The Murder Book Read Free Page B

to block out the paternal rage thundering from above.
    When things got rough, I curled like a mollusk into a gray pocket of solitary confinement.
    Now I had forty-three death shots on my dining room table. Death was Milo’s raw material.
    I called the West L.A. detective’s room.
     
     
    “Sturgis.”
    “Delaware.”
    “Alex. What’s up?”
    “I got something I thought you should see. Photo album full of what look like crime-scene photos.”
    “Photos or copies?”
    “Photos.”
    “How many?”
    “Forty-three.”
    “You actually counted,” he said. “Forty-three from the same case?”
    “Forty-three different cases. They look to be arranged chronologically.”
    “You ‘got’ them? How?”
    “Courtesy the U.S. Postal Service, first-class, downtown cancellation.”
    “No idea who might’ve favored you with this.”
    “I must have a secret admirer.”
    “Crime-scene shots,” he said.
    “Or someone takes very nasty vacations and decided to keep a scrapbook.” The call-waiting signal clicked. Usually I ignore the intrusion, but maybe it was Robin from Portland. “Hold for a sec.”
    Click.
    “
Hello
, sir,” said a cheerful female voice. “Are you the person who pays the phone bill in the house?”
    “No, I’m the sex toy,” I said, and reconnected to Milo. Dial tone. Maybe he’d gotten an emergency call. I punched his desk number, got the West L.A. civilian receptionist, didn’t bother to leave a message.
     
     
    The doorbell rang twenty minutes later. I hadn’t changed out of my running clothes, hadn’t made coffee or checked the fridge — the first place Milo heads. Looking at portraits of violent death would make most people lose their appetites, but he’s been doing his job for a long time, takes comfort food to a whole new level.
    I opened the door, and said, “That was quick.”
    “It was lunchtime, anyway.” He walked past me to where the blue leather binder sat in full view, but made no move to pick it up, just stood there, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, big belly heaving from the run up to the terrace.
    Green eyes shifted from the book to me. “You sick or something?”
    I shook my head.
    “So what’s this, a new look?” A sausage finger aimed at my stubbled face.
    “Maintaining a leisurely shaving schedule,” I said.
    He sniffed, took in the room. “No one chewing at my cuffs. El Poocho out back with Robin?”
    “Nope.”
    “She’s here, right?” he said. “Her truck’s out front.”
    “You must be a detective,” I said. “Unfortunately, false leads abound. She’s out.” I pointed to the book. “Check that out while I forage in the larder. If I can find anything that hasn’t petrified, I’ll fix you a sandwich—”
    “No thanks.”
    “Something to drink?”
    “Nothing.” He didn’t budge.
    “What’s the problem?” I said.
    “How do I put this delicately,” he said. “Okay: You look like shit, this place smells like an old-age home, Robin’s truck is here but she isn’t and my bringing her up makes your eyes drop to the floor like a suspect. What the hell’s going on, Alex?”
    “I look like shit?”
    “To euphemize.”
    “Oh, well,” I said. “Better cancel the photo shoot with
In Style
. And speaking of photography…” I held the book out to him.
    “Changing the subject,” he said, squinting down at me from his six-three vantage. “What do they call that in psychologist school?”
    “Changing the subject.”
    He shook his head, kept his expression mild, folded his arms across his chest. But for spring-loaded tension around the eyes and mouth, he looked at peace. Pallid, acne-pitted face a bit leaner than usual, beer gut light-years from flat but definitely less bulge.
    Dieting? On the wagon, yet again?
    He’d dressed with uncommon color harmony: cheap but clean navy blazer, cotton khakis, white shirt with just a touch of fray at the neckline, navy tie, brand-new beige desert boots with pink rubber soles that squeaked as he