“Her work background, Mr. Paprock. Before she became a real estate agent, did she do anything else?”

“Why?”

“Just collecting facts, sir.”

“She worked for a bank, okay? What kind of work did this Shipler do?”

“He was a janitor. What bank did she work for?”

“Trust Federal, over in Encino. She was a loan officer—that's how I met her. We used to channel our car loans through there and one day I went down there on a big fleet sale and she was at the loan desk.”

Milo took out his notepad and wrote.

“She would have probably made vice president,” said Paprock. “She was smart. But she wanted to work for herself, had enough of bureaucracies. So she studied for her broker's license at night, then quit. Was doing real well, lots of sales . . .”

He looked off to one side, fixing his gaze on a poster. Two perfect-looking, tennis-clad people getting into a turquoise Coupe de Ville with diamond-bright wire wheels. Behind the car, the marble-and-glass facade of a resort hotel. Crystal chandelier. Perfect-looking doorman smiling at them.

“Bureaucracies,” said Milo. “Did she deal with any others before the bank?”

“Yeah,” said Paprock, still turned away. “She taught school—but that was before I met her.”

“Here in L.A.?”

“No, up near Santa Barbara—Goleta.”

“Goleta,” said Milo. “Do you remember the name of the school?”

Paprock faced us again. “Some public school—why? What does her work have to do with anything?”

“Maybe nothing, sir, but please bear with me. Did she ever teach in L.A.?”

“Not to my knowledge. By the time she moved down here, she was fed up with teaching.”

“Why's that?”

“The whole situation—kids not interested in learning, lousy pay—what's to like about it?”

“A public school,” I said.

“Yeah.”

Milo said, “What subjects did she teach?”

“All of them, I guess. She taught fifth grade, or maybe it was fourth, I dunno. In elementary school, you teach all the subjects, right? We never really had any detailed discussions about it.”

“Did she teach anywhere before Goleta?” said Milo.

“Not as far as I know. I think that was her first job out of school.”

“When would that be?”

“Let's see, she graduated at twenty-two, she'd be forty this May.” He winced. “So that would have been, what, eighteen years ago. I think she taught maybe four or five years, then she switched to banking.”

He looked at the poster again and wiped his forehead.

Milo closed his pad. The sound made Paprock jump. His eyes met Milo's. Milo gave as gentle a smile as I'd ever seen him muster. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Paprock. Is there anything else you want to tell us?”

“Sure,” said Paprock. “I want to tell you to find the filthy fuck who killed my wife and put me in a room with him.” He rubbed his eyes. Made two fists and opened them and gave a sick smile. “Fat chance.”