“A year, sir. Maybe more. I swear. You put me in the right place and I’ll do anything you—”

“Tell you what,” said Milo. “You cooperate, I won’t book you for the blade even though you were already warned. Or for resisting, even though you made me exercise.”

“Yes, sure, of course… what does cooperate mean?”

“You’re a material witness. I might even get you a snack.”

“That is so kind, sir… you did lose my Oreos.”

Hollywood Division obliged with an empty interview room where Milo stashed Tasha. He brought her a donut and a Coke, phoned Raul Biro at the murder scene on Rodney.

Biro was still waiting for access to the apartment, had some forensic guesses to pass along.

Tony Mancusi’s head had been sawed off right beneath the chin, leaving most of the neck’s internal structure intact. Care had been taken to sever vertebrae without breaking them.

Clean work; the coroner’s investigator’s guess was a large, extremely sharp, nonserrated blade, consistent with the weapon that had dispatched Ella Mancusi. The same weapon had probably been used on Tony’s fingers. Exploratory cuts on the other hand suggested intent for a bilateral amputation.

“Maybe he got bored,” said Biro. “Or ran out of time.”

Final disposition was the coroner’s purview but the C.I., a registered nurse with twenty years’ experience, admitted off the record that the hyoid cartilage appeared ruptured. Pinpoint hemorrhages in the eyes could’ve been due to a number of causes but, combined with the neck injury, strangulation was a “decent possibility, let’s see if the doc agrees.”

Milo looked for the Altair Terrace address in a Thomas Guide, found a single block of curving, dead-end tributary off the northeastern edge of Beachwood Drive.

Not far from a rent-a-horse ranch where I used to ride when I worked at Western Pediatric. Walking distance from Franklin Avenue, but heavily wooded and freakishly quiet. I remembered how bends in the trail opened abruptly to dry, flat mesas. The vulgar message of the Hollywood sign.

Milo said, “I’m starved,” and called out for four barbecued beef sandwiches from a place on Western. I had one, he ate two, he passed the last one to Tasha, who said, “Normally I stay away from red meat, but that smells yum.”

By six forty the sky was felt-gray deepening to black and we put her back in the Seville.

She said, “I’m still tasting that lovely sauce.”

Milo said, “Behave yourself and you can have dessert.”

“So kind, sir. I do like this car.”

I drove up Beachwood, parked two blocks south of Altair Terrace.

Milo unbelted. “Time for a little hike.”

“Sir, it’s uphill, you sure you’re okay?”

“Your concern is touching. Let’s go.”

“Is this guaranteed safe?”

“What are you worried about?”

“He could see me.”

“What makes you think he’s here?”

“You’re taking me here.”