some time, was described as a total loss.

I kept spooling, in search of a follow-up. Nothing.

Which was crazy; nothing mobilizes a police department faster than a cop’s murder. Yet local press coverage of Poulsenn’s death had been suppressed, and no further official statements had been issued.

Recently transferred to Metro. Translation: Poulsenn had taken over the Ingalls case?

Twenty years ago, a pair of IA men had interrogated Milo. One had merited success, the other was dead seven months later.

A white man shot to death in a black neighborhood, just like Boris Nemerov. Dispatched execution-style, just like Boris Nemerov.

Arson cover-up. Milo had wondered out loud about fire. Beleaguered or not, he had perfect pitch.

I called him, got no answer at any of his numbers, thought about what to do.

Nice mild morning. Time to wash the car.

Two hours later, the Seville was as shiny as a ‘79 Seville could be, and I was hurtling over the Glen to the Valley. Mere cleanliness hadn’t satisfied me. I’d waxed and hand-buffed the chesterfield green paint, added detail spray, scrubbed the tires, the hubcaps, the beige vinyl top and matching upholstery, wiped down those crafty little simulated wood insets, vacuumed and shampooed the rugs. I bought the car fifteen years ago from the proverbial little old lady (a heavy-footed retired schoolteacher from Burbank, not Pasadena) and had pampered it since. Still, 105,000 miles had taken its toll, and one day I’d be forced to decide between an engine rebuild or something new.

No decision at all. No more changes of heart.