Milo realized he was holding his breath, had been doing it since Schwinn launched the tirade. His skin remained saturated with heat, and he wiped his face with one hand.

Schwinn smiled. "I'm pissing you off. Or maybe I'm scaring you. You do that- with the hand- when you're pissed off or scared."

"What's the point, Pierce?"

"The point is you said I learned a lot, and I didn't learn dick."

"I was just-"

"Don't just anything," said Schwinn. "There's no room for just, there's no room for bullshit. I don't need the brass sending me some… fly-by-night master's deg-"

"Fuck that," said Milo, letting out breath and rage. "I've been-"

"You've been watching me, checking me out, from the minute you started-"

"I've been hoping to learn something."

"For what?" said Schwinn. "So you can add up the brownie points, then move on to an ass-warming job with the brass. Boy-o, I know what you're about-"

Milo felt himself using his bulk. Moving closer to Schwinn, looming over the skinny man, his index finger pointing like a gun. "You don't know shi-"

Schwinn didn't yield. "I know assholes with master's degrees don't stick with this." Tap tap. "I know I don't wanna waste my time working a whodunit with a suck-up intellectual who all he wants to do is climb the ladder. You got ambition, find yourself some suck-up job like Daryl Gates did, driving Chief Parker's car, one day that clown'll probably end up chief." Taptaptap. "This ain't career-building, muchacho. This is a whodunit. Get it? This likes to munch on your insides, then shit you out in pellets."

"You're wrong," said Milo. "About me."

"Am I?" Knowing smile.

Ah, thought Milo. Here it comes. The crux.

But Schwinn just sat there, grinning, tapping the photo.

Long silence. Then suddenly, as if someone had pulled the plug on him, the guy slumped heavily, looking defeated. "You have no idea what you're up against." He slipped the photos back in the envelope.

Milo thought: If you hate the job, retire, asshole. Grab your pension two years early and waste the rest of your life growing tomatoes in some loser trailer park.

Long, turgid moments passed.

Milo said, "Big whodunit, and we're sitting here?"

"What's the alternative, Sherlock?" said Schwinn, hooking a thumb at the pink building. "We go in there and talk to this asshole and maybe his daughter's the one who got turned into shit, or she's not. One way, we've crawled an inch on a hundred-mile hike, the other way, we haven't even started. Either way we got nothing to be proud of."

CHAPTER 8

Just as quickly as his moods had shifted, Schwinn bounded out of the car.

The guy was unstable, no question about it, Milo thought as he followed.

The front door was unlocked. Twelve mailboxes to the right. The layout was precisely as Milo had envisioned.

Screw you, expert.

Box Eleven was labeled Ingalls in smudged red ballpoint. They climbed the stairs, and Schwinn was out of breath by the time they reached the third floor. Tightening his tie knot, he pounded the door, and it opened a few seconds later.

The man who answered was bleary-eyed and skinny-fat.

All sharp bones and stick limbs and saggy sallow skin but with a melon gut. He wore a dirty yellow tank top and blue swim shorts. No hips or butt, and the shorts bagged under the swell of his pot. Not an ounce of extra flesh anywhere but his belly. But what he carried there was grotesque and Milo thought, Pregnant.

"Bowie Ingalls?" said Schwinn.

Two-second delay, then a small, squirrelly nod. Beery sweat poured out of the guy, and the sour smell wafted into the hallway.

Schwinn hadn't recited any physical stats on Ingalls- hadn't said anything at all by way of preparation. To Milo, Ingalls appeared in his midforties, with thick, wavy coarse black hair worn past his shoulders- too long and luxuriant for a guy his age- and five days of gray stubble that did nothing to mask his weak features. Where his eyes weren't pink they were jaundiced and unfocused. Deep brown irises, just like those of the dead girl.

Ingalls studied their badges. The guy's timing was off, like a clock with damaged works. He flinched, then grinned, said, "Whus up?" The words wheezed out on a cloud of hops and malt that mixed with the odors already saturated into the building's walls: mold and kerosene, the incongruous blessing of savory home cooking.

"Can we come in?" said Schwinn.

Ingalls had opened the door halfway. Behind him was dirt-colored furniture, heaps of rumpled clothes, takeout Chinese cartons, Bud empties.

Lots of empties, some crushed, some intact. Even at a good clip, the number of cans added up to more than one day of serious drinking.

A multiday bender. Unless the guy had company. Even with company, a focused juice-a-thon.

Guy's daughter goes missing for four days, he doesn't report it, holes up instead, sucking suds. Milo found himself entertaining the worst-case scenario: Daddy did it. Began scanning Ingalls's sallow face for anxiety, guilt, scratches, maybe that explained the delays…

But all he saw was confusion. Ingalls stood there, caught up in a booze-flummox.

"Sir," said Schwinn, using the word as an insult, the way only cops can, "can we come in?"

"Uh- yeah, sure- whu for?"

"Whu for your daughter."

Ingalls's eyes drooped. Not anxiety. Resignation. As in, here we go again. Preparing himself for a lecture on child-rearing.

"Whu, she cut school again? They call in the cops for that now?"

Schwinn smiled and moved to enter the apartment and Ingalls stepped aside, nearly stumbling. When the three of them were on the other side of the door, Schwinn closed it. He and Milo began the instinctive visual scan.

Off-white walls, brown deepening to black in the cracks and the corners. The entire front space was maybe fifteen feet square, a living room-dining area-kitchen combo, the kitchen counters crowded with more take-out boxes, used paper plates, empty soup cans. Two miserly windows on the facing wall were shuttered by yellow plastic blinds. A scabrous brown-gray sofa and a red plastic chair were both heaped with unwashed clothes and crumpled paper. Next to the chair, a stack of records tilted precariously. The Mothers of Invention's Freak Out on top, a fifteen-year-old LP. Nearby was a cheap phonograph half-covered by a snot green bathrobe. An open doorway led to a dead-end wall.

A full-view of the front room revealed even more beer cans.

"Where does Janie go to school, sir?" said Schwinn.

"Hollywood High. What kinda hassle she get herself into now?" Bowie Ingalls scratched an armpit and drew himself up to his full height. Trying to produce some fatherly indignation.

"When's the last time you saw her, sir?"

"Um… she was- she slept over a friend's."

"When, sir?" said Schwinn, still taking in the room. Cool, all business. No one watching him do the detective thing would've imagined his lunatic tirade five minutes ago.

Milo stood to the side, worked on his cool. His mind wanted to work, but his body wasn't giving up the anger planted by Schwinn's outburst; heart still racing, face still hot. Despite the importance of the task at hand, he kept entertaining himself with images of Schwinn falling on his ass- hoist on his own petard, the self-righteous fucker- busted in flagrante with Tonya or some other "source." That brought a smile to Milo's brain. Then a question arose: If Schwinn didn't trust him, why had he risked doing Tonya right in front of him? Maybe the guy was just nuts… he shook all that off and returned to Bowie Ingalls's face. Still no fear, just maddening dullness.