pretty invested in Huck being our bad guy.”
Aaron Fox took a nanosecond to decide upon an emotion. Settled for placid. “Not invested, just aware of the facts.”
“Who hired you to research the guy?”
“I wish I could tell you.”
Reed said, “We’re supposed to ask for a warrant based on twenty-three-year-old information obtained illegally from an informant too chickenshit to come forward.”
Both brothers’ bodies tilted like lances.
Regressed, for an instant, to feuding children.
Fox broke the stare first, smiling and shrugging. “Moses, however Detective Sturgis deigns to utilize the data with which I am gifting him is not my concern.” He stood. “I’ve done my civic duty. Have a nice rest-of-the-day, gents.”
Reed said, “Your brain’s so functional, you’ll recall the statutes on obstruction.”
Fox smoothed a silk shirt collar. “Little bro, you
get
like that and I
know
you’re blowing more smoke than one of those clunkers you insist on driving.” To Milo: “Word has it there are other victims in the marsh. And that a press conference is on the horizon. It was me at the podium, I’d like a few factoids when those pesky questions start flying.”
Milo flicked the clippings with a big, square thumbnail. “We’ll be sure to pore over every word, Aaron. You tell us who hired you to scope out Huck and why, we might give them some credibility.”
“Their credibility isn’t in question,” said Fox. “Only issue is whether you decide to follow through.” Peeling a twenty from an alligator billfold, he let it float to the table.
Milo said, “Not necessary.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” said Fox. “I always pay my own way.”
Snapping a quick salute, he left the restaurant.
Moe Reed remained canted forward.
Milo said, “Your brother, huh?”
Reed nodded. “Vice has nothing on Sheralyn Dawkins but I’d better run over to the LAX stroll, see if I can learn something before I drive to San Diego.”
Erupting from his chair, he charged out before Milo could answer.
Milo said, “Ah, the joys of family life.”
I said, “Huck’s also from the San Diego area.”
“Funny thing about that. But why give Fox the satisfaction?”
We examined the clippings in Milo’s office. Three articles from
The Ferris Ravine Clarion
spaced a month apart, written by Cora A. Brown, the paper’s publisher and editor in chief. One piece covered the tragedy. Two follow-ups added nothing.
The facts were as Aaron Fox had summarized: On a hot May afternoon, eighth-grader Eddie Huckstadter, considered a shy child and loner by his teachers, had finally responded to months of bullying by an outsized ninth-grader named Jeffrey Chenure. During the schoolyard confrontation, the much smaller Eddie had shoved his quarterback antagonist in the chest. Jeff Chenure stumbled backward, caught his balance, charged at Eddie, fists flailing. Before a blow could land, he cried out, fell flat on his back, lifeless.
Milo said, “Sounds like an accident or at the worst, self-defense. I’m surprised Huck served any juvey time.”
I ruffled the clippings. “This is what Fox wanted you to see. Maybe there’s more.”
The Internet brought up nothing on Eddie Huckstadter, nor did the name appear in any criminal data banks.
Milo said, “No surprise, there. If Fox had found any more dirt, he’d have
gifted
me with it.” He stood. “All that tea, gotta take a detour.”
During his absence, I phoned
The Ferris Ravine Clarion,
expecting a disconnected number. A female voice answered, “Clarion.”
I gave her a capsule I.D., asked for her name.
“Cora Brown, I’m the editor, publisher, opinion-editorial columnist, classified ad clerk. And I take out the trash. L.A. Police? Why?”
“It’s about a story you wrote several years ago. A boy named Eddie Huckstadt—”
“Eddie? Has the poor boy done something — I guess he’d be a man by now. Is he in trouble?”
“His name came up as a
Aaron Fox took a nanosecond to decide upon an emotion. Settled for placid. “Not invested, just aware of the facts.”
“Who hired you to research the guy?”
“I wish I could tell you.”
Reed said, “We’re supposed to ask for a warrant based on twenty-three-year-old information obtained illegally from an informant too chickenshit to come forward.”
Both brothers’ bodies tilted like lances.
Regressed, for an instant, to feuding children.
Fox broke the stare first, smiling and shrugging. “Moses, however Detective Sturgis deigns to utilize the data with which I am gifting him is not my concern.” He stood. “I’ve done my civic duty. Have a nice rest-of-the-day, gents.”
Reed said, “Your brain’s so functional, you’ll recall the statutes on obstruction.”
Fox smoothed a silk shirt collar. “Little bro, you
get
like that and I
know
you’re blowing more smoke than one of those clunkers you insist on driving.” To Milo: “Word has it there are other victims in the marsh. And that a press conference is on the horizon. It was me at the podium, I’d like a few factoids when those pesky questions start flying.”
Milo flicked the clippings with a big, square thumbnail. “We’ll be sure to pore over every word, Aaron. You tell us who hired you to scope out Huck and why, we might give them some credibility.”
“Their credibility isn’t in question,” said Fox. “Only issue is whether you decide to follow through.” Peeling a twenty from an alligator billfold, he let it float to the table.
Milo said, “Not necessary.”
“Thanks but no thanks,” said Fox. “I always pay my own way.”
Snapping a quick salute, he left the restaurant.
Moe Reed remained canted forward.
Milo said, “Your brother, huh?”
Reed nodded. “Vice has nothing on Sheralyn Dawkins but I’d better run over to the LAX stroll, see if I can learn something before I drive to San Diego.”
Erupting from his chair, he charged out before Milo could answer.
Milo said, “Ah, the joys of family life.”
I said, “Huck’s also from the San Diego area.”
“Funny thing about that. But why give Fox the satisfaction?”
We examined the clippings in Milo’s office. Three articles from
The Ferris Ravine Clarion
spaced a month apart, written by Cora A. Brown, the paper’s publisher and editor in chief. One piece covered the tragedy. Two follow-ups added nothing.
The facts were as Aaron Fox had summarized: On a hot May afternoon, eighth-grader Eddie Huckstadter, considered a shy child and loner by his teachers, had finally responded to months of bullying by an outsized ninth-grader named Jeffrey Chenure. During the schoolyard confrontation, the much smaller Eddie had shoved his quarterback antagonist in the chest. Jeff Chenure stumbled backward, caught his balance, charged at Eddie, fists flailing. Before a blow could land, he cried out, fell flat on his back, lifeless.
Milo said, “Sounds like an accident or at the worst, self-defense. I’m surprised Huck served any juvey time.”
I ruffled the clippings. “This is what Fox wanted you to see. Maybe there’s more.”
The Internet brought up nothing on Eddie Huckstadter, nor did the name appear in any criminal data banks.
Milo said, “No surprise, there. If Fox had found any more dirt, he’d have
gifted
me with it.” He stood. “All that tea, gotta take a detour.”
During his absence, I phoned
The Ferris Ravine Clarion,
expecting a disconnected number. A female voice answered, “Clarion.”
I gave her a capsule I.D., asked for her name.
“Cora Brown, I’m the editor, publisher, opinion-editorial columnist, classified ad clerk. And I take out the trash. L.A. Police? Why?”
“It’s about a story you wrote several years ago. A boy named Eddie Huckstadt—”
“Eddie? Has the poor boy done something — I guess he’d be a man by now. Is he in trouble?”
“His name came up as a
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