The man who came to the door wore a white shirt and gray tie, held a Palm Pilot in one hand, a stylus in the other. The furnishings behind him ran the gamut of green. The aroma of bacon had settled comfortably.

He poked the Palm, gave a befuddled look. Fifty or so, with the kind of bluish beard that never looks completely shaved and a salt-and-pepper brush cut. He screwed up his mouth as if yet another load of confusion had just been foisted onto his weary shoulders.

Milo's I.D. elicited a one-second examination. "Police? There was a burglary? Since the trains started running we're getting more unsavories, just like we worried about. But no serious problems. Yet."

"You're Mr. Blevins?"

"Harvey. What's up?"

"We'd like to talk to Brianna."

"Now what?"

"You've had problems with Brianna?"

"Maybe one day she'll settle down, get married, pump out a grandchild, and I'll understand why I became a parent in the first place." Blevins laughed, as if to scour bitterness from his voice. "Yes, she's given me problems. What the heck has she gone and done?"

Milo said, "We're looking at Brianna as a witness, not a suspect, Mr. Blevins, so if you could tell us where she is--"

"Don't know where she is, that's part of the problem. She's just like her mother, talk about genetics--here, come on in while I get my laptop."

We sat on a stiff green sofa as Blevins tucked his computer under his arm. "Excuse the mess."

The house was neater than a marine barracks at inspection. Despite the bacon perfume, the kitchen was spotless and a dishwasher hummed.

"Looks fine to me," said Milo.

"That's always Bri's excuse," said Blevins. "'Looks fine to me, Dad, you want better, do it yourself.'"

"You're divorced from her mom?"

"Ten years ago but Glorietta's six feet under. Eight years, driving drunk. Luckily no one else got hurt."

I said, "By 'just like her mother' did you mean Brianna has a drinking problem?"

"She doesn't have one yet," said Blevins. "No teetotaler but she seems able to hold it, like I can. Due to my ex's issues, I did a lot of reading on the subject and it's a brain chemistry thing, luck of the draw."

"So her problems are--"

"She's got slut problems," said Blevins. "I know that sounds bad, a father shouldn't talk about his kid that way, but facts are facts. Even there, I can't blame her totally, it's also in the brain, Glorietta was a total round-heels, I didn't find out the extent until all these idiots show up at the funeral and start confessing to me. Classy, huh?"