Below the article, a few lines of neat, upright handwriting:
Detective Sturgis:
You might want to know more about this.
Lem Fusco
“So what’s he saying?” said Milo. “This has something to do with Mate?”
“Burke,” I said. “Why’s that name familiar?”
“Hell if I know. I’m getting to the point where everything sounds familiar.”
I gave the clipping another read. Something came into focus. “Where’s the material I pulled off the Internet?”
He opened a drawer, searched for a while, pulled out more papers, produced the printouts. I found what I was looking for right away. “Here you go. Another upstate New York story. Rochester. Roger Sharveneau, the respiratory tech who confessed to poisoning ICU patients, then recanted. Months later, he claimed to have been under the influence of a Dr. Burke, whom no one had ever seen. No sign anyone followed up on that, probably because Sharveneau’s pattern of confessing and recanting led them to believe he’d made it all up. But this Dr. Burke was working in Buffalo, sixty, seventy miles away, and getting into mischief. Poison mischief, and Sharveneau died of an overdose.”
Milo exhaled. “Okay,” he said. “I give in. S.A. Fusco gets his meeting. Want to come?”
“If it’s soon,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment at four.”
“Appointment for what?”
“What they sent me to school for.”
“Oh yeah, you do that occasionally, don’t you.” He punched the number Fusco’d listed on the fax, got through, listened.
“Taped message,” he said. “Hey, personalized for me … If I’m interested, meet him at Mort’s Deli on Wilshire and Wellesley in Santa Monica. He’ll be the one with the boring tie.”
“What time?”
“He didn’t specify. He knew I’d call after I got the fax, is confident I’ll show up. I just love being played.” He put on his jacket.
“What key? “I said.
“D minor. As in detective. As in dumb. But why the hell not, the deli’s not far from those squats in Venice. How about you?”
“I’ll take my own car.”
“Sure,” he said. “That’s how it starts. Soon you’ll be wanting your own dish and spoon.”
CHAPTER 19
THE EXTERIOR OF Mort’s Deli was a single cloudy window over a swath of brown board below red-painted letters proclaiming lunch for $5.99. The interior was all yellows and scarlets, narrow black leatherette booths, wallpaper that looked inspired by parrot plumage, the uneasily coexisting odors of fried fish, pickle brine and overripe potatoes.
Leimert Fusco was easy to spot, with or without neckwear. The only other patron was an ancient woman up in front spooning soup into a palsying mouth. The FBI man was three booths back. The tie was gray tweed—same fabric and shade as his sport coat, as if the jacket had given birth to a nursing pup.
“Welcome,” he said, pointing to the sandwich on his plate. “The brisket’s not bad for L.A.” In his fifties, the same gravel voice.
“Where’s the brisket better?” said Milo.
Fusco smiled, showed lots of gum. His teeth were huge, equine, white as hotel sheeting. Short, bristly white hair rode low on his brow. Long, heavily wrinkled face, aggressive jaw, big bulbous nose. The tail end of his fifties. The saddest brown eyes I’d ever seen, nearly hidden by crepey folds. He had broad shoulders and wide hands. Seated, he gave the impression of bulk and frustrated movement.
“Meaning, where am I from?” he said. “Most recently Quantico. Before that, all kinds of places. I learned about brisket in New York—where else? Spent five years at the main Manhattan office. Those qualifications good enough for you to sit down?”
Milo slid into the booth and I followed.
Fusco looked me over. “Dr. Delaware? Excellent. My doctorate’s not in clinical. Personality theory.” He twisted the tweed tie. “Thanks for coming. I won’t insult your intelligence by asking how you’re doing on Mate. You’re here because even though you think it’s a waste of time, you’re not in a position to refuse data. Want to order something, or is this going to remain at the level of testosterone-laden watchfulness?”
“So how do you really feel about life?” said Milo.
Fusco gave another toothy grin.
“Nothing for me,” Milo said. “What’s with this Burke?”