I followed him to Wilshire, turned left. At Warner he pulled over, motioned me to do the same.

“Aborted mission. No answer at the Hedges, not exactly the time to leave a message. Let’s check out the place where Kat worked. You’re a fashionable guy.”

“Not really.”

“Too bad,” he said. “I was hoping you could interpret.”

La Femme Boutique was on San Vicente west of Barrington, squeezed between a coffee emporium specializing in Indonesian brew and a hair salon crowded with beautiful heads.

The shop was high, narrow, and white, hung with vintage absinthe posters and floored in weathered, wine-colored marble. The few pieces of furniture were heavy and Victorian, the clothes in the window frothy and fitted to malnourished mannequins.

No shoppers in sight. Milo and I passed through a narrow aisle walled by double-high racks. Some of the dresses and tops were marked Sale, which put them into three figures.

Edith Piaf on the stereo, Made in France on the labels.

Designers I’d never heard of, but that meant nothing.

He said, “I didn’t look that closely at the stuff in Kat’s pad but it wasn’t like this. She didn’t have any scarves, either — hey, how’s it going?”

Addressing a hollow-cheeked brunette in a black lace top, sitting behind the sales counter, drinking Evian and reading InStyle. Behind her was a high shelf of bath toys, fruit-shaped candles, pastes and gels that wouldn’t get past airport security.

She got up and glided around the counter, head back, hips leading, like a runway model. Thirty, give or take, with deeply shadowed dark eyes. Makeup thick as cake frosting worked at masking a complexion not much better than Milo’s. The black top was tucked tight into cream calfskin jeans.

“Hey, guys. Someone buying a guilt gift or are we talking birthday?”

Milo tugged his lapel to one side and revealed his shield. “Police. Katrina Shonsky’s body was just found a few miles away. She was murdered.”

Hollow cheeks puffed. Eyelids vibrated. “Omigod, omigod — Kat!”

She bent at the knees. I caught her elbow, walked her to a puce velvet divan. Milo fetched her water bottle and dribbled some between her lips.

She gulped. Started to hyperventilate. I returned to the counter and got a shopping bag printed with the store’s name. By the time I got back, she was breathing normally and talking to Milo.

Her name was Amy Koutsakas but she called herself Amelie, had been working with Kat Shonsky for just over a year. At first she sang the dead woman’s praises. We sat that out and let the shock wear off and soon she was confiding that she and Kat hadn’t been close. “Not that I’m bad-mouthing her. God forbid.”

Milo said, “You guys just didn’t hit it off.”

“We never fought, but to be honest, Lieutenant, we had different professional views.”

“Of what?”

“This job. Kat could be tactless.”