I watched him open the freezer compartment where the bottle of Stolichnaya sat. The vodka had been a gift from him to Robin and me, though I rarely touched anything other than Scotch or beer and Robin drank wine.

Robin . . .

I watched him fill half a glass, splash in some grapefruit juice for color. He drained the glass, poured a refill, returned to the dining room table.

“That’s it,” he said.

I said, “A black detective named Broussard. As in . . .”

“Yup.”

“Ah.”

Tossing back the second vodka, he returned to the kitchen, fixed a third glass, more booze, no juice. I thought of saying something—sometimes he wants me to play that role. Remembered how much Chivas I’d downed since Robin’s departure and held my tongue.

This time when he returned, he sat down heavily, wrapped thick hands around the glass, and swirled, creating a tiny vodka whirlpool.

“John G. Broussard,” I said.

“None other.”

“The way he and the other guy leaned on you. Sounds Kafkaesque.”

He smiled. “Today I woke up as a cockroach? Yeah, good old John G. had a knack for that kind of thing from way back. Served the lad well, hasn’t it?”

John Gerald Broussard had been L.A.’s chief of police for a little over two years. Handpicked by the outgoing mayor, in what many claimed was an obvious pander aimed at neutralizing critics of LAPD’s racial problems, Broussard had a military bearing and a staggeringly imperi-ous personality. The City Council distrusted him, and most of his own officers—even black cops—despised him because of his headhunter background. Broussard’s open disdain for anyone who questioned his decisions, his apparent disinterest in the details of street policing, and his obsession with interdepartmental discipline helped complete the picture. Broussard seemed to revel in his lack of popularity. At his swearing-in ceremony, decked out as usual in full dress uniform and a chestful of ribbon candy, the new chief laid out his number one priority: zero tolerance for any infractions by police officers. The following day, Broussard dissolved a beloved system of community-police liaison outposts in high-crime neighborhoods, claiming they did nothing to reduce felonies and that excessive fraternization with citizens “deprofessionalized” the department.

“Spotless John Broussard,” I said. “And maybe he helped bury the Ingalls case. Any idea why?”

He didn’t answer, drank some more, glanced again at the murder book.

“Looks like it was really sent to you,” I said.

Still no reply. I let a few more moments pass. “Did anything ever develop on Ingalls?”

He shook his head.

“Melinda Waters never showed up?”

“I wouldn’t know if she did,” he said. “Once I got to West L.A., I didn’t pursue it. For all I know, she got married, had kids, is living in a nice little house with a big-screen TV.”

Talking too fast, too loud. I knew confession when I heard it.