“Except there were no samples,” said Milo. “Everything had been destroyed. Schwinn would’ve loved hearing that.”

“He was irrational, tried to charge Craig on horseback, but the horse wouldn’t cooperate. Craig did his best to calm Schwinn down, but Schwinn started to dismount and suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he began salivating and convulsing. The horse must’ve panicked and lost its footing. It tumbled into the gully, Schwinn had one foot caught in the stirrup, got dragged, his head collided with a rock. Craig ran to help him, but it was too late.”

“So Craig left the scene.”

Broussard didn’t answer.

“Terrific story,” said Milo. “Forget building cities, John. Write a screenplay.”

“Maybe I will,” said Broussard. “One day, when it’s no longer raw.”

“When what isn’t?”

“The pain. None of this has been easy for me.”

Broussard’s left cheek ticked. He sighed. Injured nobility.

Milo hit him.

CHAPTER

48

The blow connected square with the chief’s nose and knocked him flat on his rear.

Broussard sat in the dust fronting Janie’s grave, blood streaming from his nostrils, striping his Italian shirt, the beautiful golden tie, crimson deepening to rust as it met the pinstripe of his custom-made lapel.

He said, “It’s good I already have a broad nose.”

Smiling. Taking hold of the silk foulard in his breast pocket and wiping away the blood.

Making no attempt to get to his feet.

“You’re immature, Detective. That’s your problem, always has been. Reducing everything to black-and-white, the way a child does. Maybe it’s tied in with your other problem. Generally arrested development.”

“Maturity’s highly overrated,” said Milo. “Mature people act like you.”

“I survive,” said Broussard. “My grandfather never learned to read. My father went to college, then to music school, learned classical trombone but couldn’t get a job so he worked his whole life as a porter at the Ambassador Hotel. Your problem can be concealed. You were born with unlimited opportunities, so spare me the pious lectures about morality. And don’t even think about hitting me again. If you raise your hand to me, I’ll shoot you and make up a plausible story to justify it.”

He patted his left hip, revealed the bulge under the pinstripe. Just a few subtle inches afforded by great tailoring.

“You could shoot me, anyway,” said Milo. “Sometime when I’m not expecting it.”

“I could, but I won’t,” said Broussard. “Unless you make it necessary.” He pressed silk to his nose. Blood continued to flow. “If you act reasonably, I won’t even send you the cleaning bill.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you’ve gotten it all out of your system and are prepared to return to work under new circumstances.”

“Such as?”

“We forget about this, you’re promoted to lieutenant. Assigned to a division of your choosing.”

“Why would I want to push paper?” said Milo.