Standing in front of the desk was a rangy, hawk-nosed, gray-haired man wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, French-cuffed powder-blue shirt, and a silk tie in someone’s idea of power pink. He introduced himself as Pierre Bateman, Storm’s attorney, and I recalled his name from the complaint against the conduct committee. Before we had a chance to sit, he began laying down stipulations for the interview in a slow, droning voice. Kenneth Storm Jr. yawned and scratched behind his ears and stuck his index finger in and out of a buttonhole. His father stared down at the desktop.
“Furthermore,” said Bateman, “with regard to the substance of this proced—”
“Are you a criminal lawyer, sir?” said Milo.
“I’m Mr. Storm’s attorney of record. I handle all his business affairs.”
“So you regard this as a business affair?”
Bateman bared his teeth. “May I continue, Detective?”
“Has Mr. Storm Jr. engaged you formally?”
“That’s hardly relevant.”
“It might be if you’re going to stand around making up rules.”
Bateman massaged a sapphire cuff link and looked at the boy. “Would you care to designate me as your attorney, Kenny?”
Junior rolled his eyes. His father tapped his sleeve with an index finger.
“Yeah, sure.”
“All right, then,” said Bateman, “with regard to this procedure, Detective, you will refrain from . . .”
Milo placed his tape recorder on the desk.
“I have a problem with that,” said Bateman.
“With what?”
“Taping. This is neither court testimony nor a formal deposition and my client’s not under any formal suspicion—”
“So why are you acting like he is?”
“Detective,” said Bateman. “I insist that you stop interrupting—”
Milo shut him up with a loud exhalation. Picking up the recorder, he examined a switch. “Mr. Bateman, we drove out here as a courtesy, rescheduled several times as a courtesy, allowed your client’s father to be present as a courtesy, even though he’s reached the age of majority. We are not talking juvey traffic court here. Our interest in the lad is the fact that he had a highly hostile exchange with a woman who was subsequently stabbed to death.”
Junior mumbled and Senior shot him a look.
“Detective,” said Bateman. “Surely—”
“Counselor,” said Milo, taking a few steps closer. “He’s not a formal suspect yet, but all this shuffling and dodging is definitely firming up the picture of an individual with something to hide. You wanna sit here, play F. Lee Bombast, that’s your business. But if we do conduct an interview today it’s gonna be taped and I’m gonna ask what I want. Otherwise, we’ll reschedule at the West L.A. substation and you all deal with the freeway and the press.”
Junior mumbled again.
“Ken,” warned Senior.
Junior rolled his eyes again and fingered a pimple on the side of his neck. His hands were big, hairless, powerful.
Milo said, “Sorry to be taking up your time, son. Though you’ve got a bit of time on your hands, don’t you. Being out of school and all that.”
Junior’s neck stretched as he jutted his lower jaw. His father tapped his cuff again.
“Detective,” said Bateman, “that was a wonderful speech. Now, if you’ll allow me to continue my stipulations.”
Milo picked up the recorder and headed for the door. “Sayonara, gentlemen.”
We were halfway across the reception area when Bateman called out, “Detective?”
We kept walking and the lawyer hurried to catch up. The reception area had gone quiet, the two secretaries staring. The talk jock was pontificating about athletes’ salaries. The place smelled of mouthwash.
“That was intemperate, Detective,” Bateman stage-whispered. “This is a kid.”
“He’s nineteen and more than big enough to do damage, Mr. Bateman. Expect a call.”
He pushed the door open and Bateman followed us out to the parking lot.
“Mr. Storm’s well-regarded in his community, Detective, and Kenny’s a solid boy.”
“Good for them.”
“With all the gangs and the serious crime, one would think the police have better things to do—”
“Than harass law-abiding citizens?” said Milo. “What can I say, we’re stupid.” We reached the unmarked.
“Just wait one minute.” Bateman’s voice had tightened, but with anxiety, not indignation.
Milo took out his keys.
“Look, Detective, I’m here so they’ll feel protected. Kenny really is a good kid, I’ve known him for years.”