"You've met him," said Donovan. "What do you think, Doctor?"
"To me he seemed pretty focused."
"That's the problem, Doctor. Too much focus. He's already committed a score of felonies."
"Violent felonies?"
"Mostly multiple thefts."
"Of what?"
"Data— official police records from various jurisdictions. And he continues to represent himself as a special agent. If all that got out . . . Doctor, the Bureau has sympathy for his misfortune. The Bureau respects him— respects what he once was. No one wants to see him end up in jail."
"Is he off base on Burke?" I said.
"Burke's not the issue," said Bratz.
"Why not?"
"Burke's not the issue for
us
," Donovan clarified. "We handle only internal investigations, not external criminal matters. S.A. Fusco's been identified as an internal issue."
"Is anyone in the Bureau looking into Michael Burke?"
"We wouldn't have access to that information, sir. Our goal is simple: take custody of Leimert Fusco, for his own good."
"What happens to him if you find him?" I said.
"He'll be cared for."
"Committed?"
Donovan frowned. "Cared for. Humanely. Forget all the movies you've seen. Dr. Fusco's a private citizen now, due the same rights as anyone else. He'll be cared for until such a time as he's judged competent— it's for his own good, Doctor. No one wants to see a man of his . . . fortitude and experience end up in jail."
Bratz said, "We've been looking for him for a while, finally traced him to L.A. He covers his tracks pretty well, got himself a cell phone account under another name, but we found it and it led us to an apartment in Culver City. By the time we got there, he was gone. Packed up. Then an hour ago, you called and we just happened to be there."
"Lucky break for you," I said.
"Where is he, Doctor?"
"Don't know."
His hand clenched. "Why were you attempting to call him, sir?"
"To discuss Michael Burke. I'm sure you know I'm a psychological consultant to LAPD. I've been asked to interface with S.A. Fusco." I shrugged. "That's it."
"Come on, Doctor," said Bratz. "You don't want to be putting yourself in an awkward position. We'll be contacting Detective Sturgis soon enough, he'll tell us the truth."
"Be my guests."
Bratz hemmed me closer and I sniffed mentholated cologne. His jaw was set. No more vulnerability. "Why would you care about Dr. Burke? A suspect's already in custody on Mate."
"Being thorough," I said.
"Thorough," Bratz repeated. "Just like Fusco."
"You know, Doctor," said Donovan, "some people say you're kind of obsessive."
I smiled. How long before the prints on Alice Zoghbie's gate got decoded and they found out about it? "Sounds like you've been researching me."
"We can be thorough, too."
"If only everyone was," I said. "Better world. The trains would run on time."
Bratz rubbed a patch of raw skin and looked at the recorder. Nothing of substance had been recorded. "You think this is a joke, my friend? You think we want to sit around with you, bullshitting?"
I turned and looked into his eyes. "I doubt you're enjoying this any more than I am, but that doesn't change the facts. You asked me if I knew where Fusco was, I told you the truth. I don't. He said he'd be out of town, left the cell-phone number. I tried it and he didn't answer, so I phoned the Federal Building. Obviously that's something he didn't instruct me to do, so we're
obviously
not colluding on anything."
"What cell number did he give you?"
"Hold on and I'll get it for you."
"You do that," said Bratz, barely opening his mouth.
I went into my office, stashed the accordion file in a drawer, copied down the number and returned. Bratz was on his feet, studying prints on the wall. Donovan's nylon-glossed knees were pressed together. I handed her the slip.
"Same one we've got, Mark," she said.
Bratz said, "Let's get out of here."
I said, "Even if Fusco had left me a detailed itinerary, why would it be any more credible than anything else he told me?"
"You're saying Fusco just told you about Burke, then dropped out of sight."
"Told Detective Sturgis and myself. We met with him, together, just as you said."
"Where?"
"Mort's Deli. Sturgis didn't buy the Burke theory, basically shunted it to me. As you said, he's got a suspect."
"And your opinion?"
"About what?"
"Burke."
"I need more data. That's exactly why I tried to reach Fusco. If I'd known it was going to get this complicated . . ."
Bratz turned toward me. "Understand this: if Fusco keeps improvising, it could get real complicated."
"Makes sense," I said. "Rogue agent running wild, psychological expert goes haywire. Public relations nightmare for you guys."
"Something wrong with that? Protecting the Bureau's integrity so it can do its job?"
"Not at all. Nothing wrong with integrity."
"True, Doctor," said Donovan. "Just make sure you're holding on to yours."
I watched them drive away in a dark blue sedan.
They'd labeled Fusco obsessive but hadn't dismissed the core of his investigation.
An internal issue.
Not their problem.
Meaning someone else in the Bureau might very well be looking into Michael Burke. Or they weren't.
When news of the Zoghbie-Haiselden murder broke, Fusco's nose would twitch harder. He'd probably try to contact Milo, even fly back down to L.A. Get snagged by his former comrades, taken into custody. For his own good.
He'd had a tragic life, but right now worrying about his welfare wasn't my job either. I went back inside, gave Milo yet another try. Daring another attempt at the West L.A. station, ready to disguise my voice if the same clerk answered.
This time it was a bored-sounding man who patched me up to the Robbery-Homicide room.
A familiar voice picked up Milo's extension. Del Hardy. A long time ago the veteran detective and Milo had worked together. Del was black, which hadn't mattered much, and married to a second wife who was a devout Baptist, which had— she'd kiboshed the partnership. I knew Del was a year from retirement, planning something down in Florida.
"Working Saturday, Del?"
"Long as it's not Sunday, Doc. How's the guitar-playing?"
"Not doing enough of it. Seen the big guy recently?"
"Happened to see him about an hour ago. He said he was going over to Judge MacIntyre's house, try for some warrants. Pasadena— I can give you the number if it's important. But Judge MacIntyre gets cranky about being bugged on the weekend, so why don't you try Milo's mobile."
"I did. He didn't answer."
"Maybe he shut it off, didn't want to annoy Judge MacIntyre."
"Scary guy, huh?"
"MacIntyre? Yeah, but law and order. If he thinks you're righteous he'll give all sorts of leeway— okay, here it is."
• • •
A frosty-voiced woman said, "What's this about?"
"I'm a police consultant, working on a homicide case. It's important that I reach Detective Sturgis. Is he there?"
"One minute."
Four minutes later, she came back on. "He's on his way out, said
he'll
call
you.
"
It took another quarter hour for Milo to ring in.
"What's so important, Alex? How the hell did you get MacIntyre's number— you almost messed me up, I was in the middle of getting paper on Doss. Got some, too."
"Sorry, but you were wasting your time." I told him what I'd seen in Alice Zoghbie's backyard. The way I'd reported it to the police clerk, my prints on the gate.
"This is a joke, right?" he said.
"Ha ha ha."
Long silence. "Why'd you go out there in the first place, Alex?"
"Boredom, overachievement— what's the difference? This changes everything."
"Where are you right now?"
"Home. Just finished with some visitors." I began to tell him about Donovan and Bratz.
"Stop," he said. "I'm coming over— no, better if we meet somewhere, just in case they're still watching you. I just got on the 110— let's make it somewhere central . . . Pico-Robertson, the parking lot behind the Miller's Outpost, southeast corner. If I'm late, buy yourself some jeans. And try to figure out if the feebies are tailing you. If they are, I doubt they'll be using more than one car, which will make it damn near impossible for them to pull it off if you're looking out for them. Did you happen to notice what kind of car they were driving?"
"Blue sedan."
"Check for it three, four car lengths behind you. If you see it, drive back home and wait."
"High intrigue."
"Low intrigue," he said. "Bureaucracy's big toes getting stepped on. Zoghbie and Haiselden— did you notice any overt putrefaction?"
"Green tinge, no maggots, lots of flies."
"Probably a day or two at most . . . and you're saying the positioning was similar to the stuff in Fusco's file?"
"Identical. Geometrical wounds, as well."
"Oh my," he said. "Every day brings new thrills."
• • •
I wrote a note to Robin and left, drove more slowly than usual, looked out for the blue sedan or anything else that spelled government-issue. No sign of a tail, as far as I could tell. I reached the Miller's Outpost lot before Milo, parked where he'd instructed, got out of the car and stood against the driver's door. Still, no blue car. The lot was half full. Shoppers streamed in and out of the store, business at a nearby newsstand was brisk, cars roared by on Robertson. I waited and thought about putrefaction.
Milo showed up ten minutes later, surprisingly well-put-together in a gray suit, white shirt, maroon tie. Warrant-begging duds. No string tie for Judge MacIntyre.
He motioned me into the unmarked, lit up the cold stub of a Panatela as I eased into the passenger seat.
He scanned the lot, fondled his cell phone, let his eyes drift to the jeans store. "Time to get myself some easy-fit . . . Glendale's at the scene— they've pegged it to an anonymous caller. How does it feel to be an archetype?"
"Glorious. But I won't be anonymous long. The gate."
"Yeah, terrific. I'm waiting to hear back from their detectives. News jackals picked it up, too, it's only a matter of time before they tie Zoghbie and Haiselden to Mate and we're back on page one."
"That's exactly what Burke wants," I said. "But maybe he had another motive for killing Zoghbie and Haiselden: to get hold of any records that incriminated him. He might very well have been planning it for a while, but Richard's arrest might have sped things up: he wouldn't like someone else getting credit for his handiwork. Like Mate, he's after the attention, is eliminating the old guard, telling the world he's the new Dr. Death."
He chewed the cigar's wooden tip, blew out acrid smoke. "You buy the whole Burke thing even though Fusco misrepresented himself?"
"When will you be going over to the Zoghbie crime scene?"
"Soon."
"Wait till you see it. Everything fits. And Donovan and Bratz never dismissed Fusco's findings, they're just worried he'll do something that makes the Bureau look bad. Fusco's convinced Sharveneau and/or Burke murdered his daughter. Personal motivation can get in the way, but sometimes it's potent fuel."
He sucked in smoke, held it in his lungs for a long time, drew a lazy circle on the windshield fog. "So I've been spinning my wheels on Doss . . . who, from what I've been told by business associates, has very complicated financial records— maybe I'll send my files to the Fraud boys."
He faced me. "Alex, you know damn well he solicited Goad to kill Mate, we're not talking Mother Teresa. Just because Goad didn't go all the way doesn't put Doss in the clear."
"I realize that. But it doesn't change what I saw in Glendale."
"Right," he said. "Back to square goddamn one . . . Burke, or whatever the hell he's calling himself . . . you're saying he craves center stage. But he can't go public the way Mate did . . . so what does that mean? More nasties against trees?" His laugh was thick with affliction and anger. "Gee,
that's
a terrific lead. Let's go check out every bit of bark in the goddamn county— where the hell do I
go
with this, Alex?"
"Back to Fusco's files?" I said.
"You've already been through them. Okay, I'll accept the fact that Burke is evil personified. Now, where the hell do I find him?"
"I'll go over them again. You never know—"
"You're right about that," he said. "I never
do
know. Spend half my damn life in blissless ignorance . . . Okay, let's handle some short-term matters. Like keeping you out of jail once those prints cross-reference to the Medical Board. Did you touch anything but the gate?"