“Tent City?”

Maisonette flashed rotten teeth. “We call it the Sidewalk Suburb. I’m in and out of there all the time, all you had to do was ask. Flash enough trash, some junkie would’ve sold me out.”

Speaking softly, clearly. His clothes were in tatters but over the phone he’d sound like a refined man.

Milo said, “Your P.O. have any idea you crashed there?”

Bradley Maisonette laughed. “Those people? Never talk to them.”

We took Maisonette back to Hollywood station.

He said, “What are the charges?”

Milo said, “Offhand I can think of trespassing, attempted burglary, resisting arrest. Give me some time and I’ll come up with more.”

“Small stuff. I’ll cope.”

“No need to if you talk to us.”

“That simple, huh?”

“Why not?”

“Nothing ever is.”

Maisonette ended up in the same room Tasha had marked with a floral bouquet of perfume and lotions. He exuded the sour, unwashed reek that had filled the Seville on the drive over.

He sniffed, frowned, as if aware of his own odor for the first time.

Milo offered him something to drink.

Maisonette said, “I’ll take a steak. Filet mignon, medium rare inside, charred crisp on the outside, with some nice fried onions. Caesar salad to start, extra dressing. Red wine. I prefer California over French — Pinot Noir.”

“Cooperate, Bradley, I can get you caviar.”

“Hate that stuff. Tastes like bad pussy.”

“Turn either down often?”

Maisonette smiled.

“Why were you trying to break into Wilson Good’s crib?”

“No one was breaking in anywhere.”

Under bright light, Maisonette’s skin was sallow, scored, sun-spotted. Red-rimmed eyes drooped. Thirty-one years old, but he could’ve been his father’s age. Crude tattoos brocading his arms did nothing to hide tortured veins and knotted track-smudges.

Milo said, “What were you doing there?”

“Trying to see Will.”

“Why?”

“He called me.”

“When?”

“Last week.”

“You have a phone?”

“I stand corrected,” said Maisonette. “He sent his girlfriend to Fourth Street and she invited me. Said Will and I needed to talk.”

“About what?”

“She didn’t say.”

“You went over anyway.”

“A week later.”

Milo said, “She didn’t have to spell it out. You knew.”

Maisonette’s eyes contemplated resistance.

He said, “What the hell.” Gave a slow, weary nod.

“What was the topic?” said Milo.

“Twan,” said Maisonette. “There’s nothing else between Will and me.”

“Good wanted to talk about Antoine Beverly.”

“Just the opposite. The girlfriend said Will wanted to discuss not talking. He’d explain when I got there.”

“Who’s this girlfriend?”

“White girl, freckles, calls herself Andy.”

I said, “That’s his wife.”

Maisonette grinned. “You believe everything you hear?”

“Why would she lie about that?” said Milo.

“Will’s been stringing her along for ten years. Coaches at a church school, has to look all respectable, so he tells the priests he’s married. But they never filed paper.”

“Ten years, huh?”