Sixteen Michael Brownings. Narrowing the search to the three who lived in the Valley and cross-checking business listings turned up one accountant: Michael J. Browning, office on Lankershim, near Universal Studios.

One-year-old Saab, another clean record.

“A mailroom flunky and a number cruncher,” said Milo. “No reason for either of them to have car-boosting skills, but let’s talk to them anyway.”

Creative Representation and Promotion occupied a travertine-and-green-glass fortress near the intersection of Wilshire and Santa Monica. Inside was more of the same beige stone. A mural of stiff people watching a movie dominated the three-story, skylit lobby. A milky sky-light aimed for an indoor-outdoor effect but missed. Mussolini loved travertine but got strung up before he could remodel Rome.

A pair of male receptionists in gunmetal silk shirts hid themselves behind a high counter and whispered into tiny phones suspended from their ears. A beefy black man in a bad suit stood to their side.

Milo strode up to one of the gray-shirts and held out his badge. The security man smiled and remained in place. The receptionist kept talking. From the sound of it a personal chat.

Milo waited, slapped a hand on the counter. The security guy smiled wider as the receptionist jumped.

“Hold on.” Sudden smile, as sincere as silicon. “Are you here for a meeting?”

“We’re here to see Rory Cline.”

“Who might that be?”

“He works in the mailroom.”

“The mailroom doesn’t take calls.”

“It’s taking this one.”

“Uh-uh-uh. Working hours are—”

“Irrelevant. Call him.”

Grayshirt shrank back. Glanced at the security guard. Saw a broad back.

“Look, I don’t even know how to get anyone there.”

Milo said, “Time to learn.”

It took several calls delivered in a perplexed whisper, and frantic repetition of the word “police” before Grayshirt said, “He’s on his way, you can wait over there.”

We hung by the brown chairs. Five minutes later an elevator slid open and a narrow, round-shouldered, dark-haired man strode toward us.

Rory Cline looked every minute of forty and then some, with hollow cheeks and eyes to match. His spiky do fit him like lipstick fits a goldfish. His white shirt was wrinkled and limp as a used Kleenex. A skinny black tie dangled below the cinched belt line of gray pipe-stem trousers.

He pointed to the front doors, hurried past us, left the building.

We found him half a block down on Linden Drive, hands jammed in his pockets, pacing.

“Mr. Cline?”

“What are you doing to me? Now everyone’ll think I’m a felon!”

Milo said, “In your business, maybe that could be career-enhancing.”