The truth was Milo hadn’t come up with a clear idea of what to do with the idiot. But that was no reason to allay Bosc’s fears.

In a creepy, regretful voice, he said, “There’s really no choice, Craig.”

“Jesus,” said Bosc. “We’re both on the same team—look: We’re both . . . outsiders.”

“That so?”

“You know what I mean, man. You’re on the outside because . . . you know. And I don’t judge you for that, live and let live. Even when other guys put you down, I stood up for you. Said, look at the dude’s solve rate, who the fuck cares what he does when he’s—I kept telling them it’s the job that counts. And you do your job, man. I respect that. There’s been talk of promoting you, you’ve got a future, man, so don’t blow it, no way you can get away with this. Why would you want to get involved in shit like this?”

“You’ve involved me,” said Milo.

“Come on, what did I really do? Followed a few orders and played some head games? Okay, it was wrong, sucked, granted, sorry, but no big deal, it was all just to—even that whole HIV rumor shit, man. And that wasn’t my idea. I was against that. But all of it was just to—you know.”

“To get me focused.”

“Exact—”

“Well, I’m nice and focused, now, Craig. Get up.” Milo backed up the command with a wave of the 9mm. Wondering what he’d do if Bosc complied because walking the guy outside to the rental car, even that short distance, would be risky in full daylight. Even in L.A., where a block was likely to be as devoid of people as one of Schwinn’s nature photos.

“Please,” said Bosc. “Don’t do this, we’re both—”

“Outsiders, yeah, yeah. How are you an outsider, Craig?”

“I’m artistic. Into different stuff than the typical morons in the department.”

“Cinematography?” said Milo.

“Drama—acting. I was in a rock video a few years back. The Zombie Nannies. Played a highway patrol chippie. Before that, I did a nonunion commercial for the transit authority. And art—paintings. I like art, man. Your typical department moron is into riding Harleys and pumping iron and drinking beer, I’m hitting the museums. I dig classical music—went to Austria couple of summers ago, to the Salzburg festival. Mozart, Beethoven, all that good stuff. You see what I’m trying to say? It’s because I understand the art community that I get where you’re coming from.”

“I’m an artist.”

“In a sense you are. Without the people in your community, art would go dead. It would be a fucked world, man—come on, don’t do this. This is stupid, we’re both worthwhile, we both have lots to live for.”

“Do we?”