The Cossack brothers had a bad attitude. Like every other rich kid in L.A.

The sister, on the other hand, sounded anything but typical—if Schwartzman could be believed. And if Schwartzman’s suspicion about her dog was right, Sister Cossack’s quirkiness was something to worry about.

Seventeen years old made Caroline Cossack an age peer of Janie Ingalls and Melinda Waters. A rich girl with a wild side and access to the right toys might very well have attracted two street kids.

Taking black boys home. Racism aside, that spelled rebel. Someone willing to push the envelope.

Dope, a couple of party girls venturing from Hollywood into uncharted territory . . . still, it came down to nothing more than rumor, and he had nowhere to take it.

He stared at the empty party house, took in Bel Air silence, shabby grace, a lifestyle he’d never attain. Feeling out of his element, every inch the ignorant rookie.

And now he had to report back to Schwinn.

This is a whodunit. This likes to munch on your insides, then shit you out in pellets . . .

The bastard’s reproachful voice had crept into his head and camped there, obnoxious but authoritative.

While Milo’d spun his wheels, Schwinn had come up with the single useful lead on the Ingalls case: the tip that had led them straight to Janie’s father.

A source he wouldn’t identify. Not even bothering to be coy, coming right out and accusing Milo of spying for the brass.

Because he knew he was under suspicion? Maybe that’s why the other D’s seemed to shun the guy. Whatever was going on, Milo’d been shoved square in the middle of it . . . he had to push all that aside and concentrate on the job. But the job—going nowhere—made him feel inadequate.

Poor Janie. And Melinda Waters—what was the chance she was alive? What would she look like when they finally found her?

It was nearly noon and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. But he could find no reason to stop for grease. Had no appetite for anything.

CHAPTER

10

He arrived back at the station wondering if Schwinn had returned and hoping he hadn’t. Before he made it to the stairwell, the desk sergeant said, “Someone’s waiting for you,” without looking up.

“Who?”

“Go see for yourself. Interview Five.”

Something in the guy’s voice pinged Milo’s gut. “Interview Five?”

“Uh-huh.” The blue kept his head down, busy with paperwork.

An interrogation room. Someone being questioned—a suspect for Ingalls in custody so soon? Had Schwinn pulled off another solo end run?

“I wouldn’t keep them waiting,” said the sergeant, writing something down, still avoiding eye contact.

Milo peered over the counter, saw a crossword puzzle book. “Them.”

No answer.

Milo hurried down the too-bright corridor that housed the interview rooms and knocked on Five. A voice, not Schwinn’s, said, “Come in.”