Immediate transfer to the West L.A. station, some gobbledygook about manpower allocation. A typed addendum said he’d already been assigned a locker there and listed the number. The contents of his desk and his personal effects had been moved from Central.

His outstanding cases had been transferred to other detectives.

He phoned Central, tried to find out who’d caught Janie Ingalls’s murder, got a lot of runaround, finally learned that the case had left the station and gone to Metro Homicide—Parker Center’s high-profile boys.

Kicked upstairs.

Metro loved publicity, and Milo figured finally Janie would hit the news.

But she didn’t.

He phoned Metro, left half a dozen messages, wanting to give them the information he hadn’t had time to chart in the Ingalls murder book. The Cossack party, Melinda Waters’s disappearance, Dr. Schwartzman’s suspicions about Caroline Cossack.

No one returned his calls.

At West L.A., his new lieutenant was piggish and hostile, and Milo’s assignment to a partner was delayed—more department gibberish. A huge pile of stale 187s and a few new ones—idiot cases, luckily—landed on his desk. He rode alone, walked through the job like a robot, disoriented by his new surroundings. West L.A. had the lowest crime stats in the city, and he found himself missing the rhythm of the bloody streets.

He made no effort to make friends, avoided socializing after hours. Not that invitations came his way. The Westside’s D’s were even colder than his Central colleagues, and he wondered how much of it could be blamed on his pairing with Schwinn, maybe picking up a snitch jacket. Or had the rumors followed him here, too?

Fag cop. Fag snitch cop? A few weeks in, a cop named Wes Baker tried to be social—telling Milo he’d heard Milo had a master’s, it was about time someone with brains went into police work. Baker figured himself for an intellectual, played chess, lived in an apartment full of books and used big words when small ones would’ve sufficed. Milo saw him as a pretentious jerk, but allowed Baker to rope him in on double dates with his girlfriend and her stewardess pals. Then one night Baker drove by and spotted him standing on a West Hollywood street corner, waiting for the light to change. The only men out walking were seeking other men, and Baker’s silent stare told Milo plenty.

Shortly after, someone broke into Milo’s locker and left a stash of sadomasochistic gay porn.