We waited until traffic thinned to cross Venice, put Chavez in the car. The dope reek embedded in his clothes saturated the interior and Milo cranked open a window. "Tell me about dry ice, Gilberto."

"Huh?"

"Kids paying you to buy dry ice."

"Huh?"

"Last week, in the Valley. Some kids gave you marijuana after you bought them dry ice."

Blank stare from Chavez.

"Hielo seco," said Milo. "Muy frio. Some kids asked you to--"

"Oh," said Chavez, grinning broadly.

"Something's funny, Gilberto?"

Chavez turned serious. "This no about weed?"

"It's about dry ice."

"What the problem?"

"No problem, just tell me about the kids."

"Girls."

"The kids were girls?"

"Oh, yeh, nice," said Chavez. "Very nice."

"How many?"

"Two."

"How old?"

"I dunno."

"Guess."

"Huh?"

"How old?"

"Eighteen?"

"Why'd they want dry ice?"

"I dunno."

"How much weed they give you?"

Silence.

Milo dug up a business card and flashed it in front of Chavez's bloodshot orbs. "See what it says here? Homicide. I don't care about dope."

Chavez's blank look said he wasn't processing. Illiteracy or too much THC.

"Homicide, Gilberto. Know what that is?"

"Someone get kill?"

"Yes, Gilberto."

"So?"

"So the ice you bought was involved in someone being killed."

Chavez's mouth dropped open. Anxiety burned through some of his high and his eyes sharpened. "Oh, no. No no, no, no, no!"

"Yes, yes, yes. Tell me about the two girls."

"I dint do nothin'."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

"I dint do nothin'."

"Okay. Now tell me about the girls."

"I dint do nothin'."

We drove Chavez to West L.A. station where a claustrophobic solo cell was available because no psychotics were in residence in the holding jail. Milo's repeated attempts to open Chavez up failed. He seemed to drop in and out of lucidity.

We left him curled on the floor, snoring, and climbed to Milo's office on the second floor. He shuffled through messages, tossed everything.

"There's enough product in that bag to keep him here on a possession with intent. Maybe jail food'll convince him to look at pictures of those girls."

"You think they're in a mug book?"

"I think they're in another book. Let's get outta here."

This time we drove straight up to the Windsor Prep guardhouse. Herb Walkowicz emerged, khakis pressed, an old-fashioned visor cap jaunty on his head. "Hey, guys, gonna get me in trouble again?"

"We'll do our best," said Milo. "Dr. Rollins in?"

"Since eight a.m." Eye roll. "Unless she climbed over a back fence or something without snagging her designer pantsuit. She in trouble?"

"I just need to talk to her."

Walkowicz looked disappointed. "I'd like to see that one in an interview room without her damn BlackBerry."

"Not a pleasant gal, Herb?"

"You could say that." Wink wink. "You could also say she's a tight-assed, snobby bitch. But you never heard that from me."

"What about her boss?"