Milo fumbled in his pocket, flipped the phone open. "Switched off by accident." Glancing at me. "Unless Freud was right and there are no accidents."

I said, "Freud was wrong about lots of things but this one I'll leave up to you."

"Huh." He turned to Binchy. "What'd this guy have to say about Mendoza?"

"No details, just that he wants to talk to you."

"How did he know to ask for me?"

"Beats me, Loot." Binchy pulled out his pad. "Name's Edwin Kenten, here's the number."

"Kenten phoned personally?"

"Yup. Why wouldn't he?"

"What I've been told, he's a guy gets people to do things for him."

Edwin Kenten put the lie to that by answering his own phone. His voice was nasal, thin, softened by a musical accent--wetlands Florida, southern Georgia.

"Lieutenant Sturgis, thanks for calling back promptly."

"No problem, Mr. Kenten. Who referred you to me?"

"Marty Mendoza's family gave me your name and it's Marty I'd like to talk to you about. I know you're extremely busy, sir, but if there's some way we could meet, I'd be grateful. We could have tea in my office. I'm in Westwood, Wilshire near Broxton."

"What's a good time, Mr. Kenten?"

"At your convenience, Lieutenant."

"I can be there in twenty."

"I'll leave your name with my parking man."

A gracious fourteen-story office building clad in limestone and brick and crowned by hand-carved moldings took up the southwest corner of Wilshire and Glendon.

Butting up against all that architecture was Edwin Kenten's fifteen-story headquarters, an assertively ugly off-white rectangle striped with garish blue glass.

"The gift," said Milo, "and the box it came in."

KNT Enterprises took up the top floor of the shipping carton, accessible by a key-operated elevator marked Private. The parking lot attendant was built like a bouncer, with a wide smile as deep as a decal. Phoning for authorization, he produced the key, turned twice. "Mr. K.'s ready for you. Have a nice day."

We stepped into a windowless, off-white waiting room carpeted in shag the color of a puppy's accident. An unmarked door at the rear was painted matte gray. The amenities consisted of four folding chairs haphazardly positioned, a coffee table hosting a jar of crumbling biscotti, a few plastic bottles of generic water, and two leaning-tower heaps of old magazines.

The man waiting for us was sixty-five to seventy, pudgy and bald on top with gray curls tufting above leprechaun ears. A powder-blue silk shantung shirt billowed over pink linen pants and white patent loafers. The shirt matched the man's curious eyes. The trousers color-coordinated with a diamond pinkie ring. The face of his wristwatch was larger than some cell phones.

He inspected both of us, guessed correctly. "Lieutenant? Eddie Kenten."

"Good to meet you, sir. This is Alex Delaware."

"Pleasure. You boys come in."