“Insane nightmare.” Mancusi lowered his head. Gasped.

“You okay, sir?”

“Little short of breath.” He sat up, breathed slowly. “I get that way when I’m stressed.”

Milo said, “If you don’t mind, we’ve got a few more questions.”

Mancusi said, “What?”

“After your father passed, did your mother have any romantic relationships?”

“Romantic? She liked books. Watched a few soap operas. That was her romantic.” He flipped his hair, cocked his head, smoothed a peroxide strand from a sweat-soaked brow.

Effete symphony of movements that recalled the posturing Ed Moskow had observed.

“Any close friends, male or female?”

Mancusi shook his head, noticed the vomit fleck on the floor, and raised his eyebrows. The carpet was grease-stained, fuzzed by crumbs and dust bunnies. Some sort of beige, darkened to the hue of a smoker’s teeth.

“No social life at all?” said Milo.

“Nothing. After she retired, Mom liked to be by herself. All the L.A. Unified bullshit. She put up with it for thirty years.”

“So she became a private person.”

“She was always a private person. Now she could be herself.” Mancusi stifled a sob. “Oh, Mom…”

“It’s a tough thing to deal with,” said Milo.

Silence.

“Did your mother have any hobbies?”

“What?”

Milo repeated the question.

“Why?”

“I’m trying to know her.”

“Hobbies,” said Mancusi. “She liked puzzles — crosswords, Sudoku. Sudoku was her favorite, she liked numbers. She had a math certificate but they had her teaching social studies.”

“Any other games?”

“What do you mean? She was a teacher. She didn’t get… this didn’t happen because of her hobbies. This was a… a… a lunatic.”

“So no hobbies or interests that might have gotten her into debt?”

Mancusi’s watery brown eyes drifted to Milo’s face. “What are you talking about?”

“These are questions we need to ask, Mr. Mancusi. Did your mom buy lottery tickets, do online poker, anything of that nature?”

“She didn’t even own a computer. Neither do I.”

“Not into the Internet?”

“Why are you asking this? You said she wasn’t robbed.”

“Sorry,” said Milo. “We need to be thorough.”

“My mother did not gamble.”

“Was she a person of regular habits?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did she have routines — like coming out the same time each morning to collect the paper.”

Mancusi sat there, eyes glazed, not moving.

“Sir?”

“She got up early.” He clutched his belly. “Ohh… here we go again.”

Another rush to the sink. This time, dry heaves left him coughing and panting. He opened a space-saver fridge, took out a bottle of something clear that he uncapped, and swigged. Returned with the liquid still in hand.

Diet tonic water.