—
Freeman was in East L.A. in the crime lab’s parking lot checking out a ten-wheel transport van hijacked on the way to the cargo section of the airport. No injury to the drivers beyond being yanked out of the cab by four suspects who’d fled when the sirens sounded.
Milo said, “So you’re wrapping up.”
“As if. Now I’ve got to go through a huge load of washing machines, dishwashers, and fridges bound for Dubai, record serial numbers, then escort it to the plane.”
Milo said, “I’m here to rescue you.”
Freeman said, “Man, I’d love to be rescued but my captain’s here.” He lowered his voice. “Involved.”
Milo said, “One jacked truck brings out the brass?”
“The flight supervisor is my captain’s sister.”
“Ah.”
“Ah, indeed,” said Freeman. “I get free, you’ll be the first to know.”
—
Next step, conferencing with the regulars. He told Binchy to replace Alicia Bogomil downtown, ordered her to alternate with Reed on the Westside drive-bys. It seemed a needless bit of shuffling. Then I got it.
Everyone said, “Yes, sir.”
When he hung up, I said, “Despite what John said, a Westside bust is more likely and you want to keep Sean out of it.”
He shot a long look my way. “All of a sudden you analyze human behavior? Oh, yeah, that’s your gig. Am I wrong? Sean hasn’t been himself since the balcony.”
“You’re not but once this is over I’ll talk to him.”
“Thanks—it’s pushing six, let’s get some grub.”
—
We walked north on Butler into the din and haze of Santa Monica Boulevard at rush hour.
I said, “Here’s more analysis. You haven’t told me to go home because you think it’ll get psychological.”
“It already is,” he said. “The whole thing is out there. I can’t tell you how much three a.m. time I’ve spent thinking about the limo and trying to get it.” Big grin. “Now you’re gonna tell me there’s no explanation.”
“Congratulations. You have now added oracle to your résumé. Where are we eating?”
“Indian okay?”
“Always.”
—
Given Milo’s appetite and, more important, his Diamond Jim tipping, he gets warm welcomes at every tavern and restaurant we enter. The Indian storefront around the corner from the station kicks it up to adulation.
Over the years, he’s handled a few disruptive customers and street people, convincing the bespectacled, sari-draped woman who owns the place that he’s invincible.
This evening, the place was humming, mostly with uniforms and plainclothes cops. She grants Milo credit for that, as well. There’s some truth to it; he’s left brochures in the big detective room and has been known to talk the place up.
The table he likes—at the rear, facing the street—was unoccupied and topped by aReservedplace marker though he’d made no reservation. The woman beamed like someone spotting a long-lost relative at an airport arrival gate.
Heads turned as she hugged us—me, briefly, Milo, longer.
