Milo took out his pad. “How about some details on the Danish case.”

“A woman named Palma Mogensen was working as an au pair for a family in La Jolla when she met an American marine in Oceanside. Unfortunately, she was already married to a Danish man and after she stopped returning her husband’s e-mails, he showed up.”

“Things get nasty?”

“Oh, no,” said Gustafson. “Everyone talked it out and the couple returned to Copenhagen.”

“Civilized,” said Milo.

“We try to be good influences, Lieutenant.”

“You and the Danes.”

“All of us who must contend with endless night. It breeds a certain patience.”

Gustafson headed back toward the revolving door, managed to sidle in as the mechanism remained in motion.

Milo said, “Swedish, Danish—time for a pastry.”

We found a coffee shop in the Village. Two bear claws and a crème-filled chocolate eclair for him, a coffee for me. Later, we were back in the station parking lot.

“Jogging,” he said. “Sports bra. This is gonna be another washout day.”

He was wrong.

One message slip atop his computer. Barely legible scrawl. He squinted, put on reading glasses. Frowned. “Now it’s Mrs. Holman wanting a meeting.” Punching numbers. “Ms. Holman, Lieutenant Sturgis, I got your—about that? Really. Why don’t you tell me what it is you… Sure, we can meet but if you could just fill me in before—you sound upset, Ms. Holman… Yes, of course we appreciate leads, I can be there in thirty, forty minutes, that work for you? … Fine, then. You’re sure there’s nothing you can—all right, then, Ms. Holman, I’m on my way.”

He placed the phone in its cradle as if it were breakable. “That’s one very uptight architect and her voice says she’s been working on the gin.”

“She knows something about the fire?”

“Claims to but wouldn’t say what. I guess I should call Boxmeister. I guess I won’t.”

Another pretty day at the canals.

Marjorie Holman was out on her front porch, wearing a black sweater and slacks and looking like a model for a high-end retirement community.

Next to her stood a tall, white-haired, goateed man close to seventy. His gaunt frame was a wire hanger for a black suit and turtleneck.

Milo muttered, “Looks like a funeral.”

No sign of Professor Ned Holman.

His wife waved us up impatiently. The man in the black suit didn’t budge, even when we were two feet away. His eyes were blue and world-weary. Stick limbs, a long neck, and a beak nose evoked an egret. Mournful bird on a bad fishing day.

“This is Judah Cohen,” said Holman. “My former partner.” Husky voice; the slight slurring Milo had picked up over the phone.

“Mr. Cohen.”

“Lieutenant.” Cohen studied the floorboards. “What’s on your mind, Ms. Holman?” She hooked a thumb. “Inside.”