Milo was saying, “So burning the twigs was an act of cleansing.”

“Refuse removal.”

“Taking out the garbage.”

Helga’s blue eyes narrowed.

Milo said, “Wouldn’t altruism be a better word?”

Two sleek, black-nailed hands clenched. “It would be a stupid word.”

“Why’s that?”

“Altruism is nothing more than a mutation of selfishness.”

Milo crossed his legs. “Sorry, I’m not decoding.”

“I do what society says is nice so I can feel nice. What is more narcissistic than that?”

Milo pretended to contemplate. “Okay, so, if it wasn’t altruism, it was—”

“What I told you.”

“An act of meta-ecological cleansing. Hmm.”

“Don’t play stupid, Policeman. You have enough natural defects, there is no need to supplement.”

Boxmeister said, “Ouch. Heil, Helga.”

Milo uncrossed, scanned his notes again, edged his chair back a few inches. Removing a handkerchief from a trouser pocket, he wiped his brow. “Getting hot in here, no?”

Helga Gemein tugged at her wig. “I am comfortable.”

“To me it feels hot. I’d think that thing would make it worse for you.”

“What thing?”

“The hairpiece. Dynel doesn’t breathe.”

“This,” she said, “is genuine hair. From India.” He smiled. “So you’re not a hothead.” Helga snorted and turned away.

Milo said, “No, I mean that seriously. It’s clear to me that you rely on reason, not impulse.”

Maria Thomas leaned forward. “Yes, yes, go for it.”

Helga Gemein said, “Should I not rely on reason?”

“Of course you should,” said Milo. “We all should. But sometimes being spontaneous—”

“Spontaneity is an excuse for poor planning.”

“You’re into planning.”

No answer.

Maria Thomas was at the edge of her chair. “Easy, now.” Milo said, “Being an architect, I imagine you’d favor blueprints.” Helga turned to face him. “Without blueprints, Policeman, even chaos doesn’t work.”

“Even chaos?”

Up came the pedantic finger. “There is chaos that emanates from stupidity. Think of flatfooted policemen in brass-buttoned tunics and tall hats tripping over themselves. Then, there is corrective chaos. And that must be planned.”

“Burning those twigs didn’t result from stupidity,” said Milo. “You considered every detail.”

“I always do,” said Helga.

“Always?”

“Always.”

Maria Thomas punched her fist. “Yes!”

Helga Gemein sniffed. “This room smells like a toilet.”

“It does get a little stale,” said Milo.

“How often do you bring prostitutes here?”

“Pardon?”

“For your policeman after-hour parties.”

“Must’ve missed those.”

“Oh, please,” said Helga. “It is common knowledge what policemen do with women they’ve dominated. Down on the knees, the man feels so big.”

Boxmeister said, “I must work in the wrong division.”

Maria Thomas shot him a sharp look. He shrugged.

Milo said, “The cops do that in Switzerland?”

Helga said, “If you are interested in Switzerland, buy a plane ticket. Good-bye, Policeman. You have bored me enough, I am going.”

But she made no attempt to stand.

Milo said, “Going?”

“Twigs? Brush clearing? What is that, a penalty? I will pay you.”