"That's what Detective Schwinn said."

"Then why the whispering?" said Broussard. "You're Detective Schwinn's alleged partner. Why would he keep secrets from you?"

Because he knew this would happen, asshole. Milo shrugged. "Maybe there was nothing to tell."

"Nothing to tell?"

"Not every snitch has something to offer," said Milo.

Broussard waved that off. "How long were Schwinn and Tonya Stumpf in the backseat of the car as you drove?"

"Not long- maybe a few minutes."

"Quantify that."

Knowing the car had probably been observed, Milo kept it close to the truth. "Ten, maybe fifteen minutes."

"After which Tonya Stumpf was dropped off."

"Correct."

"Where?"

"Eighth Street near Witmer."

"After she left the unmarked, where did she go?"

He named the Ranch Depot Steak House, but didn't mention Schwinn's funding of Tonya's dinner.

"Did money exchange hands?" said Poulsenn.

Not knowing how much they'd seen, he chanced a lie. "No."

Long silence.

"During the entire time," Broussard finally said, "you were driving."

"Correct."

"When Detective Schwinn asked you to stop to pick up Tonya Stumpf, you weren't at all concerned about being an accessory to prostitution?"

"I never saw any evidence of prosti-"

Broussard's hand slashed air. "Did Tonya Stumpf's mouth make contact with Detective Schwinn's penis?"

"Not that I-"

"If you were driving, never looked back, as you claim, how can you be so sure?"

"You asked me if I saw something. I didn't."

"I asked you if oral-genital contact occurred."

"Not that I saw."

"So Tonya Stumpf's mouth might have made contact with Detective Schwinn's penis without your seeing it?"

"All I can say is what I saw."

"Did Detective Schwinn's penis make contact with Tonya Stumpf's vagina or Tonya Stumpf's anus?"

"I never saw that." Was the bastard emphasizing anus because…?

"Did Tonya Stumpf engage in physical intimacy of any sort with Detective Schwinn?"

"I never saw that," Milo repeated, wondering if they'd used some sort of night scope, had everything on film and he was burnt toast-

"Mouth on penis," said Poulsenn. "Yes or no?"

"No."

"Penis on or in vagina."

"No."

"Penis on or in anus."

Same emphasis. Definitely not coincidence. "No," said Milo, "and I think I'd better talk to a Protective League representative."

"Do you?" said Broussard.

"Yes, this is obviously-"

"You could do that, Detective Sturgis. If you think you really need representation. But why would you think that?"

Milo didn't answer.

"Do you have something to worry about, Detective?" said Broussard.

"I didn't until you guys hauled me in-"

"We didn't haul you, we invited you."

"Oh," said Milo. "My mistake."

Broussard touched the tape recorder, as if threatening to switch it on again. Leaned in so close Milo could count the stitches on his lapel. No pores. Not a single damn pore, the bastard was carved of ebony. "Detective Sturgis, you're not implying coercion, are you?"

"No-"

"Tell us about your relationship with Detective Schwinn."

Milo said, "We're partners, not buddies. Our time together is spent on work. We've cleared seven homicides in three months- one hundred percent of our calls. Recently, we picked up an eighth one, a serious whodunit that's gonna require-"

"Detective," said Broussard. Louder. Cutting off that avenue of conversation. "Have you ever witnessed Detective Schwinn receiving money from anyone during work hours?"

No desire to talk about Janie Ingalls.

Caught up in his headhunter ritual, one that wouldn't- couldn't be stopped- until it played itself out. Or something else: an active disinterest in Janie Ingalls?

Milo said, "No."

"Not with Tonya Stumpf?"

"No."

"Or anyone else?" barked Broussard.

"No," said Milo. "Never, not once."

Broussard lowered his face and stared into Milo's eyes. Milo felt his breath, warm, steady, minty- now suddenly sour, as if bile had surged up his gullet. So the guy had body processes after all.

"Not once," he repeated.

They let him go as abruptly as they'd hauled him in, no parting words, both IA men turning their backs on him. He left the station directly, didn't go upstairs to his desk or bother to check his messages.

The next morning a departmental notice appeared in his home mailbox. Plain white envelope, no postmark, hand-delivered.

Immediate transfer to the West L.A. station, some gobbledygook about manpower allocation. A typed addendum said he'd already been assigned a locker there and listed the number. The contents of his desk and his personal effects had been moved from Central.

His outstanding cases had been transferred to other detectives.

He phoned Central, tried to find out who'd caught Janie Ingalls's murder, got a lot of runaround, finally learned that the case had left the station and gone to Metro Homicide- Parker Center's high-profile boys.

Kicked upstairs.

Metro loved publicity, and Milo figured finally Janie would hit the news.

But she didn't.

He phoned Metro, left half a dozen messages, wanting to give them the information he hadn't had time to chart in the Ingalls murder book. The Cossack party, Melinda Waters's disappearance, Dr. Schwartzman's suspicions about Caroline Cossack.

No one returned his calls.

At West L.A., his new lieutenant was piggish and hostile, and Milo's assignment to a partner was delayed- more department gibberish. A huge pile of stale 187s and a few new ones- idiot cases, luckily- landed on his desk. He rode alone, walked through the job like a robot, disoriented by his new surroundings. West L.A. had the lowest crime stats in the city, and he found himself missing the rhythm of the bloody streets.

He made no effort to make friends, avoided socializing after hours. Not that invitations came his way. The Westside's D's were even colder than his Central colleagues, and he wondered how much of it could be blamed on his pairing with Schwinn, maybe picking up a snitch jacket. Or had the rumors followed him here, too?

Fag cop. Fag snitch cop? A few weeks in, a cop named Wes Baker tried to be social- telling Milo he'd heard Milo had a master's, it was about time someone with brains went into police work. Baker figured himself for an intellectual, played chess, lived in an apartment full of books and used big words when small ones would've sufficed. Milo saw him as a pretentious jerk, but allowed Baker to rope him in on double dates with his girlfriend and her stewardess pals. Then one night Baker drove by and spotted him standing on a West Hollywood street corner, waiting for the light to change. The only men out walking were seeking other men, and Baker's silent stare told Milo plenty.

Shortly after, someone broke into Milo's locker and left a stash of sadomasochistic gay porn.

A week after that, Delano Hardy- the station's only black D- was assigned to be his partner. The first few weeks of their rides were tight-lipped, worse than with Schwinn, almost unbearably tense. Del was a religious Baptist who'd run afoul of the brass by criticizing the department's racial policies, but he had no use for sexual nonconformity. News of the porn stash had gotten round; ice-eyes seemed to follow Milo around.

Then things eased. Del turned out to be psychologically flexible- a meticulous, straight-arrow with good instincts and an obsession with doing the job. The two of them began working as a team, solved case after case, forged a bond based on success and the avoidance of certain topics. Within six months, they were in the groove, putting away bad guys with no sweat. Neither of them invited to station house barbecues, bar crawls. Cop-groupie gang bangs.