“Not paranoia,” said Broussard. “Reasonable apprehensiveness.” He gave a cold smile. “Black junkie with a felony record versus rich white boys? No one intended to bring Willie to trial. The plan was to float rumors, plant evidence, have Willie OD somewhere, call in an anonymous tip, and close the case.”

“So Willie skipped on Boris, but you paid Boris off. Then you got Poulsenn assigned to the case, to cover it and control it and meanwhile he could guard Willie and his girlfriend.”

“That was temporary. We were regrouping, assessing contingencies.”

“None of which included going after the real killers,” said Milo, surprised at the fury in his own voice. “Maybe Schwinn and I wouldn’t have solved it. On the other hand, maybe we would’ve pulled it off. We’ll never know, will we? ’Cause you stepped in and sabotaged the whole goddamned thing. And don’t tell me that was just because of Willie. Someone put the fix in for those rich kids. Someone you had to listen to.”

Broussard swiveled and faced him. “You’ve got it all figured out.”

“I don’t. That’s why I’m here. Who was the fixer? Walt Obey? Janie was pimped by that piece of shit who called himself her father and used by two generations of rich scrotes, and who’s richer than old Walt? Is that what doomed the investigation, John? Kindly, churchgoing Uncle Walt worried about having his nasty habits aired?”

Broussard’s ebony face remained still. He stared past Milo. Let out a low, grumbling laugh.

“Happy to entertain, John,” said Milo. His hands were shaking, and he rolled them into fists.

“I’m going to educate you, Detective, about matters you don’t understand. I’ve spent a lot of time in the company of rich folk, and it’s true what they say. The rich are different. Life’s little bumps get smoothed out for them, no one has the temerity to deny them anything. More often than not, their kids become monsters. Malignant entitlement. But there are exceptions, and Mr. Obey’s one of them. He’s exactly what he claims to be: religious, straightforward, ethical, good father, faithful husband. Mr. Obey grew rich through hard work and vision and luck—he’d be the first to emphasize the luck component, because he’s also a humble man. So understand this: He had nothing to do with any cover-up. You mention the name Janie Ingalls, and he’ll stare at you blankly.”

“Maybe I’ll try that,” said Milo.

Broussard’s jaw set. “Stay away from that gentleman.”

“Is that an official order, Chief?”

“It’s sound advice, Detective.”

“Then who?” said Milo. “Who the hell fixed it?”

Broussard ran a finger under his collar. Full sun had brought the sweat out on his brow, and his skin glistened like a desert highway.