His sandwich was divided into two triangles. He picked up a knife and bisected each half. Got five bites out of each quarter, chewing daintily and slowly. Sharp white teeth, somewhere between fox and wolf.

He wiped his lips with a starched linen napkin. “I bought you an insurance policy on Gemein, Sturgis. Know what I mean?”

“Captain Thomas.”

A gun-finger aimed across the table. “Lucky for you Maria was there when that crazy bitch cyanided, because, like all hot air, blame floats to the top. Extra-lucky for you, Maria was the one who didn’t want to strip-search. She’s smart and industrious but she does tend to overthink.”

Milo said, “Even without her directive, I wouldn’t have strip-searched, sir.”

“What’s that, Sturgis? Penance?”

“Telling it like it is, sir.”

“Why no strip?”

“At that point, my emphasis was on getting rapport with Gemein.”

“Plus,” said the chief, “even a super-sleuth like you couldn’t conceive the bitch would hide anything under her wig. Talk about an overblown sense of drama. Lucky for all of you, I managed to block the press-scum when they started up the trash-vacuum. They live to tear us down, Sturgis, because they’re useless pieces of crap. They’ve also got the attention spans of decorticate garden slugs. I recently devised what I think is a tasteful and adroit method of handling press cretins.”

Out of a jacket pocket came a sterling-silver card case, conspicuously monogrammed with his initials. A single, deft button-push sprang the lid. Inside were pale blue business cards. He removed one, passed it across the table.

Heavy-stock paper, elegant engraving. Three lines of type.

Your Opinion Has Been Duly Received
With Great Enthusiasm.
Fuck You, Very Much.

“Excellent, sir.”

“Let’s have that back, Sturgis. I’m still not sure if the wording’s right.”

The chief resumed eating. The side salad was half a head of ice-burg lettuce. Thin, pallid lips curled as his knife reduced it to coarse-cut coleslaw. Spearing a few green shreds, he masticated with relish, as if undressed greens were a sinful indulgence.

“In any event, Ms. Gemein’s ludicrous act of self-destruction appears to be receding from the public’s attention span, ergo, no need to throw anyone under the bus.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So tell me, Dr. Delaware, why’d the bitch snuff herself?”

“Hard to say.”

“If it was easy, I wouldn’t be asking you. Theorize like you’re getting paid for it, I won’t hold you to your answer.”

I said, “She may have been living with a serious underlying depression for a long time.”

“Poor little rich girl? From what I hear she wasn’t the sniffly, breast-beating sort.”

“Not a passive depression. She reacted like some men do, with hostility and isolation.”

“Men with borderline personality disorder?”

“That’s one possible diagnosis.”