“Totally. I remember the door. I told Dahlia a red door could mean good luck in Asia. Dahlia laughed and said, ‘I don’t need luck, I’m adorable.’”

“Okay, thanks for all your help. Detective Reed will take you back.”

She turned to Reed. “You can just take me to my car. Or we could have lunch, I could call in sick.”

Reed’s voice was flat. “Whatever you want.”

Ati Meneng said, “I guess I’m hungry, they’ll probably yell at me, anyway.”

Milo ran the address. Taxes were paid by Oasis Finance Associates, an investment firm in Provo, Utah. A call there elicited the guarded admission from the controller that the owners were “non-U.S.-citizens who wish to retain their privacy.”

“Swiss or Asian?” said Milo.

“Pardon?”

“Swiss or Asian, which is it?”

“This is important?”

“It’s a murder investigation, Mr. Babcock. The victim’s a woman named Dahlia Gemein.”

“Gemein,” said the controller. “Then you already know.”

“I’ll take that to mean Swiss.”

“You never heard it from me.” Milo clicked off.

I said, “Daddy Gemein’s held on to the house two years after Dahlia disappeared. Maybe it’s the family’s West Coast getaway, as in sister gets to live here, too.”

Milo said, “Kinda cute and traditional for Helga, but with Daddy paying the bills, she’s flexible.” Gloving up, he loped up the driveway, paused to peer through windows, continued to the garage, tried the door. Locked, but he managed to budge it an inch from the ground, squint through the crack.

Standing, he dusted himself off. “Little red Boxster, red motorcycle, looks like a Kawasaki. Be interesting if either was spotted on or near Borodi.”

He called Don Boxmeister, gave him the info.

Perfect timing; the arson squad’s canvass was in full swing and a red bike had been spotted the day before the fire. Three blocks west of Borodi, parked illegally on a particularly dark section of street. The neighbor who’d seen it hadn’t bothered to call it in. Boxmeister’s other nugget was forensic: Initial analysis of residue found at the scene was consistent with vegan Jell-O, and scorched wires suggested electronic timing devices.

Milo gave Boxmeister Ati Meneng’s story, then hung up and searched the inside cover of a notepad where he keeps a list he doesn’t want on his computer: phone numbers of cooperative judges. Each time he begins a new pad, he recopies meticulously.

Running his finger down the small-print, back-slanted columns, he said, “This is your lucky day, Judge LaVigne.”

LaVigne was available in chambers and Milo went full-bore, making more of the blond jogger than was justified by the facts, labeling the red Kawasaki as “rock-solid physical evidence.” Emphasizing Helga Gemein’s virulent hatred for humanity and evasive behavior when initially questioned, he tossed in speculation about international terrorist links, maybe even neo-Nazi connections.