"Sure— anywhere," said Milo.

The man smiled uncomfortably. "Didn't want to mess something up."

"No problem, Mr. Ulrich. Thanks for coming."

Paul Ulrich turned off the engine and he and the woman got out. He was medium-size, late thirties to forty, solidly built, with a well-cured beach tan and a nubby, sunburned nose. His crew cut was dun-colored, soft-looking to the point of fuzziness, with lots of pinkish scalp glowing through. As if all his hair-growing energy had been focused on the mustache, an extravagance as wide as his face, parted into two flaring red-brown wings, stiff with wax, luxuriant as an old-time grenadier's. His sole burst of flamboyance, and it clashed with haberdashery that seemed chosen for inconspicuousness on Century Park East: charcoal suit, white button-down shirt, navy and silver rep tie, black wing-tips.

He held the woman's elbow as they made their way toward us. She was younger, late twenties, as tall as he, thin and narrow-shouldered, with a stiff, tentative walk that belied any hiking experience. Her skin tone said indoors, too. More than that: indoor pallor. Chalky-white edged with translucent blue, so pale she made Milo look ruddy. Her hair was dark brown, almost black, boy-short, wispy. She wore big, black-framed sunglasses, a mocha silk blazer over a long brown print dress, flat-soled, basket-weave sandals.

Milo said, "Ms. Stratton," and she took his hand reluctantly. Up close, I saw rouge on her cheeks, clear gloss on chapped lips. She turned to me.

"This is Dr. Delaware, Ms. Stratton. Our psychological consultant."

"Uh-huh," she said. Unimpressed.

"Doctor, these are our witnesses— Ms. Tanya Stratton and Mr. Paul Ulrich. Thanks again for showing up, folks. I really appreciate it."

"Sure, no prob," said Ulrich, glancing at his girlfriend. "I don't know what else we can tell you."

The shades blocked Stratton's eyes and her expression. Ulrich had started to smile, but he stopped mid- way. The mustache straightened.

He, trying to fake calm after what they'd been through. She, not bothering. The typical male-female mambo. I tried to imagine what it had been like, peering into that van.

She touched a sidepiece of her sunglasses. "Can we get this over quickly?"

"Sure, ma'am," Milo said. "The first time we talked, you didn't notice anything out of the ordinary, but sometimes people remember things afterward—"

"Unfortunately, we don't," said Tanya Stratton. Her voice was soft, nasal, inflected with that syllable-stretching California female twang. "We went over it last night because we were coming here to meet you. But there's nothing."

She hugged herself and looked to the right. Over at the spot. Ulrich put his arm around her. She didn't resist him, but she didn't give herself over to the embrace.

Ulrich said, "So far our names haven't been in the paper. We're going to be able to keep it that way, aren't we, Detective Sturgis?"

"Most likely," said Milo.

"Likely but not definitely?"