“He’s retired.”

“I know. I got his home address before I came by. Middle-class neighborhood. You should feel comfortable.”

20

I found a phone booth near the Children’s Museum and waited in a no-parking zone as Milo used it. He was on the line long enough for two meter maids to drive by, prepare to cite me, only to be held at bay by the LAPD cardboard. Most fun I’d had in a long time. I savored it while watching parents herd their young toward the entrance to the museum.

Milo came back jingling change and shaking his head. “Nothing.”

“Who’d you speak to?”

“Highway Patrol, again. Then one of Chickering’s lackeys and Melissa.”

“How’s she doing?” I said, pulling into traffic.

“Still hyper. Making calls. She said one of the Gabneys phoned just a while ago- the husband. Expressing concern.”

“The goose with the golden egg,” I said. “Planning on telling Melissa about the Cassatt?”

“Any reason to?”

I thought about that. “Not that I can see- no use getting her riled up about something else.”

“I told her about McCloskey. That from what I could see we were talking brain death, but that I’d keep my eye on him. It seemed to calm her down.”

“Placebo?”

“Got anything stronger?”

I picked up the Harbor Freeway at Third, switched to the 10 west, and exited at Fairfax, heading north. Milo directed me to Crescent Heights, then farther north, just past Olympic, where I turned left on Commodore Sloat, passed a block of office buildings, then entered the Carthay Circle district, a tree-shaded enclave of small, exceedingly well-kept Spanish and mock-Tudor houses.

Milo recited an address and I matched the numerals to a shake-roofed, brick and madder-stucco cottage set on a corner lot two blocks up. The garage was a miniature clone of the house behind a hedge-bordered cobbled drive. A twenty-year-old Mustang, white and shining, sat in the drive. Moisture pools beneath the chassis and a neatly coiled garden hose rested near the rear tire.

The front yard was rich green lawn worthy of Dublin, edged with beds of flowers- taller plantings of camellias, azaleas, hydrangeas, agapanthus, backing impatiens, begonia, and a white fringe of alyssum. A cobbled path ran up the middle. To the left was a weeping paper-birch triplet. A high-waisted gray-haired man in khaki shirt, blue pants, and a pith helmet inspected its branches and plucked away dead leaves. A chamois cloth hung out of one rear pocket.

We got out. Traffic from Olympic was a baritone drone. Birds sang harmony. Not a particle of trash on the streets. The man turned as we walked up the path. Sixtyish, narrow shoulders, long arms, large hands. Long, hound-dog face under the helmet. White mustache and goatee, black-framed eyeglasses. It was only when we were a few feet away that I realized he was African-featured. Skin as light as mine, dotted with freckles. Eyes golden-brown, the color of school-desk oak.

One hand remained on the tree as he watched us. He lowered it, ground a birch cone between his fingers. The particles showered to the ground.

“Gilbert Bayliss?” said Milo.

“Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Sturgis. I’m a detective- private- working on the disappearance of Mrs. Gina Ramp. Several years ago she was victimized by someone you used to handle at the Parole Department. Joel McCloskey.”

“Good old Joel,” said Bayliss, removing his hat. His hair was a thick, nappy, salt-and-pepper cap. “Private eye, huh?”

Milo nodded. “For the time being. On leave from LAPD.”

“Voluntary?”

“Not exactly.”

Bayliss peered at Milo. “Sturgis. I know that name- know your face, too.”

Milo didn’t move a muscle.

Bayliss said, “I got it. You’re the one hit the other cop on TV. Something about interdepartmental intrigue- news never did make clear what it was all about. Not that I want to know. I’m out of all that.”

“Congratulations,” said Milo.

“Earned it. So how long they cooling you out for?”

“Six months.”

“Paid or unpaid?”

“Unpaid.”

Bayliss clucked his tongue. “So in the meantime you’re paying bills. I wasn’t allowed to do that. One thing that bothered me about the job- no room to expand opportunities. How do you like it so far?”

“It’s a job.”

Bayliss looked at me. “Who’s this? Another LAPD bad boy?”

“Alex Delaware,” I said.

“Dr. Delaware,” said Milo. “He’s a psychologist. Treating Mrs. Ramp’s daughter.”

“Melissa Dickinson,” I said. “You talked to her about a month ago.”

“I seem to remember something like that,” said Bayliss. “Psy chologist, huh? I wanted to be one of those once. Figured what I was doing was mostly psychology, anyway- why not get paid better? Took some classes at Cal State- got enough credits for a master’s but no time to write a thesis or take the exams, so that was that.” He peered at me more closely. “What’re you doing running around with him? Psychoanalyzing everyone?”

“We just paid a visit to McCloskey,” I said. “Detective Sturgis thought it might be useful for me to observe him.”

“Aha,” said Bayliss. “Good old Joel. You seriously suspect he’s been up to something?”

“Just checking him out,” said Milo.

“Getting paid by the hour and piling up those hours- Don’t get yourself worked up, soldier. I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want.”

“I realize that, Mr.-”

“Twenty-three years I spent following routine, taking orders from people a heck of a lot stupider than me. Working toward a twenty-five-year pension so that my wife and I could go traveling. Two years short she had the bad manners to leave me. Massive stroke. Got one kid in the army, over in Germany, married a German girl, never comes home. So the last two years I’ve been making my own rules. Last six months I’ve been getting good at it. Understand?”

Milo gave a long, slow nod.

Bayliss smiled, put his helmet back on. “Just as long as we’ve got a meeting of the minds on that.”

“We do,” said Milo. “If there’s something you can tell us about McCloskey that might help us find Mrs. Ramp, I’d be much obliged.”

“Good old Joel,” said Bayliss. He touched his goatee, stared at Milo. “You know, there were plenty of times during those twenty-five years that I wanted to punch someone. Never did it. ’Cause of the pension. The trip the wife and I were going to take. When you punched that paper-pusher, it made me smile. I was in a low mood, thinking about things that had happened and those that hadn’t. You gave me a chuckle, lasted through the evening. That’s why I remember you.” He smiled. “Funny thing, your walking up like this. Must be destiny. Come on in the house.”

His living room was dark, neat, furnished with heavy carved pieces not quite old or good enough to be antiques. Lots of doilies and figurines and feminine touches. On the wall above the mantel were framed black-and-white photos of big bands and jazz combos, the musicians all black, and one close-up of a young, clean-shaven, pomaded Bayliss, dressed in a white dinner jacket and formal shirt and tie, and holding a slide trombone.

He said, “That was my first love. Trained classically- at Juilliard. But no one was hiring colored trombonists, so I settled for swing and bebop, did the rib circuit- traveled with Skootchie Bartholomew for five years. Ever hear of him?”

I shook my head.

He smiled. “No one did. Tell the truth, the band wasn’t that good. Shooting heroin before every gig and thinking they were playing better than they actually were. I didn’t want to live like that, so I quit, came out here, tooted for whoever would listen, did a few record things- you listen to “Magic Love’ by the Sheiks, some of that other doo-wop foolishness, that’s me in the background. Finally got a trial run with Lionel Hampton.”