“What do you have on him?”
“At this point guilt by association and probable Nazi but you know as well as I do he’s involved. I get into that gallery building and his houses, I’m gonna find something.”
“Hmm,” said Nguyen. “Hell, why not?”
“Thanks, John. Any judge in particular?”
“I’ll make the call,” said Nguyen. “If they really are fucking fascist psycho lunatics, they need to go. Sit tight.”
—
For the next six minutes, Milo alternated among reading long-neglected email, muttering under his breath, playing with an unlit cigar, rubbing his face, and taking another trip up and down the corridor.
He was at the far end when his desk phone rang.
I said, “Hi, John.”
“Alex. You stirred something nicely. Long as I have you, it would help if you memorialize your conversation with that rich lady eyewitness sooner rather than later. Either dictate it to him or write it down yourself and he can stick it in the book.”
“No prob.”
“Nothing’s ever a prob with you. They teach you that in psychology school?”
“More like acting school.”
“You did that, too?”
“Nope.”
He laughed. “Where is he, in the john?”
“Pacing.”
“Ah, that. When he comes back tell him the arrest warrants came through courtesy Judge Cohen, I’m emailing them over. Ciao. As in breezy Italian, not Chinese food.”
I went out to the hallway and waved Milo back.
He said, “Please say good news.”
“The best. Check your email.”
CHAPTER
48
At five fifteen p.m., Milo printed two copies of the arrest warrants, held on to one, and filed the other in the murder book.
He scanned the wording. “Lots of latitude, perfect. Time to contact the troops.”
—
Marc Coolidge was in Inglewood, working a pistol-whipping / armed robbery at a liquor store.
“It’s not homicide, Milo, but we are talking blood and teeth all over the place. I’ll be stuck here for a while, let you know when I’m free.”
“What about Al?”
“Sure, give him a try,” said Coolidge. “Stolen wheels don’t usually feature teeth.”
