He shook his head. “Stupid kids. Two of them thought they had the world in their sweet little hands, and the world upped and bit ’em.”

Back at the station, Schwinn collected his things from his desk and walked off without a word to Milo. Not even bothering to sign out. No one noticed: None of the detectives paid much attention to Schwinn, period.

An outcast, Milo realized. Did they stick me with him by coincidence?

Pushing all that aside, he played phone poker until well after dark. Contacting every police entity west of Hollywood Division in search of 415 party calls. Throwing in rent-a-cop outfits, too: The Bel Air Patrol, and other private firms that covered Beverlywood, Cheviot Hills, Pacific Palisades. The privates turned out to be the worst to deal with—no one was willing to talk without supervisory clearance and Milo had to leave his name and badge number, wait for callbacks that probably wouldn’t happen.

He kept going, casting his net to Santa Monica and beyond, even including the southern edge of Ventura County, because Melinda Waters had once hitched PCH to Oxnard to see her father. And kids flocked to the beach for parties—he’d spent many a sleepless night driving up and down the coast highway, spotting bonfires that sparked the tide, the faint silhouettes of couples. Wondering what it would be like to have someone.

Four hours of work resulted in two measly hits—either L.A. had turned sleepy, or no one was complaining about noise anymore.

Two big zeros: An eye surgeon’s fiftieth birthday party on Roxbury Drive in Beverly Hills had evoked a Friday midnight complaint from a cranky neighbor.

“Kids? No, don’t think so,” laughed the BH desk officer. “We’re talking black tie, all that good stuff. Lester Lanin’s orchestra playing swing and still someone bitched. There’s always some killjoy, right?”

The second call was a Santa Monica item: A bar mitzvah on Fifth Street north of Montana had been closed down just after 2 A.M., after rambunctious thirteen-year-olds began setting off firecrackers.

Milo put the phone down and stretched. His ears burned and his neck felt like dry ice. Schwinn’s voice was an obnoxious mantra in his head as he left the station just before 1 A.M.

Told you so, asshole. Told you so, asshole.