"I said that because that's what's in the file. There's absolutely nothing pointing to them being criminal, let alone homicidal."

"All you know is what you read."

"Cut it out," she snapped. "You don't have to make me feel stupider than I already do."

"If you had nothing to do with working Vanderveldt and Parris, there's no reason for you to feel stupid-"

"You just don't get it, do you? The first time we met, you figured out I've got my issues. As in having trouble ignoring obviously brain-dead decisions being made with more concern for b.u.t.t-covering than the public's welfare. I like to tell myself if I'd been in charge, 9/11 never would've happened. Maybe that's self-delusional c.r.a.p, maybe I need to stroke myself because the job's turned out to be not what I had in mind. However you want to see it, I'm an outlier and what I need-what I needed-was a reprieve. When I learned you nailed the Swiss witch, I was ready to buy you dinner at Spago. Then I find out the Swiss witch had nothing to do with killing Doreen and the State Department's on our b.u.t.ts because you went into that hangar without authorization. Not only haven't you helped me, you've made my life more difficult."

"Gee," said Milo. "Here I was thinking solving murders was my job, when all along it was being your life coach."

Lindstrom's hands clenched.

Milo plucked pepperoni.

"Milo, we're the good guys, why are we going at each other?"

"Help me out, Gayle, and we'll be sandbox buddies again."

"What makes you think I can help you? I'm an unpopular girl with a cubicle full of old cold files and a directive to clear them or else. Which is like asking me to teach Britney nuclear physics."

"Forget physics," said Milo. "Let's talk medicine. And law."

"You want me to find out if Kathy ever enrolled, fine, I can do that. Same for Parris and law school, but what's that going to tell you? You need physical evidence."

"Whatever builds the case is worthwhile, Gayle. Now tell me exactly what Doreen gave the Bureau before she split."

"d.i.n.ky stuff."

"I like d.i.n.ky, Gayle."

"This was real minor-league, it stayed with the Forest Service. There was a chunk of disputed federal land in northern Washington State. The usual logging/farming/dune-buggying/tourism side fighting the totally leave-it-for-the-mosquitoes side. Doreen had volunteered as a tree-hugger a few months before she got nabbed hooking in Seattle. Doing field tests, whatever. What she gave up when we pressed her were two schemes. The first was her fellow volunteers tilting the odds by planting Canadian lynx hairs near tree trunks-smearing the DNA then 'discovering' it. Apparently, the lynx is mucho endangered, so that would've meant big-time land restriction. The second con involved poisoning wild horses and leaving carca.s.ses in spots grizzly bears didn't frequent to draw grizzlies and enlarge estimates of their habitat. See what I mean? Low-rent, the Forest Service gave even less of a c.r.a.p than the Bureau, took no action. Then a senator who got tons of logging money found out and he raised a stink and an investigation ensued. No one went to jail but people lost their jobs."

"Names," said Milo.

"I don't have any, the guy from whom I inherited the files wasn't into extraneous detail."

"Maybe not so extraneous, Gayle, if Kathy Vanderveldt and Dwayne Parris were among those volunteers. Some people lost their jobs, others might've lost their careers."

"Expelled from med school and law school due to moral turpitude?" she said. "Yeah, I guess that could happen."

She stood, tried to put money on the table. Milo's big hand closed around hers. "My treat, Gayle."

"Why?"

"You deserve it."

"Yeah, sure," said Lindstrom. "When I got a bad grade, my dad lied to me the same way."

I said, "Manipulating physical evidence."

He said, "Kathy Lara can't be a doctor, but gets herself a gig where she can still have fun with biology. Same old story, with twisted types it's all about control."

"With everyone it's about control," I said. "The key is how you go about it."

Lindstrom's call came as we drove back to the station.

"That was quick, Gayle."

"Wish I could say I pulled strings, all I had to do was pull our copy of the Forest Service file. Vanderveldt and Parris are named as partic.i.p.ants in both cons. In fact, they're the only partic.i.p.ants named. And Vanderveldt was, indeed, booted out of U of Idaho med school-where she'd been at the bottom of her cla.s.s. Parris's standing at U Wash law school was actually pretty good but he also got tossed. Both of them appealed twice. Denied. You really see that as motive?"

"That and fifty G's, Gayle."

"Yeah, I guess that covers a lot of bases," said Lindstrom. "So what now?"

"So now I talk to them."

"I'd like to be involved."

"When the time's right."

"Hope that's not a lie. With my dad I could tell. With you, not so easy."

CHAPTER.

40.

Deputy D.A. John Nguyen confirmed what Milo already knew: insufficient grounds to arrest Rieffen and Scoppio for anything, all interviews would have to be voluntary.

"You are cordially invited to chat?"

"Unless you witness them committing some kind of naughty and bust them for that."

"Bad lane change do the trick?"

Nguyen laughed. "I was thinking something involving blood."

"How about smearing lynx DNA on something?"

"What the h.e.l.l's a lynx, anyway?" said Nguyen. "Something you make a coat out of, right?"

"Bite your tongue, John."

"I'm talking theoretical, Milo. My pay grade, the wife's lucky to get wool."

A review of the little we knew about the suspects suggested Rieffen would be less violence-p.r.o.ne, more likely to turn. Maybe.

Reed and Binchy took separate cars and began subtle surveillance on the man calling himself M. Carlo Scoppio. He'd left for work at nine a.m., drove to the East L.A. law firm, was still there by eleven thirty.

"Loo, one thing occurred to me," said Reed. "The office is awfully close to where that C.I., Escobar, got shot."

"How close, Moses?"

"Like three blocks. It's county land, owned by the med center but undeveloped."

"You scoped it out?"

"It was close, I started wondering. There's an intersection nearby. Not much traffic but a long red light. If Escobar was a law-abiding type, it would've been easy enough to catch him when he was stopped, commandeer the car."

"Go back and take photos," said Milo. "After Sean takes over the watch."

"I'll buy a camera," said Reed.

"A cheap one's good enough for making memories, Moses. One day, we'll sc.r.a.pbook."

Lara Rieffen was on shift at the crypt, processing a shooting in Pacoima. The plan was to "find" her in the parking lot when she returned to file paper, Milo coming on friendly, pretending to be there on business. Then walking her in and finding a s.p.a.ce in the building for a "follow-up" interview. Keeping it low-key, so she wouldn't be threatened and the coroner's staff wouldn't be aware of any disruption.

But the boss had to know so Milo phoned Dave McClellan, gave him the bad news.

He said, "I've been grinding my teeth since we spoke. She's really that evil, huh? That makes us look great."

"No way you could know, Dave."

"Whatever it takes to nail the b.i.t.c.h, Milo. I'll make sure there's an open room on the bottom floor."

"Thanks. I'll keep it as quiet as possible."

"Way I'm feeling about her, you can hog-tie her in full sight," said McClellan. "And don't worry about quiet, we're already crawling with cops, anyway."

"Why?"

"Bobby Escobar. All of a sudden, Sheriff's Homicide decided they need to inspect his office, sent their own techies over, but they won't say why. They've been all over us since six a.m."

"Who's the lead detective?"

"New replacement, Irvin Wimmers."

"I know Irv. Good man."

"I think they're here just to cover their a.s.ses. Anyway, want me to reel Rieffen in at any particular time? Or whatever the h.e.l.l her name really is."

"When's she expected back?"

"Four, five, depending on particulars and drive-time."

"Let's aim for five."

"You got it," said McClellan. "Good riddance to bad rubbish."

Milo phoned Sheriff's Homicide Detective Irvin Wimmers and asked for a meet when Wimmers had time.

Wimmers said, "I'll make time, Milo. How about now?"

"You don't even know what it's about, Irv."

"You're calling me is what I know. How many of the same conferences we been to? Denver, D.C., Philadelphia-that fun one in Nashville, all those slides on decomp. When we see each other, we generally sit down for coffee. We get back to L.A., how many times do we call each other?"

"I don't know."

"I'll tell you how many," said Wimmers. "Once. That Compton hatchet case, you clued me in on that old file one of your retired guys worked, we ended up nailing the b.i.t.c.h for turning two husbands to hamburger, not just one. So I'm figuring you've got something else useful to tell me. Maybe about Escobar? Say yes, it would make my day."

"It is about Escobar, Irv, but it could turn out to be nothing. Did he have a predictable schedule at the crypt?"

"He had no schedule at all," said Wimmers. "Going to school, not working there anymore, but they let him keep his key, gave him a little closet office for working on his master's thesis."

"What was he researching?"

"The technology of negligent evidence transfer-people s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up with fingerprint brushes, careless fiber collection, that kind of thing. What's on your mind, Milo?"

Wimmers listened to the bare-bones recap, said, "That's pretty freaky-okay, this is something I need to sit down and think about. My partner's due in soon and I been up since five, need to eat or I'm gonna pa.s.s out. Where you calling from?"

"The office."

"You got the time for meeting about halfway? I know a place, you'll like it."

Ruby's Theatre of Turkey operated from a storefront on Eighth Street just west of Wilton.

Monumental birds dunked into deep-fryers, carved to order, served up glistening.

Irvin Wimmers was a black man taller and wider than Milo, with a pencil mustache and a soul patch and a gleaming shaved head furrowed longitudinally. He wore a double-breasted cinnamon-brown suit, a long-collared maroon shirt, a narrow olive tie patterned with orange battleships.

The platter in front of him held a crisp, brown turkey quarter, chunky cranberry sauce, okra, collard greens, a sweating heap of macaroni and cheese. A side plate hosted biscuits the size of baseb.a.l.l.s, sodden with what looked like redeye gravy. Leave your Louisville Slugger at home, the turkey leg would be a fine subst.i.tute.

Milo said, "Thanksgiving came early, Irv."

Wimmers said, "My philosophy, celebrate anytime you get the chance. So how's it going, City Boy?"