“Who’s the lead detective?”

“New replacement, Irvin Wimmers.”

“I know Irv. Good man.”

“I think they’re here just to cover their asses. Anyway, want me to reel Rieffen in at any particular time? Or whatever the hell her name really is.”

“When’s she expected back?”

“Four, five, depending on particulars and drive-time.”

“Let’s aim for five.”

“You got it,” said McClellan. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

Milo phoned Sheriff’s Homicide Detective Irvin Wimmers and asked for a meet when Wimmers had time.

Wimmers said, “I’ll make time, Milo. How about now?”

“You don’t even know what it’s about, Irv.”

“You’re calling me is what I know. How many of the same conferences we been to? Denver, D.C., Philadelphia—that fun one in Nashville, all those slides on decomp. When we see each other, we generally sit down for coffee. We get back to L.A., how many times do we call each other?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you how many,” said Wimmers. “Once. That Compton hatchet case, you clued me in on that old file one of your retired guys worked, we ended up nailing the bitch for turning two husbands to hamburger, not just one. So I’m figuring you’ve got something else useful to tell me. Maybe about Escobar? Say yes, it would make my day.”

“It is about Escobar, Irv, but it could turn out to be nothing. Did he have a predictable schedule at the crypt?”

“He had no schedule at all,” said Wimmers. “Going to school, not working there anymore, but they let him keep his key, gave him a little closet office for working on his master’s thesis.”

“What was he researching?”

“The technology of negligent evidence transfer—people screwing up with fingerprint brushes, careless fiber collection, that kind of thing. What’s on your mind, Milo?”

Wimmers listened to the bare-bones recap, said, “That’s pretty freaky—okay, this is something I need to sit down and think about. My partner’s due in soon and I been up since five, need to eat or I’m gonna pass out. Where you calling from?”

“The office.”

“You got the time for meeting about halfway? I know a place, you’ll like it.”

Ruby’s Theatre of Turkey operated from a storefront on Eighth Street just west of Wilton.

Monumental birds dunked into deep-fryers, carved to order, served up glistening.

Irvin Wimmers was a black man taller and wider than Milo, with a pencil mustache and a soul patch and a gleaming shaved head furrowed longitudinally. He wore a double-breasted cinnamon-brown suit, a long-collared maroon shirt, a narrow olive tie patterned with orange battleships.