Grabbing a section of his own gut, he squeezed hard, rolled the adipose. “Too fat. Used to drink G and T’s, now it’s just sugarless T.” He drank from the bottle, failed to suppress a belch. “Mom never gained a pound from the day she was married.”

“She watched her diet?” said Milo.

Mancusi smiled. “Never had to, she could eat pasta, sugar, anything. I get it from Dad. He died of a heart attack. I need to watch myself.”

“The old cholesterol.”

Mancusi shook his head. “Mom — did they hurt her?”

“They?”

“Whoever. Was it bad? Did she suffer? Tell me she didn’t.”

“It was quick,” said Milo.

“Oh, God.” More tears.

Milo handed him a tissue from the mini-pack he always brings to notifications. “Mr. Mancusi, the reason I asked about your mother’s social life is we do have an eyewitness who describes the assailant as around her age.”

Mancusi’s fingers flexed. The tissue dropped. “What?”

Milo repeated Edward Moskow’s description of the killer, including the blue plaid cap.

Mancusi said, “That’s nuts.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell?”

Mancusi flipped his hair again. “Of course not. Dad had a bunch of caps like that. After he went bald and didn’t want sun on his head. This is totally insane.”

Milo said, “What about a black Mercedes S600? That ring any bells?”

“Don’t know anything about cars,” said Mancusi.

“It’s a big four-door sedan,” said Milo. “Top-of-the-line model.”

“Mom wouldn’t know anyone with a car like that. She was a teacher, for God’s sake!”

“Please don’t be offended by this next question, Mr. Mancusi, but did your mother know anyone associated — even remotely — with organized crime?”

Mancusi laughed. Kicked the vomit fleck. “Because we’re Italian?”

“It’s something we need to look into—”

“Well, guess what, Lieutenant: Mom wasn’t Italian. She was German, her maiden name was Hochswelder. Italian was Dad’s side, he grew up in New York, claimed when he was a kid he knew all kinds of Mafia guys. Had all these stories.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Bodies tossed out of cars, guys getting shot in barber chairs. But no way, no, that’s nuts, those were just stories and Mom hated them, called them ‘coarse.’ Her idea of suspense was Murder, She Wrote, not The Sopranos.”

He returned to the kitchen, placed the tonic water bottle on a counter. “Gambling, gangsters — this is ridiculous.”

“I’m sure it seems that way, but—”

“There’s no reason for her to be dead, okay? No reason, no fucking reason. It’s stupid, insane, shouldn’t have happened — could you stand up?”

“Pardon?”

“Stand up,” said Mancusi. “Please.”

After Milo obliged, Mancusi slipped behind him and yanked down on the Murphy bed. Halfway through, he breathed in sharply, slammed a palm into the small of his back, and straightened. “Disk.”

Milo finished the job, revealing a wafer-thin mattress, gray sheets once white.