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CHAPTER
44
We sat with Kathy Bookbinder through a first-rate meal. Drifting away from the murders into shop talk. Letting her set the pace and the subject matter, hoping that would elicit new information, but it didn’t.
When the check came, she reached for it but lost out to a quicker, larger hand.
“It’s really not necessary, Milo.”
“It really is, Kathy.”
She grinned. “My problem. Relinquishing control. But you know, this has been good. Getting in touch with the bad old days and confirming that I did the right thing by escaping.”
—
We walked her to her car, a small, white Mercedes sedan.
She said, “I do hope you find whoever did it. And tell me once you have. Please.”
“Scout’s honor,” said Milo.
“Duane was an Eagle Scout, that’s where he started cooking. I did Brownies but we moved around so much that I dropped it.”
I said, “Military dad?”
“And mom. Two colonels. You can imagine why I like control.”
We smiled, thanked her, watched her drive off.
Milo said, “She was right. Rooney sounds like a pretty good bet. What do you think?”
“The same thing. If he was that attached to his father, he could’ve doubted Meagin’s accusations and blamed her for his parents’ deaths. For the dissolution of his family.”
We stood there, breathing in cool, California night-air. The restaurant’s door opened periodically, disgorging human movement and happy talk. People for whom dinner was just that.
“Okay,” he finally said. “Let’s do the big no-no.”
“What’s that?”
“You piloting so I can play database poker.”
Allowing a civilian to take the wheel of a police vehicle is a serious infraction. Over the years, Milo’s risked it a few times, but always on short hops.
He said, “What, the iced tea was spiked? Just point the damn car north and don’t hit anything.”
—
I like to drive, having regarded it since the age of sixteen as a conduit to freedom. And the hard truth is—one never uttered—I’m a far better driver than Milo, who tends to express frustration with the leaden foot.
I adjusted the Impala’s seat, turned the key, cruised out of the lot and headed back to the 405. Milo lit up his phone, hunched over the screen and began clicking away.
Traffic had eased and I was able to sail north at sixty-five mph or close to it. There were stretches when I could’ve gone faster but the last thing I needed was a highway patrol encounter.
It took less than three miles for Milo to say, “Look at this. Not literally. Rooney Luther Gilmore—age thirty-two, so it’s gotta be the right guy…though I’m not seeing any family resemblance—anyway, he’s got a fourteen-page sheet. Starting when he was eighteen but no doubt there are sealed juvey arrests.”
“Where’d he offend?”
“So far I’m just looking at Florida. All over the state…okay, here’s his first move, he shows up seven years ago in Louisiana. A place called Empire, then Baton Rouge, then New Orleans, gets busted in all three places. Assault in Empire—he knifed someone, claimed self-defense—then shoplifting and battery in Baton Rouge, then…aggravated assault pled down to battery in Nawlins.”
