Kwok’s space was a pack rat’s paradise crammed with velveteen and carelessly gilded almost-wood, chipped crockery, limp lamp shades, ratty furs, fake Tiffany glass that didn’t even come close. A barely negotiable aisle had been cleared through ceiling-high stacks of treasure.

Kwok was fiftyish, thin and hollow-cheeked, with sparse gray hair and nicotine teeth. A photo of a handsome Asian kid in full-dress Marine Corps regalia hung above the Formica folding table Kwok used as a desk.

Milo said, “Your boy?”

Kwok said, “Over in Iraq right now, they say he’s coming home next month, then heading to Dubai. Guess we got to protect them Arabs.”

“You must be proud of him.”

“He has a head for business, knows computers. I wanted him to take over so I can retire but he said it put him in a bad mood.”

“Business?”

“Being around too much junk. So you’re here about her, huh? What a bitch, no big shock she did bad things. Come on, I’ll show you her place.”

Leading us through the shop, he encountered the sides of a disassembled crib, shoved them aside, continued to the back door.

We exited into a pitted alley that looked out to block walls of neighboring properties. A Toyota Camry took up one slot of Kwok’s three-space lot. HIRAM on the license plate. Multiple alarm warnings on the side windows, heavy-duty crook-lock on the steering wheel.

More security than the mansion on Borodi.

Kwok continued walking south, stopped at the rear of the adjoining shop.

No cars, no painted slots; weeds poked through the pavement. Most of the back wall was a corrugated aluminum garage door. Manual, a pull handle, bolted by a serious combination lock.

Hiram Kwok said, “She keeps no regular hours but is in and out all the time. I always knew when she was here because she was an inconsiderate pain in the butt, leaving her car parked so it stuck out into my area. Look at the layout, she had tons of her own space, why the hell did she have to invade mine? And when her buddies were around, it became a worse problem. I asked her nice at first, she looked at me like I was retarded, finally moved the car. But the next time, same damn thing. Over and over, like she was trying to annoy me.”

“What kind of car did she drive?”

“Buick LeSabre, 2002, I know the license plate by heart.” Kwok rattled off numbers. Milo copied.

“I know it by heart because I called it in to you guys, had to be twenty times. Know what they told me? Disputes between private property owners needed to be settled privately. And now she burned something down. You guys need to change procedures.”

Milo nodded. “Tell me about her buddies.”