"Long as it's structural, babe, not civil."

I drove up to Fat Boy just after six. Half the counter stools were occupied, same for the booths. The same scalding-oil smell.

Doris was tending to a party of cheerful Hispanic kids, unloading a tray full of fried food. "Uh-uh, too busy, can't break my rhythm."

We stood to the side. She finished and walked past us and we tagged along.

"Enough, I told you everything I know."

"Two seconds to look at a picture and we're out of your way."

"It goes to three seconds, you're tipping me."

Milo showed her the six-pack. A blunt-nailed finger jabbed Trey Franck's face. "That's him, satisfied?"

"Extremely. I'm even willing to tip." He reached into his pocket.

"Don't insult me," said Doris. Then she laughed, punched his shoulder lightly. "I'm giving you attitude 'cause that's what I do, boys. What, the kid's a dangerous criminal?"

"Not so far."

"But maybe."

"Not even maybe, Doris."

"Tease," she said. "You ever solve this thing, come back and I'll trade you the gory details for lunch." Another punch. "But you still have to tip."

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER
18

Milo worked the phone as I picked up the freeway.

Well past working hours at Caltech but he tried the chemical engineering department again. Same recording.

"They're definitely blowing something up."

DMV gave up an address for Tremaine L. Franck two blocks from campus. Forty-five minutes later we were pulling up to a six-unit dingbat, enhanced by two flowering magnolia trees but otherwise sad. A tilting bicycle rack stood near the entrance. A single chain coiled around the slats but no bikes in sight.

Inside, the place smelled like a dorm with two-wheelers crowding a dim hallway. Green walls were chipped and cracked, ravaged carpeting was worn down to the padding in spots, hip-hop blared through plywood doors. One section of the hallway had been glued with hundreds of pennies. Crude black-marker lettering above the array: Penny Paved Is Penny Ioned.

No music leaked from Trey Franck's unit. No answer to Milo's knock. He slipped his card between the jamb and the door, with a message to call asap.

"Let's grab a bite in Olde Towne, try him again. I know a fish-and-chips place, got the whole English pub thing going on. Ever throw darts?"

Five minutes later, as I neared Colorado Boulevard, his cell beeped a Bach fugue.

"Mr. Franck, thanks for calling back. Listen, I was wondering if we could talk about Elise Freeman... you haven't heard? Sorry to be the one to tell you but she's passed... no, not naturally... we're not certain yet... that would be good, Mr. Franck... Trey it is... no, it won't take long at all, Trey.