Next came Bosc’s honorable discharge from the Coast Guard; he’d been stationed at Avalon, on Catalina Island. Probably earned himself a nice golden tan while discharging his duty in scuba gear.

At the back of the album were five pages of Polaroids showing Bosc screwing a variety of women, all young and blonde and buxom, the emphasis upon close-up insertion and Bosc’s grinning face as he kneaded breasts and pinched nipples and rear-ended his companions. The girls all wore sleepy expressions. None seemed to be playing for the camera.

Stoned cuties caught unawares. All appeared to be in their early to midtwenties, with big bleached hair and out-of-fashion do’s that made Milo think small-town cocktail waitress. A few plain ones, one or two real lookers, for the most part an average-looking bunch. Not up to the level of the babes in the porno videos, but the same general type. Another indication Bosc had a limited range.

Milo searched for the hidden camera, figuring it would be focused on the bed, and found it quickly. Little pencil-lens gizmo concealed in the VCR box. Sophisticated bit of apparatus; it stood out among the general shoddiness of Bosc’s apartment and made Milo wonder. Also stashed in the box were several tightly rolled joints and half a dozen tabs of Ecstasy.

Kiss the girls and make them stoned. Naughty, naughty.

He returned to the scrapbook, flipped to the next page. Wasn’t really surprised at what he found, but still, the confirmation was unsettling and sweat gushed from every pore.

Certificate of Bosc’s graduation from the L.A. Police Academy ten years ago. Then a group shot and an individual photo of Bosc in his probationer’s uniform. Clean-cut, made-for-TV cop; that same obnoxious grin.

The subsequent paperwork recounted Bosc’s LAPD progress. A couple years of North Hollywood patrol before promotion to Detective-I and transfer to Valley Auto Theft, where he’d spent three years as an investigator and left as a D-II.

Cars. Fast-track promotion for a hot-wire cowboy. Bastard probably had a collection of master keys to every known make and model hidden somewhere. With that kind of know-how and equipment, boosting Rick’s Porsche and returning it vacuumed and wiped clean of prints would’ve been a sleepwalk for Detective Bosc.

After car-time, the guy had been moved downtown to Parker Center Records, then Administration.

Then a year with Internal Affairs.

Finally: a kick up to D-III and his current assignment.

Administrative Staff at Chief Broussard’s office.

The bastard was an executive aide to John G.

Milo disconnected the pencil camera, brought it and the homemade pornos and the dope back to the living room. Bosc was still working on maintaining his mellow but Milo’s footsteps opened his eyes and when he saw what Milo was showing him, he flinched.

Then he recovered. Smiled. “Gee, you must be a detective.”

Milo held an E-tab under Bosc’s nose. “Bad boy, Craig.”