“I was going in there to take a nap,” reported the vagrant, identified as Langdon Bottinger, fifty-two. “Knew something was wrong right away. Nice car like that, pushed up against a tree. I looked inside and knocked on the windows. But he was dead. I was in Vietnam, I know dead when I see it.”

CHAPTER

47

After dropping Alex off, Milo turned on the Mustang’s radio and dialed to KLOS. Classic rock. Van Halen doing “Jump.”

Kicky little thing, the ’Stang. Something with a little zip.

“Used to be owned by Tom Cruise’s gardener,” the multipierced girl at the alternative rental yard had told him. Night owl; she worked the midnight-to-eight shift.

“Great,” said Milo, pocketing the keys. “Maybe it’ll help on auditions.”

The girl nodded, knowingly. “You go out for character roles?”

“Nah,” said Milo, heading for the car. “Not enough character.”

He returned to John G. Broussard’s digs on Irving, sat and watched for hours. The chief’s wife emerged at 1:03 P.M., escorted to the driveway by a lady cop who held open the driver’s door of the white Caddy. Mrs. B. drove toward Wilshire and was gone.

Leaving John G. alone in the house? Milo was fairly certain Broussard wasn’t in the office; he’d phoned the chief’s headquarters, impersonated a honcho from Walt Obey’s office, was told very politely that the chief wouldn’t be in today.

No surprise, there. Yet another anti-Broussard piece had run in the morning Times. The Police Protective League griping about poor morale, dumping it all in Broussard’s lap. Commentary by some law prof, psychoanalyzing Broussard. The clear implication was that the chief’s temperament was a poor fit for modern-day policing. Whatever the hell that meant.

Add all that to the events of last night—and Craig Bosc’s report to the chief—and Broussard had to know the walls were closing in.

John G. had always been the most cautious of men. So what was he doing now? Upstairs in his bedroom closet, picking out a cool suit from a rack of dozens? It was almost as if he didn’t care.

Maybe he didn’t.

Milo kept watching the Tudor digs, stretched his legs, ready for the long haul. But five minutes later a dark green sedan—an unmarked Ford, blackwalls, pure LAPD—backed out of the driveway.

Solitary driver. A tall man, rigid at the wheel. The unmistakable outline of the chief’s noble profile.

Broussard turned south, just like his wife had. Stopped at Wilshire and sat there for a long time, with his left-turn signal blinking—what a good example—waited for the traffic to thin before swinging smoothly onto the boulevard.

Heading east. So maybe he was going to work. Toughing it out, show the bastards.

One way to find out.