CHAPTER 29

Brandi Loring’s body had been found on Apache Street, near the western edge of Silverlake, up four sloping blocks north of Sunset.

The neighborhood was meager frame houses, some no larger than shacks, more generous structures sectioned into rentals. The spot where Travis Huck had reported finding Baby Brandeen was a cracked, buckling sidewalk on its way to being trashed by the roots of a gigantic banyan.

An hour and a half of door-knocks up and down Apache produced quizzical looks and declarations of ignorance, mostly in Spanish. A woman named Maribella Olmos, ancient and withered but bright-eyed, remembered the incident.

“The baby. Nice person to do that,” she said. “Brave.”

“Did you know him, ma’am?” said Milo.

“Wish I did. Very brave.”

“Saving a baby.”

“Saving, taking to the doctor,” she said. “All those gangbangers riding around, shooting? It’s better now, but back then? Hoo.”

“The bangers were out at three in the morning?”

“Anytime they want. Sometimes, I’m sleeping, I hear gunshots. It’s better now. Much better. You guys are doing a good job.”

Snatching Milo ’s big hand, she pressed it to wizened lips.

One of the few times I’ve seen him caught off guard. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Maribella Olmos let go of his hand and winked. “I’d give you another one right on the lips, but I don’t want your wife getting jealous.”

Next stop: the last known address for Brandi Loring’s mother and step-father.

Anita and Lawrence Brackle had lived in a pink two-story prewar, divided into a quartet of apartments. No one on the block had ever heard of the family, Brandi, or the baby-saving incident.

The rest of the afternoon was spent cruising Silverlake, showing Huck’s picture to people old enough to be of potential use.

Blank stares and head shakes; Milo dealt with failure by stopping at a street cart for two glasses of iced tamarind soda. Other vendors had set up bins of clothing on the sidewalk. He eyed the illegal display with amusement, drank with fervor as cars bumped by on the pothole-afflicted stretch of Sunset.

Back in the car, he said, “It was a long shot. You still wanna find Leibowitz, be my guest. I’m going back to the office, expanding the real estate search to neighboring counties, just in case Huck did manage to hitch a ride on the real estate train. Then it’s old Hollywood hot-prowls. Maybe I’ll find a severed hand.”

“Any word on the Vanders?”

“Not yet, and Buddy Weir keeps calling, guy’s starting to sound hysterical.”

I said, “A lawyer who cares.”

He snorted. “All those billable hours down the tubes.”

Thirty seconds of Internet search brought up a Barry Leibowitz who’d come in fourth at a charity pro-am golf tournament held last year. Tres Olivos Golf Club and Leisure Life Resort in Palm Springs.

The desert could be an affordable place for an ex-cop to retire. I pulled up a group photo. Golfing Barry Leibowitz was a white-haired, mustachioed man of the right age standing in the back row. Further Web-surfing produced a follow-up piece in the club bulletin, with capsule bios of the four top amateurs.

Two dentists, one accountant, and “Detective Leibowitz, our law enforcement duffer. Nowadays, he captures trophies, instead of criminals.”

I phoned Tres Olivos, used my real name and title but made up a story about calling on behalf of Western Pediatrics as the hospital searched for Mr. Leibowitz’s current mailing address.

“The trophy he won in our recent Nine Holes For Kids tournament was returned by the post office and we’d really like to get it to him.”

At worst, the club secretary would be cautious, verify with the hospital, learn I was on the staff but that no such award existed.

She said, “Here you go, Doctor.”

No desert air for Det. III (ret.) Barry Z. Leibowitz.

He lived in a one-bedroom condo on Pico west of Beverwil. I called, got no answer, set out anyway.

The address matched a gated complex called Hillside Manor. Not much of a development, just a hundred yards of driveway lined with sand-colored boxes that bordered the northern edge of Hillcrest Country Club’s verdant eighteen holes.

The club was a nice fit for Leibowitz’s interests, but I couldn’t see an ex-detective making the membership fee.

A call box to the right of the gate listed thirty residents. I entered Leibowitz’s code. A bass voice said, “Yes?”

I started to explain who I was.

“You’re putting me on.”

“Not at all. I’m working with Detective Sturgis. It’s about Travis Huck-”

“Hold on.”

Five minutes later, the man I’d just seen pictured in the tournament photo appeared on the west side of the truncated street, wearing a gold polo shirt, black linen pants, and flip-flops. Taller and broader than the picture had suggested, Barry Leibowitz supported a wine-barrel torso on short, stumpy legs. The white hair was thin. The mustache was full and waxed.

His look of amusement recalled the jaunty, monocled fellow from Monopoly.

When he reached the gate, I showed my consulting badge.

“What’s that supposed to do?”

“Establish my bona fides.”

“I just called Sturgis.” The gate slid open. “Heard of him, but never worked with him. Must be interesting.”

“The cases can be.”

He studied me. “Sure. That’s what I meant.”

The condo was a second-floor unit toward the back, spotless, almost antiseptic. Two leather golf bags were propped in a corner. A portable bar sported good single-malt and premium gin. A dozen or so golf trophies shared a case with paperback books.

Crime novels, mostly.

Leibowitz saw me looking at them and chuckled. “You’d think busman’s holiday, right? In the real world, we got sixty, seventy percent of the bad guys. These creative types get a hundred. Want something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m pouring Macallan 16 for myself. You sure?”

“You changed my mind.”

Leibowitz chuckled. “Flexibility, mark of a smart guy.” Removing a couple of old-fashioned glasses from the bar’s lower shelf, he held them up to the light, took them into the kitchen, washed and dried, inspected again, repeated the ritual.

Through a split in the pine trees, the kitchen window offered an oblique sliver of stunning green. Atop a rolling hill, a figure in white contemplated a putt.

Leibowitz said, “Nice view, huh? I’m like that guy in mythology, Tantalus. All the goodies just out of arm’s reach.”

I said, “ Rancho Park ’s not far.”

“You play?”

“Nope, I just know about Rancho. After O.J. got sued, he went for the public courses.”

Leibowitz laughed. “O.J. Thank God I never got near that one.”

He brought over two stiff drinks, settled in a recliner. The first half of his glass went down in small, slow sips. He finished the rest in a single swallow. “Let’s hear it for the Scots. So you want to know about Eddie Huckstadter-that’s the name he was using back then. In terms of my case, he was one of the good guys, especially given his circum-stances.”

“What circumstances were those?”

“He was a bum,” he said. “Excuse me, a ‘homeless individual who should never be judged by conventional standards.’ ” Laughing, he reached for the bar, poured himself another finger of whiskey. “Truth is, Doctor, I don’t judge. Not anymore. Once you get away from the job you start to get a different perspective. Like with Sturgis. Back when I started, you’d never get me working with someone like that. Now? He’s got the chops? Hell, who cares about his outside life.”

He studied me. “If that offends you, what can I say.”

“No offense taken. Huckstadter left the scene. How’d you find him?”