The Murder Book by Jonathan Kellerman

Pachuco. Our people were already there on a neighbor complaint. We ejected them before they even got out of the car.”
    “Where was the second party?”
    “That was the live one, big-time noise. Upper Stone Canyon Drive way above the hotel.”
    The locale Schwinn’s source had mentioned. “Whose house?”
    “Empty house,” said Del Monte. “The family bought a bigger one but didn’t get around to selling the first one and the parents took a vacation, left the kiddies behind and, big surprise, the kiddies decided to use the empty house for fun ’n’ games, invited the entire damn city. Must’ve been two, three hundred kids all over the place, cars — Porsches and other good wheels, and plenty of outside wheels. By the time we showed up, it was a scene. It’s a big property, coupla acres, no real close-by neighbors, but by now the closest neighbors were fed up.”
    “By now?” said Milo. “This wasn’t the first time?”
    Silence. “We’ve had a few other calls there. Tried to contact the parents, no luck, they’re always out of town.”
    “Spoiled brats.”
    Del Monte laughed. “You didn’t hear that from me. Anyway, what’s up with all this?”
    “Tracing a 187 victim’s whereabouts.”
    Silence. “Homicide? Nah, no way. This was just kids partying and playing music too loud.”
    “I’m sure you’re right,” said Milo. “But I’ve got rumors that my db might’ve attended a party on the Westside, so I’ve gotta ask. What’s the name of the family that owns the house?”
    Longer silence. “Listen,” said Del Monte. “These people — you do me wrong, I could be parking cars. And believe me, no one saw anything worse than drinking and screwing around — a few joints, big deal, right? Anyway, we closed it down.”
    “I’m just going through the routine, Officer,” said Milo. “Your name won’t come up. But if I don’t check it out,
I’ll
be parking cars. Who owns the house and what’s the address?”
    “A rumor?” said Del Monte. “There had to be tons of parties Friday night.”
    “Any party we hear about, we look into. That’s why yours won’t stick out.”
    “Okay… the family’s named Cossack.” Del Monte uttered it weightily, as if that was supposed to mean something.
    “Cossack,” said Milo, keeping his tone ambiguous.
    “As in office buildings, shopping malls — Garvey Cossack. Big downtown developer, part of that bunch wanted to bring another football team to L.A.”
    “Yeah, sure,” lied Milo. His interest in sports had peaked with Pop Warner baseball. “Cossack on Stone Canyon. What’s the address?”
    Del Monte sighed and read off the numbers.
    “How many kids in the family?” said Milo.
    “Three — two boys and a girl. Didn’t see the daughter, there, but she could’ve been.”
    “You know the kids personally?”
    “Nah, just by sight.”
    “So the boys threw the party,” said Milo. “Names?”
    “The big one’s Garvey Junior and the younger one’s Bob but they call him Bobo.”
    “How old?”
    “Junior’s probably twenty-one, twenty-two, Bobo’s maybe a year younger.”
    More than kids,
thought Milo.
    “They gave us no trouble,” said Del Monte. “They’re just a couple guys like to have fun.”
    “And the girl?”
    “Her I didn’t see.”
    Milo thought he picked up something new in Del Monte’s voice. “Name?”
    “Caroline.”
    “Age?”
    “Younger — maybe seventeen. It was really no big deal, everyone dispersed. My message said you’re Central. Where was your db found?”
    Milo told him.
    “There you go,” said Del Monte. “Fifteen miles from Bel Air. You’re wasting your time.”
    “Probably. Three hundred partying kids just caved when you showed up?”
    “We’ve got experience with that kind of thing.”
    “What’s the technique?” said Milo.
    “Use sensitivity,” said the rent-a-cop. “Don’t treat ’em like you would a punk from Watts or East L.A. ’cause these kids are accustomed to a certain