“John,” he said, “I watched a portable dialysis van pull up early this morning on Muirfield. Mrs. O’s seriously not well. Old Barbara needs a machine to survive. Hubby’s initiative is being sapped.”

Broussard’s hand flew to the knot of his tie. He tugged it down farther, stared off into nowhere.

Milo said, “Obey’s owned the land for years, so even with his mortgages he can sell at a huge profit. He woulda tossed you a consolation prize, but basically you’d have been a controversial ex-chief forced out and looking around for a gig. Maybe some drugstore chain would hire you to oversee security.”

Broussard didn’t answer.

“All those years of posterior-kissing,” said Milo. “All that upright behavior.”

“What,” said Broussard, very softly, “do you want?”

Milo ignored the question. “You shrug off that twenty-year-old directive to shaft Schwinn as the reason the case got sidelined, but that’s crap. Handing Janie’s case to Lester Poulsenn was a dodge. An IA spook, like you, what the hell would Poulsenn know about a sex homicide?”

“Les worked homicide. Wilshire Division.”

“For how long?”

“Two years.”

Milo applauded silently. “A whole twenty-four months chasing gang-bang shootings, and suddenly he’s the one-man squad on a nasty 187 like Janie. His main gig was guarding Willie and Caroline in Watts because your family loved Willie.”

Broussard said, “I walked on eggshells with that . . . with Willie. The family always pushed for him. I bought my wife a spanking new Sedan de Ville and she lent it to him. An IA man’s car at the scene of a murder.”

A trace of whine had crept into the chief’s voice. Suspect’s defensiveness. The bastard’s discomfort flooded Milo with joy. He said, “What’d you tell the family when Willie disappeared?”

“That he’d burned up in the house. I wanted to put an end to it.” Broussard cocked his head to the right. Two rows over. “Far as they’re concerned, he’s here. We had a quiet family ceremony.”

“Who’s in the coffin?”

“I burned papers in my office, put the ashes in an urn and we buried it.”

“I believe you,” said Milo. “I believe you’d do that.”

“As far as I knew, Willie really was dead. Lester died in that fire and the Russian got ambushed and I knew it all had to do with Willie, so why wouldn’t Willie be dead? Then he calls me a week later, sounding half-dead, telling me he’s burnt and sick, send him money. I hung up on him. I’d had enough. I figured he’d last, what—a few months? He had a serious addiction.”

“So you made him dead.”

“He did that to himself.”