Leaving the man to puzzle that out, we left the station and stepped out into warm night air. Cruisers pulled in and out of the staff lot. A uniform stood near the fence, smoking and texting on his iPhone. A shabby-looking man stepped out of the bail-bond office half a block up and slouched toward Santa Monica. A woman walking her dog saw him and crossed the street. When she spied the badge clipped to Milo’s jacket pocket, she relaxed.

Traffic hummed. The air smelled like hot tar.

Milo breathed in deeply, spread his arms wide. “I love when something finally happens.”

“Weinberg changed his mind?”

“Screw Weinberg, that was no chief with a small c.”

“His Holiness?”

“In all his celestial glory. Turns out he thinks putting Helga’s face on the news is a capital idea. As long as it ‘leads somewhere and you don’t end up making me look like a histrionically overreacting conspiracy-nut paranoid schizo loony-tune.’”

“Congratulations,” I said. “Now all you have to do is get that passport photo.”

“Already delivered to the networks,” he said.

“Palace guards move fast.”

“You bet,” he said, lighting up a cigar. “Miss Skinhead debuts at ten. Sports and weather to follow.”

CHAPTER

30

Robin and I watched the news in bed, Blanche wedged between us, dozing and alternating between snorts and squeaks, flicks of her left bat-ear.

The story was the final segment of a slow news day. Someone not looking for it might’ve missed it.

Twelve seconds total, half of that featuring a cloudy passport shot of a barely recognizable Helga Gemein with blunt-bangs black hair. No mention of nationality, terrorism, murder. Just a woman considered a “person of interest” in an arson case, anyone with information was requested to call Lieutenant Miller Sturgis at…

“Now on to tonight’s caught-in-the-act feature, with celebrity heiress Roma Sheraton found shopping for jeans on Robertson with no makeup and looking as if she just woke up on the wrong side of the bed! For more on that, here’s entertainment reporter Mara Stargood.”

I clicked off.

Robin said, “Miller Sturgis?”

“Even the chief has limitations.”

The phone rang.

I said, “She looked like Bettie Page.”

Milo said, “How’d you know it was me?”

“The ring tone was kind of weepy and the receiver sagged.”

“Ghost of Salvador Dalí. Yeah, it’ll probably come to nothing.”

But he was wrong.

By ten o’clock the following morning, fifty tips had come in. Only one was good, but who needed quantity when you had quality?

Hiram Kwok operated a secondhand furniture store on Western Avenue between Olympic and Pico. The hipper-than-thou, vintage-craving renaissance that had sparked La Brea’s discount case-goods emporiums had eluded Western. Half the block’s storefronts were dark, shuttered, or blocked by accordion gates.