That figured. An ex–IA man would have experience with wires.

Finished, Broussard dropped his hands and maintained eye contact. “So what is it you want to tell me?”

“I was hoping you’d have things to tell me.”

Broussard’s lips didn’t move, but a glint of amusement brightened his eyes. “You’d like some sort of confessional statement?”

“If that’s what’s on your mind,” said Milo.

“What’s on your mind, Detective?”

“I know about Willie Burns.”

“Do you?”

“The tax rolls say the place where he hid out on 156th—where your partner Poulsenn got nailed—was owned by your wife’s mother. The night Willie took Janie Ingalls to the party he was driving a borrowed car. Brand-new white Cadillac, beautifully maintained. Your wife likes those, has owned six Caddies in the last twenty years, all white. Including the one she’s driving at this very moment.”

Broussard stooped and brushed dust off Janie Ingalls’s headstone.

“Burns was family,” said Milo.

“Was?” said Broussard.

“Very much was. It went down last night. Just like you choreographed.”

Broussard straightened. “There are limits to protection. Even for family.”

“What was he, a cousin?”

“Nephew,” said the chief. “Son of my wife’s eldest brother. His siblings were all respectable. Everyone in the family went to college or learned a trade. Willie was the youngest. Something went wrong.”

“Sometimes it works out that way,” said Milo.

“Now you’re sounding like that shrink friend of yours.”

“It rubs off.”

“Does it?” said Broussard.

“Yeah. Hanging around with the right people is good for the soul. Vice versa, too. Musta been a burden, you playing by the rules, taking all that racist crap, climbing the ranks, meanwhile Willie’s going on his merry way shooting and selling smack. Lots of potential for bad PR. But you did your best to help him, anyway. That’s why he never served much jail time. You hooked him up with Boris Nemerov, probably went his cash bonds. And at first he came through for Nemerov, kept you looking good.”

Broussard remained impassive.

Milo said, “Musta been a strain, associating with a known felon.”

“I never broke the law.”

Milo’s turn to keep quiet.

Broussard said, “There’s always flexibility in the law, Detective. Yes, I carried him. My wife adored him—remembered him as a cute little kid. To the family he was still the cute little kid. I was the only one seemed to realize he’d metamorphosed into a reprobate junkie. Maybe I should’ve seen it, sooner. Or let him deal with the consequences, earlier.”

The chief’s posture relaxed a bit. Bastard was actually slumping.

Milo said, “Then Willie got himself in a whole new level of trouble. Witnessed a very nasty 187 and got paranoid and told you they were going to pin it on him.”