We had coffee and took a long time deciding what to eat. Neither of us felt like talking. After a few moments, the silence began to feel like a luxury and I relaxed.

We finished a couple of fresh grapefruit juices and put in our breakfast order, holding hands until the food came. I'd just taken the first bite of my omelet when I spotted the hostess approaching. Two steps ahead of someone else.

A tall, broad someone, easily visible over her coiffure. Milo's jacket was light blue—a tint that clashed with his aqua shirt. Pigeon-gray pants and brown-and-blue-striped tie rounded off the ensemble. He had his hands in his pockets and looked dangerous.

The hostess kept her distance from him, clearly wanting to be somewhere else. Just before she reached our table, he stepped ahead of her. After kissing Robin, he took a chair from another table and pulled it up perpendicular to us.

“Will you be ordering, sir?” said the hostess.

“Coffee.”

“Yes, sir.” She walked away hastily.

Milo turned to Robin. “Welcome home. You look gorgeous, as ever.”

“Thank you, Milo—”

“Flight okay?”

“Just fine.”

“Every time I'm up in one of those things I wonder what gives us the right to break the law of gravity.”

Robin smiled. “To what do we owe the honor?”

He ran his hand over his face. “Has he told you about what's going on?”

She nodded. “We're thinking of moving into the shop until things clear up.”

Milo grunted and looked at the tablecloth.

The waiter brought the coffee and a place setting. Milo unfolded the napkin over his lap and drummed a spoon on the table. As the coffee was being poured, he glanced around the room, lingering on the suits in the far booth.

“Meals and deals,” he said, after the waiter left. “Either showbiz or crime.”

“There's a difference?” I said.

His smile was immediate but very weak—it seemed to torment his face.

“There's a new complication,” he said. “This morning I decided to have a go at the computer, tracking down any references to “bad love' in the case files. I really didn't expect to find anything, just trying to be thorough. But I did. Two unsolved homicides, one three years old, the other five. One beating, one stabbing.”

“Oh God,” said Robin.

He covered her hand with his. “Hate to spoil your breakfast, kids, but I wasn't sure when I'd be able to catch both of you. Service said you were here.”

“No, no, I'm glad you came.” She pushed her plate away and gripped Milo's hand.

“Who got killed?” I said.

“Does the name Rodney Shipler mean anything to you?”

“No. Is he a victim or a suspect?”

“Victim. What about Myra Paprock?”

He spelled it. I shook my head.

“You're sure?” he said. “Neither of them could have been old patients?”

I repeated both names to myself. “No—never heard of them. How does “bad love' figure into their murders?”