When The Bough Breaks

By the time I'd gone through three boxes I'd succumbed to an indigo mood. My hands were filthy with dust, my mind filled with images of the dead girl. There'd been nothing of substance, just the broken shards that surface at any prolonged dig. Clothing smelling of girl, half - empty bottles of cosmetics - reminders that someone had once tried to make her eyelashes look thick and lush, to give her hair that Clairol shine, to cover her blemishes and gloss her lips and smell good in all the right places. Scraps of paper with reminders to pick up eggs at Vons and wine at Vendome and other crypto grams laundry receipts, gasoline credit - card stubs, books - lots of them, mostly biographies and poetry, souvenirs - a miniature ukulele from Hawaii, an ashtray from a hotel in Palm Springs, ski boots, an almost - full disc of birth control pills, old lesson plans, memos from the principal, children's drawings - none by a boy named Nemeth.

It was too much like grave robbing for my taste. I understood, more than ever, why Milo drank too much.

There were two boxes to go. I went at them, working faster, and was almost done when the roar of a motorcycle filled the air, then died. The back door opened, footsteps sounded in the foyer.

"What the fuck - "

He was nineteen or twenty, short and powerfully built, wearing a sweat - soaked brown tank top that showed every muscle, grease - stained khaki pants and work boots coated with grime. His hair was thick and shaggy. It hung to his shoulders and was held in place by a thonged leather headband. He had fine, almost delicate features that he'd tried to camouflage by growing a mustache and beard. The mustache was black and luxuriant. It dropped over his lips and glistened like sable fur. The beard was a skimpy triangle of down on his chin. He looked like a kid playing Pancho Villa in the school play.

There was a ring of keys hanging from his belt and the keys jingled when he came toward me. His hands were balled up into grimy fists and he smelled of motor oil.

I showed him my LAPD. badge. He swore, but stopped.

"Listen man, you guys were here last week. We told you we had nothin' - " He stopped and looked down at the contents of the cardboard box strewn on the floor. "Shit, you went through all that stuff already. I just packed it up, man, getting' it ready for the Goodwill."

"Just a recheck," I said amiably.

"Yeah, man, why don't you dudes learn to get it right in the first fuckin' place, okay?"

"I'll be through in a moment."

"You're through now, man. Out." I stood.

"Give me a few minutes to wrap it up."

"Out man." He crooked his thumb toward the back door.

"I'm trying to investigate the death of your sister, Andy. It wouldn't hurt you to cooperate."

He took a step closer. There were grease smudges on his forehead, and under his eyes.

"Don't "Andy' me, dude. This is my place and it's Mr. Gutierrez. And don't give me that shit about investigating. You guys aren't never gonna catch the dude who did it to Elena 'cause you don't really give a fuck. Come bustin' into a home and going through personal stuff and treatin' us like peasants, man. You go out on the street and find the dude, man. This was Beverly Hills, he'd already 'a' been caught, he do this to some rich guy's daughter."

His voice broke and he shut up to hide it.

"Mr. Gutierrez," I said softly, "cooperation from family can be very helpful in these - "

"Hey, man, I told you, this family don't know nothing about this. You think we know what kind of crazy asshole do something like that? You think people around here act like that, man?"

He squinted at my badge, reading it with effort, moving his lips. He mouthed the word 'consultant' a couple of times before getting it.

"Aw, man, I don't believe it. You're not even a real cop. Fucking consultant, they send around here. What's Ph.D." man?"

"Doctorate in psychology."

"You a shrink, man - fuckin' headshrinker they send aroun' here, think someone's crazy here! You think someone in this family is crazy, man? Do you?"

He was breathing on me now. His eyes were soft and brown, long lashed and dreamy as a girl's. Eyes like that could make you doubt yourself, could lead a guy to get into some heavy macho posturing.

I thought the family had plenty of problems but I didn't answer his question.

"What the fuck you doin' here, psychin' us out, man?"

He sprayed me with spittle as he spoke. A balloon of anger expanded in my gut. Automatically my body assumed a defensive karate stance.

"It's not like that, I can explain. Or are you determined to be pigheaded?"

I regretted the words even as they left my mouth.

"Pig - goddammit man, you're the pig!" His voice rose an octave and he grabbed the lapel of my jacket.

I was ready but I didn't move. He's in mourning, I kept telling myself. He's not responsible.

I met his gaze and he backed off. Both of us would have welcomed an excuse to duke it out. So much for civilization.

"Get out, man. Now!"

"Antonio!"