What I couldn’t see was him driving down to L.A., stealing Rick’s Porsche, and returning the car with the original Ingalls file on the front seat. The GTA combined with the HIV detective rumor and that weird encounter with the man who called himself Paris Bartlett had Big Blue written all over it.

Someone in the department. Or once associated with the department. Maybe even the cop buddy I’d hypothesized, stepping in once the wheels had begun to turn.

Theories . . .

Bert had just called to let me know he was leaving town. A few days ago, he’d mentioned nothing about travel plans.

Escaping because of my visit? Bert and I weren’t everyday acquaintances, there’d be no reason for him to notify me of his itinerary. Unless he was trying to distance himself from the fallout.

Or call me off.

By the time I made it to the bridle path that leads to my property, my head ached with conjecture. I pulled up in front of my house . . . our house. The damn thing looked cold, white . . . foreign. I sat in the Seville with the engine running. Turned the car around and drove back toward the Glen.

You could go home again, but what was the point?

My nerves were exposed wire sizzling with impulse. Maybe a long, pretty drive would help cool them down.

Alone.

Milo was right about that.

CHAPTER

34

Milo drove out of Beverly Hills, mulling over the interview with Nicholas Hansen.

The guy was pathetic, a momma’s boy and a drunk, no big challenge browbeating him into spilling. But would Hansen change his story once he had time to stew, maybe call an attorney? Even if he did hold fast, his tale amounted to third-party hearsay.

Still Milo knew what he had to do: Go home, transcribe his notes of the interview, making sure he got all the details down, then stash the transcription with all the other good stuff he kept to himself—the floor safe in his bedroom closet.

He took Palm Drive to Santa Monica, then the diagonal shortcut to Beverly, driving like a gangster’s chauffeur—slower than usual, checking the scenery all around, scoping out the drivers sitting two, three, four car lengths behind the rented Olds. Taking a different route than usual—past La Cienega, then doubling back on Rosewood. As far as he could tell, everything clear.

One thing the Hansen interview had accomplished: Milo knew now that he couldn’t let go of Janie.

All these years he’d coped with department bullshit and propped up his self-image with secret little pep talks, the psychobabble he’d never share with anyone. You’re different. Noble. Heroic, nonstereotypic gay warrior traversing a goddamn heterosexual universe.

Rebel with a lost cause.