The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(48)

Without waiting for a reaction, he scurried off.

When I stopped laughing, Milo said, “He’s ninety-two, eats everything, I find him inspiring.” His eyes swung to the right. “This is probably our new buddy.”

A squarely built, shaved-head six-footer with skin the color of hot chocolate stood near the crowd. Fiftyish, gray sharkskin suit, black shirt, silver tie. After appraising the room, he nodded and headed for us.

Milo shifted to his left, allowing space for Marcus Coolidge to sit between us.

Coolidge said, “Good to meet you, Milo.”

“Same here, Marcus.”

“Marc’s fine.” Coolidge unbuttoned his jacket, revealing a trace of shoulder holster. As he slid in, his eyes shifted to me.

Milo said, “Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist.”

“Doctor.” Coolidge and I shook hands. When he’d settled and smoothed his tie, he said, “Psychologist. You have one full-time?”

“Nope, as needed.”

“My situation, hard to say what I’d need, psychology-wise. Maybe some hypnotism, convince the predators they’re lemmings and herd them off a cliff?” Coolidge arranged a napkin on his lap. “Pastrami on its way?”

“We haven’t ordered yet.” Milo looked at the counter and nodded. Mel baby-stepped our way, carrying two mugs of coffee. It took a while for him to reach the booth. Placing the cups down with great care, he looked at Coolidge. “Finally, we get the chief of police?”

Milo said, “This is Detective Coolidge.”

“Two detectives and a shrink. Walk into a bar. Uh-oh, nope it’s a restaurant. You want coffee, too—is your first name Calvin?”

“Marc. I’ll take tea. Earl Grey if you have it.”

“Veddy sophisticated,” said Mel. “What’ll it be food-wise, Oh Ye Three Magi?”

Milo said, “Detective Coolidge and I are having the pastrami.”

“I recommend with the fat,” said Mel. “Otherwise there’s no taste.”

“Absolutely,” said Coolidge.

“Cholesterol bravery, we need that in detectives. You, Carl Jung?”

“Coffee for now, a roast beef and a pastrami to go.”

“What, you eat in private? Ain’t that some kind of neurosis?”

“Taking it home to my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend, not wife? Why not commit—don’t answer that,” said Mel. “I got one of those myself. A girlfriend. Did the wife thing. Twice. So I get it.”

He got close enough for me to pick up his scent. Old clothes plus Old Spice. “You want to make it sound exotic, Doc, call her your paramour.”

He shuffled off.

Marc Coolidge said, “Entertainment and no cover charge?”

Milo said, “West L.A.’s a full-service shop.”

“Mine, I’m lucky to get fast food.”

A young waitress brought Coolidge’s tea. “Mel’s on break, I’ll be taking over.”

From the counter, Mel waved, then resumed talking to a woman a couple of decades his junior and a head taller.

Marc Coolidge said, “Ready to hear about your case.”

Milo filled him in.

Coolidge said, “Four in a limo, I get two in a Camaro. What’s next, one in a Prius? Half of one on a Harley?”

“Bite your tongue.”

“Consider it bitten. So the link between my victims to yours is McGann worked at the place where this Alvarez lived?”

“That’s it, so far.”

“You’re thinking she found something out about Alvarez and stuck her nose into it and got into trouble?”

“At this point, it’s the only thing that seems to make sense.”

“Unless there’s just a bastard who enjoys killing people and stashing them in vehicles.”

Coolidge sipped his tea, placed the bag on the saucer of his cup. “I’m sure you feel like I do about coincidences. So yeah, it’s hard to see McGann as not related, but there are differences. Your thing sounds elaborate. All that posing—like one of those Christmas things—a crèche, but evil.”

“Alex calls it a production.”

Coolidge thought about that. “Sure, that, too. Mine, on the other hand, seemed to be what I usually get. Strong-arm 211, get rid of witnesses and turn it into a 187. Those cases, they usually do the guy first, he’s bigger, more of a threat, then the girl. Sometimes she gets raped. But so far no sign of sexual assault on McGann.”

I said, “There could be another reason for that sequence. The Camaro’s trunk space is eleven or so square feet and the opening’s small. Tough to get someone Vollmann’s size in.”

“You know the dimensions by heart,” said Coolidge.

“Looked them up on the way over.”

Coolidge turned to Milo. “You’re a lucky man—that’s a good point, Doctor. As is, McGann was curled up like a fetus.”

Milo said, “Not enough blood for it to happen in the car. Something else we’ve got in common.”

Coolidge nodded. “I checked the driver’s-seat position and it fit Vollmann. But he’s six feet tall, which could be plenty of guys. All that moving and driving and dumping, been wondering about at least two killers. Which isn’t weird for me, a gang thing and all that. I just busted a quintet doing home invasions.”