Fidella's place was somewhere in the middle, with a neatly edged lawn but no landscaping other than a struggling banana plant inches from the sidewalk. The picture window was draped with what looked like a bedsheet. The Corvette was dirt-streaked, the concrete beneath its well-worn tires cracked and crumbling.

Milo said, "He didn't spend his casino dough on decor."

Fidella came out the door, unlit cigar in hand, and gave a small wave. Five six with a low center of gravity, he wore a whiskey-colored velour sweat suit and yellow flip-flops. He'd traded the red beard for a soul patch and let it go white. A hunk of something shiny gleamed from one earlobe.

"Play-ah," mumbled Milo. "What's your guess, diamond or zircon?"

Fidella studied us but didn't approach. Licking the tip of the cigar, he folded an arm across his chest.

"He look grief-stricken to you?"

"Wouldn't that be nice," I said.

"What?"

"He really is a murderous psychopath, you close it quick, Charlie gets into Yale and becomes president of the United States."

"Dare to dream." He got out of the car.

Sal Fidella extended a hand to Milo, then to me. "Hey. This stinks."

He had deep blue eyes, pudgy, oversized fingers, and a back-slanted gait that made his upper body look as if it were hurrying to catch up with his feet. A smooth basso radio-announcer voice could sell you things you didn't need.

The living room he led us into was Bachelor Cliche Central: black leather couches fitted with built-in head pillows and cup holders, matching ottoman in lieu of a coffee table set up with ashtrays, cigarette packs, a cigar box, a collection of remote controls. A wet bar favored tequila and rum. A stack of audiovisual gizmos took up most of the hearth. The sixty-inch flat-screen above the mantel was tuned to ESPN Classic, no sound. Lakers-Celtics play-off from back when giants were okay wearing short-shorts.

The adjoining dining room was unfurnished. An open doorway flashed a glimpse of bare kitchen counters. The window cover wasn't a bedsheet; a frayed, beige curtain had come loose from its rod, was held in place by duct tape and clothespins. The place smelled like a cocktail lounge after closing.

Fidella said, "Beer, guys? Something else?"

"No, thanks," said Milo.

"Mind if I do?"

"Suit yourself."

Fidella slouched to the bar, poured himself a double shot of Silver Patron, selected a lime wedge from a bowl of mixed citrus segments, and squirted the tequila.

Half the drink was gone by the time he sat facing us. "Can't believe Elise is gone. Crazy."

"Must've been tough discovering her," said Milo.