“It’s true. You never notice because you’re not a flirt.”

“Because I’m a space cadet?”

“Sometimes that, too.”

“Alex,” she said, “I’ve never come close to dropping a hint that this was anything other than business.”

“It needn’t have anything to do with you.”

“Great.”

“Hey,” I said, “what’s the worst that can happen? He makes a move and you gently deter him. Meanwhile you can e-mail him a friendly but formal thank-you note for the movies and tell him you and I are going to enjoy watching them.”

She stroked Blanche. “You’re right, I’m being silly. As they used to say in seventh grade, conceited.” She touched a hoop earring. Tossed her hair. Much better from her than from Tony Mancusi.

I played with the top button of her shirt.

She said, “Factor X, huh? Does that make you Mr. Y?”

We picked out two movies and watched from bed. Roman Holiday had held up beautifully over half a century. Breakfast at Tiffany’s hadn’t and when The End finally arrived, we were half asleep.

Cutting the lights, we touched fingertips. I murmured something I’m pretty sure was affectionate.

Robin said, “Audrey Hepburn was beautiful but I’m nothing like her,” and was out.

At ten the next morning, I picked Milo up at the station and drove to Barneys in Beverly Hills.

The ground floor was skinny girls hawking cosmetics. A blonde specializing in nail polish pointed out Rianna Ijanovic.

Tall, narrow brunette, one station down.

She smiled at us through a fragrant cloud. An array of sample atomizers adorned the counter. Shoppers and shopgirls chattered. Everyone chasing the next big thing in self-improvement. Milo identified himself and Rianna responded with the blank, frightened look of a toddler thrown off course.

She was thirty or so, pale and square-shouldered with hard, black eyes, optimistic breasts, and a face rescued from beauty by an off-kilter nose and a too-sharp chin.

“Police? I don’t understand.”

Milo said, “We’re here about Katrina Shonsky.”

“Oh, oh.” It came out aw, aw. Faint accent, barely audible over the magpie chorus.

“Could we talk somewhere quiet?”

Rianna Ijanovic tapped another perfume sprayer on the shoulder. “Cawver for me, okay?”

We left the department store through the front door on Wilshire, walked around the corner to Camden Drive, passed the entrance to the parking lot.

Milo said, “Ijanovic. Czech?”

“Croatian. I’m legal.”

“Even if you weren’t, it wouldn’t matter. We’re here about Katrina, that’s all.”

“I only know Katrina through another girl.”

“Beth Holloway?”

“Yes.”

“We tried Beth first, but she’s not working today and we don’t have a home number.”

“You wouldn’t find her at home,” said Rianna Ijanovic.

“Where is she?”

“Torrance. She met a man.” Sticking out her tongue.

“You don’t approve?” said Milo.

“I have an opinion, she has an opinion.”