A kid in a red shirt said, “Two for lunch?”

“We’re joining friends.”

Both women were pale, thin, wore drab, short-sleeved tops, jeans, and careless ponytails. Other than platinum hair on one, they each matched Bettina Sanfelice’s stats.

Milo said, “The blonde’s wearing glasses, so I’m betting that’s her. Now all I need to do is separate her from her friend and get her to blab about her sex life. Any suggestions as to the proper approach?”

“There is none,” I said.

“Your optimism is a blessing.”

Neither woman noticed until we got within three feet, then both looked up. Milo smiled at the blonde. “Bettina Sanfelice?”

The brown-haired woman said, “That’s me,” in a tiny, tentative voice. Small-boned but full-faced, she had close-set mocha eyes and puffy cheeks and looked like a child who’d just been punished. The white-sauce-slicked fry she’d been reaching for dropped back onto her plate. Not a potato—something pale green and breaded—deep-fried string bean?

Milo bent to make himself smaller, showed his card rather than the badge, recited his title as if it were no big deal.

Bettina Sanfelice was too stricken to speak, but the blonde said, “Police?” as if he were joking. She had good features but grainy skin with some active blemish, dark circles under her eyes that heavy makeup failed to mask.

Milo kept his focus on Bettina Sanfelice. “I’m so sorry to tell you this, ma’am, but we’re investigating the death of someone you worked with.”

Sanfelice’s mouth dropped open. Her hand shot forward, rocked her drink. It would’ve spilled if I hadn’t caught it. “Death?”

“By homicide, I’m afraid.”

Sanfelice gasped. “Who?”

Milo said, “A man named Desmond—”

Before Backer’s surname had been fully pronounced both women shouted, “Des!”

The kid in the red shirt looked over. A hard look from Milo caused him to veer toward the bar.

The bespectacled blonde said, “I have just got totally nauseous.”

Bettina Sanfelice said, “Des? Omigod.”

The blonde removed her glasses. “I need a bathroom.” She slid out of the booth.

“You also knew Des, ma’am?”

“Same as Tina did.” The blonde trotted toward the restrooms, moving clumsily in ultratight jeans and ratty sneakers.

The kid in the red shirt dared to come over. “Everything okay?”

Milo expanded like a balloon. “Everything’s grand, just go about your business.”

Now was the time for the badge. Gawking, the kid turned heel.

Milo said, “Your friend’s pretty upset, Bettina.”

“Sheryl’s got a iffy stomach.”

“That’s Sheryl Passant?”

Nod. “Omigod. Who hurt Des?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. Mind if we join you?”

“Um …” Not budging.

Milo smiled. “Thanks for the compliment, but I need a little more room than that, Bettina.”

“Oh… sorry.” Sanfelice scooted over and he wedged beside her. Milo’s presence turned her tiny. An abused child.

I settled across from them.