"It was a matter of survival," I said. "And here's something I've never told anyone: I enrolled at the U. under false pretenses. My mother had an old friend who'd made her own escape--moving to Oakland, becoming a teacher. She knew what I was contending with, lied about being my aunt and my guardian, claimed I'd been a California resident for years. Without that, I could've never afforded the out-of-state tuition. I stayed with her for two weeks, mowed her lawn, painted her gutters. Then I bought her some daisies, left a note and cut out again in the middle of the night, drove down to L.A. It wasn't until my postdoc at Langley Porter that I even saw Oakland again."

"My buddy the miscreant. Time to revoke your degrees."

I said, "Fraud's below your pay grade." A mile later: "If you add up the alumni contributions I've made, they exceed the difference."

He laughed. "Everything needs to be atoned for, huh?"

"You have to start somewhere."

Back at his office, Milo phoned Dr. Clarice Jernigan at the coroner's office.

Last year, he'd closed the murder of one of Jernigan's investigators, a man named Bobby Escobar, though the solve was officially recorded as a Sheriff's Homicide victory. Back when the case had looked hopeless, Jernigan flippantly offered to trade priority cutting for resolution on Bobby.

Woman of her word.

Milo switched his phone to conference as Jernigan's crisp voice filled his tiny office.

"Just sewed up your victim, Milo. Which demigod do you have inroads with besides me?"

"What do you mean, Doc?"

"Freeman's body comes in, leapfrogs immediately over our backlog, straight to the table, along with an unsigned message slip on different paper from the ones we use with orders for me to get to it stat and keep the findings to myself. When I call my boss, he's not in, even though I know he is. My C.I. is sure the slip wasn't with the body when it came in, our drivers say the same thing, so somehow, this body got tagged without our spotting it. I figure maybe it was you, you're pushing our arrangement a bit, but fine. Then moments after the body hits the table someone calls my private cell line--the ones my kids use--and warns me to be discreet on Elise Freeman. I think the exact phrase was 'This needs to be handled ultra-quietly.' When I try to ask why, she hangs up."

"Who's she?"

"Someone who identified herself as calling from Parker. Is it true?"

"Probably."

"What's going on, Milo? I Googled Freeman and she's not rich or famous or otherwise noteworthy."

"It's complicated, Doc."