He drove to a bar—a straight one on Eighth Street, not far from the Ambassador Hotel. He’d passed it several times, a shabby-looking place on the ground floor of an old brick apartment building that had seen better days. The few patrons drinking this late were past their prime, too, and his entrance lowered the median age by a few decades. Mel Torme on tape loop, scary-looking toothpicked shrimp and bowls full of cracker medley decorated the cloudy bar top. Milo downed a few shots and beers, kept his head down, left, and drove north to Santa Monica Boulevard, cruising Boystown for a while but didn’t even wrestle with temptation: Tonight the male hookers looked predatory, and he realized he wanted to be with no one, not even himself. When he reached his apartment, images of Melinda Waters’s torment had returned to plague him, and he pulled down a bottle of Jim Beam from a kitchenette cupboard. Tired but wired. Removing his clothes was an ordeal, and the sight of his pitiful, white body made him close his eyes.

He lay in bed, wishing the darkness was more complete. Wishing for a brain valve that would choke off the pictures. Alcohol lullabies finally eased him, stumbling, to bed.

The next morning, he drove to a newsstand and picked up the morning’s Times and Herald-Examiner. No reporter had called him or Schwinn on the Ingalls murder, but something that ugly was sure to be covered.

But it wasn’t, not a line of print.

That made no sense. Reporters were tuned in to the police band, covered the morgue, too.

He sped to the station, checked his own box and Schwinn’s for jour-nalistic queries. Found only a single phone slip with his name at the top. Officer Del Monte from The Bel Air Patrol, no message. He dialed the number, talked to a few flat, bored voices before finally reaching Del Monte.

“Oh, yeah. You’re the one called about parties.” The guy had a crisp, clipped voice, and Milo knew he was talking to an ex–military man. Middle-aged voice. Korea, not V.N.

“That’s right. Thanks for calling back. What’ve you got?”

“Two on Friday, both times kids being jerks. The first was a sweet sixteen on Stradella, all-girls’ sleepover that some punks tried to crash. Not local boys. Black kids and Mexicans. The girls’ parents called us, and we ejected them.”

“Where were the crashers from?”

“They claimed Beverly Hills.” Del Monte laughed. “Right.”

“They give you any trouble?”

“Not up front. They made like they were leaving Bel Air—we followed them to Sunset, then hung back and watched. Idiots crossed over near UCLA, then tried to come back a few minutes later and head over to the other party.” Del Monte chuckled, again. “No luck, Pachuco. Our people were already there on a neighbor complaint. We ejected them before they even got out of the car.”