After that, we can figure out what to do about dinner.”
I was waiting when she emerged from the bathroom, armed with a few restaurant suggestions.
She unpeeled her towel, folded it neatly, stood there naked. Holding out a hand, she led me to the bed. “Time for you to be a full-service boyfriend.”
Afterward, she ran her nails lightly over my cheek. Bobbled my lips with the side of an index finger the way kids do when they’re goofing. I let out a high-pitched moan, did a fair imitation of a leaky drain. When we both stopped laughing, she said, “How are you doing now?”
“A lot better.”
“High point of my day, too. How about Italian?”
CHAPTER
11
I ’d heard nothing new about the bones for two days when the
Times
ran a follow-up piece.
The article was stuck at the bottom of page 15, trumped by water issues and legislative ineptitude, a shooting in Compton, the usual petty corruption by various civic employees. The byline was Kelly LeMasters, the reporter Milo had belatedly called.
The coverage boiled down to a space-filling rehash ending with the pronouncement that “A priority request to analyze the bones for DNA at the state Department of Justice lab is LAPD’s best hope for yielding fresh information on a decades-old mystery.”
The newspaper was in Milo’s hand when he rapped on my door at ten a.m.
I said, “Pleasant surprise.”
He strode past me into the kitchen, flung the fridge door open, did the usual bear-scrounge, and came up with a rubbery-looking chicken leg that he gnawed to the bone and a half-full quart of milk that he chugged empty. Wiping the lacto-mustache from his nearly-as-paleface, he thrust the
Times
piece at me. “Compelling and insightful, call the Pulitzer committee.”
I said, “Pulitzer was a tabloid shlock-meister.”
He shrugged. “Time heals, especially with money in the ointment.” He flung the article onto the table.
I said, “So you spoke to LeMasters.”
“Not quite. I spoke to His Grandiosity’s office begging for DOJ grease. That was yesterday afternoon. Next morning, voilà.”
“The chief leaks?”
“The chief plays the press like a harmonica. Which is fine in this case because everything’s dead-ended. Social Security can’t turn up records of our Eleanor Green, and I can’t find dirt on Swedish. Even the oldest vice guy I know doesn’t remember it, one way or the other. So if they were breaking the law, they were doing it discreetly.”
He got up again, searched the pantry, poured himself a bowl of dry cereal. Midway to the bottom, he said, “The bones aren’t why I’m here. I never really thanked you for last year.”
“Not necessary.”
“I beg to differ.” He flushed. “If ensuring my continuing survival doesn’t deserve gratitude, what the hell does, Alex?”
“Chalk it up to the friendship thing.”
“Just because I didn’t get all sentimental doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what you did.” Deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about it every damn day.”
I said nothing.
“Anyway.” He used his fingers to grasp the last few nuggets of cereal. Drawing his big frame to its feet a second time, he loped to the sink, washed the bowl. Said something I couldn’t hear over the water.
When he turned off the spigot, I said, “Didn’t catch that.”
“The T word, amigo. Gracias. Merci. Danke schoen.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay … now that we’ve got that out of the way … how’re Robin and the pooch? She working out back?”
“Delivering a mandolin.”
“Ah.”
His jacket pocket puffed as his phone squawked.
Moe Reed’s pleasant voice, tighter and higher than usual, said, “New one, boss.”
“I could use something fresh, Moses.”
“It’s fresh all right,” said Reed. “But I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
“Why not?”
“More bones, boss. Same neighborhood. Another baby.”
A city worker, part of a crew planning a drainage ditch at the western edge of Cheviot Hills Park, had
I was waiting when she emerged from the bathroom, armed with a few restaurant suggestions.
She unpeeled her towel, folded it neatly, stood there naked. Holding out a hand, she led me to the bed. “Time for you to be a full-service boyfriend.”
Afterward, she ran her nails lightly over my cheek. Bobbled my lips with the side of an index finger the way kids do when they’re goofing. I let out a high-pitched moan, did a fair imitation of a leaky drain. When we both stopped laughing, she said, “How are you doing now?”
“A lot better.”
“High point of my day, too. How about Italian?”
CHAPTER
11
I ’d heard nothing new about the bones for two days when the
Times
ran a follow-up piece.
The article was stuck at the bottom of page 15, trumped by water issues and legislative ineptitude, a shooting in Compton, the usual petty corruption by various civic employees. The byline was Kelly LeMasters, the reporter Milo had belatedly called.
The coverage boiled down to a space-filling rehash ending with the pronouncement that “A priority request to analyze the bones for DNA at the state Department of Justice lab is LAPD’s best hope for yielding fresh information on a decades-old mystery.”
The newspaper was in Milo’s hand when he rapped on my door at ten a.m.
I said, “Pleasant surprise.”
He strode past me into the kitchen, flung the fridge door open, did the usual bear-scrounge, and came up with a rubbery-looking chicken leg that he gnawed to the bone and a half-full quart of milk that he chugged empty. Wiping the lacto-mustache from his nearly-as-paleface, he thrust the
Times
piece at me. “Compelling and insightful, call the Pulitzer committee.”
I said, “Pulitzer was a tabloid shlock-meister.”
He shrugged. “Time heals, especially with money in the ointment.” He flung the article onto the table.
I said, “So you spoke to LeMasters.”
“Not quite. I spoke to His Grandiosity’s office begging for DOJ grease. That was yesterday afternoon. Next morning, voilà.”
“The chief leaks?”
“The chief plays the press like a harmonica. Which is fine in this case because everything’s dead-ended. Social Security can’t turn up records of our Eleanor Green, and I can’t find dirt on Swedish. Even the oldest vice guy I know doesn’t remember it, one way or the other. So if they were breaking the law, they were doing it discreetly.”
He got up again, searched the pantry, poured himself a bowl of dry cereal. Midway to the bottom, he said, “The bones aren’t why I’m here. I never really thanked you for last year.”
“Not necessary.”
“I beg to differ.” He flushed. “If ensuring my continuing survival doesn’t deserve gratitude, what the hell does, Alex?”
“Chalk it up to the friendship thing.”
“Just because I didn’t get all sentimental doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what you did.” Deep breath. “I’ve been thinking about it every damn day.”
I said nothing.
“Anyway.” He used his fingers to grasp the last few nuggets of cereal. Drawing his big frame to its feet a second time, he loped to the sink, washed the bowl. Said something I couldn’t hear over the water.
When he turned off the spigot, I said, “Didn’t catch that.”
“The T word, amigo. Gracias. Merci. Danke schoen.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Okay … now that we’ve got that out of the way … how’re Robin and the pooch? She working out back?”
“Delivering a mandolin.”
“Ah.”
His jacket pocket puffed as his phone squawked.
Moe Reed’s pleasant voice, tighter and higher than usual, said, “New one, boss.”
“I could use something fresh, Moses.”
“It’s fresh all right,” said Reed. “But I’m not sure you’ll like it.”
“Why not?”
“More bones, boss. Same neighborhood. Another baby.”
A city worker, part of a crew planning a drainage ditch at the western edge of Cheviot Hills Park, had
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