“Who hired you to research the guy?”

“I wish I could tell you.”

Reed said, “We’re supposed to ask for a warrant based on twenty-three-year-old information obtained illegally from an informant too chickenshit to come forward.”

Both brothers’ bodies tilted like lances.

Regressed, for an instant, to feuding children.

Fox broke the stare first, smiling and shrugging. “Moses, however Detective Sturgis deigns to utilize the data with which I am gifting him is not my concern.” He stood. “I’ve done my civic duty. Have a nice rest-of-the-day, gents.”

Reed said, “Your brain’s so functional, you’ll recall the statutes on obstruction.”

Fox smoothed a silk shirt collar. “Little bro, you get like that and I know you’re blowing more smoke than one of those clunkers you insist on driving.” To Milo: “Word has it there are other victims in the marsh. And that a press conference is on the horizon. It was me at the podium, I’d like a few factoids when those pesky questions start flying.”

Milo flicked the clippings with a big, square thumbnail. “We’ll be sure to pore over every word, Aaron. You tell us who hired you to scope out Huck and why, we might give them some credibility.”

“Their credibility isn’t in question,” said Fox. “Only issue is whether you decide to follow through.” Peeling a twenty from an alligator billfold, he let it float to the table.

Milo said, “Not necessary.”

“Thanks but no thanks,” said Fox. “I always pay my own way.”

Snapping a quick salute, he left the restaurant.

Moe Reed remained canted forward.

Milo said, “Your brother, huh?”

Reed nodded. “Vice has nothing on Sheralyn Dawkins but I’d better run over to the LAX stroll, see if I can learn something before I drive to San Diego.”

Erupting from his chair, he charged out before Milo could answer.

Milo said, “Ah, the joys of family life.”

I said, “Huck’s also from the San Diego area.”

“Funny thing about that. But why give Fox the satisfaction?”

We examined the clippings in Milo ’s office. Three articles from The Ferris Ravine Clarion spaced a month apart, written by Cora A. Brown, the paper’s publisher and editor in chief. One piece covered the tragedy. Two follow-ups added nothing.

The facts were as Aaron Fox had summarized: On a hot May afternoon, eighth-grader Eddie Huckstadter, considered a shy child and loner by his teachers, had finally responded to months of bullying by an outsized ninth-grader named Jeffrey Chenure. During the schoolyard confrontation, the much smaller Eddie had shoved his quarterback antagonist in the chest. Jeff Chenure stumbled backward, caught his balance, charged at Eddie, fists flailing. Before a blow could land, he cried out, fell flat on his back, lifeless.

Milo said, “Sounds like an accident or at the worst, self-defense. I’m surprised Huck served any juvey time.”

I ruffled the clippings. “This is what Fox wanted you to see. Maybe there’s more.”

The Internet brought up nothing on Eddie Huckstadter, nor did the name appear in any criminal data banks.

Milo said, “No surprise, there. If Fox had found any more dirt, he’d have gifted me with it.” He stood. “All that tea, gotta take a detour.”

During his absence, I phoned The Ferris Ravine Clarion, expecting a disconnected number. A female voice answered, “Clarion.”

I gave her a capsule I.D., asked for her name.

“Cora Brown, I’m the editor, publisher, opinion-editorial columnist, classified ad clerk. And I take out the trash. L.A. Police? Why?”

“It’s about a story you wrote several years ago. A boy named Eddie Huckstadt-”

“Eddie? Has the poor boy done something-I guess he’d be a man by now. Is he in trouble?”

“His name came up as a witness in an investigation. When we backtracked we came across your articles.”

“Investigation into what?”

“A homicide.”

“A homicide? You’re not saying because-”

“No, ma’am, he’s just a witness.”

“Oh,” she said, “Okay… but has he become a criminal? Because that would be tragic.”

“How so?”

“The mistreatment he got turning him bad.”

“Juvenile detention and the foster system?”

“Yes, but even before that,” said Cora Brown. “That mother of his. So much of life is pure damn luck, isn’t it? Poor Eddie never had much. If you want to know my opinion, he got railroaded from the get-go. That boy he pushed was the son of a rich rancher. The whole family were bullies, used to having their way, no questions asked. They were rough on their migrants, treated them like slaves. Raise a child in that environment, what do you think you’re going to get?”

“Are the Chenures still around?”

“ Oklahoma, last I heard. Sold out years ago to an agribusiness firm and went into raising Black Angus.”

“How many years ago?”

“Right after what happened to Jeff. Sandy -the mother-was never the same.”

“Rich family,” I said. “Eddie, on the other hand-”

“Lived in a trailer with a lunatic lush of a mother. What happened that day was one of those schoolyard things, happens all the time.” Pause. “Not that children die from schoolyard things. That was tragic. Jeff was a mean boy, but he was still a child. He must’ve had something wrong with his heart to pass out like that.”

“Eddie didn’t shove him that hard.”

“Nope. That didn’t stop him from going into juvenile lockup and being forgotten until he got liberated.”

“By who?”

“You said you read the articles, I figured you meant all of them.”

I read off the dates of the three pieces.

“No, there’s more, I did a follow-up piece a year later.”

“Follow-up on what?”

“Eddie’s redemption. A public defender from L.A. got interested in the case, what was her name… Deborah something… hold on, let me get on the computer, my grandson’s one of those technical geniuses, his science project was scanning and cataloging fifty years’ worth of our issues for an online base, going back to when my dad was the publish… okay, here it is. Debora with no ‘h’ Wallenburg.” She spelled the surname. “Give me your e-mail and I’ll send it to you.”

“Thanks.”

“Pleasure. I do hope Eddie hasn’t turned bad.”

When Milo returned, I waved the attachment I’d printed. “Here’s the part Fox left out. A PD was handling the appeal of another ward at the youth camp and one of the counselors told her about a kid who was being brutalized, had received several concussions.”

“Huck’s neurological symptoms.”

“Quite likely. The guard said Eddie didn’t belong there in the first place. The lawyer-Debora Wallenburg-looked into Eddie’s conviction, agreed, and filed an emergency writ. A month later, Eddie was released and the charges were expunged, he got sent to foster care because his mother was unfit. I looked Wallenburg up on the bar association website and she’s private now, practices in Santa Monica.”

“Do-gooder lawyer actually does some good,” he said.

“Maybe Fox never found the follow-up. Or he did and chose to withhold. What kind of guy is he?”

“Don’t know him that well. He worked Wilshire Division for a while, had a rep as a hotshot, smart, ambitious. He transferred to West L.A. maybe… four or so years ago, but quit soon after.”

“Quit or asked to leave?”

“I heard quit.”

“Not much family resemblance to Reed,” I said. “And I’m not talking about race.”

“Tortoise and hare,” he said. “No business like sib business. Fox sure loved goading ol’ Moe. And Reed responded exactly like he was supposed to.”

“Showing up Reed was a side benefit for Fox. Now he can go back to his client and say mission accomplished.”

“Someone’s paying to get us focused on Huck.”

I said, “Paying well. Fox wears custom-made duds and a ten-thousand-dollar watch.”