“Early this morning.” Widening smile. “Don’t worry, they’re not fugitives from justice, the trip was planned months ago. But if you want to interrogate them, I can give you the number, even the address of their apartment. Ernest and Marcia Thal, Rue Saint-Honoré. I guess it’s possible they’re traveling as Bonnie and Clyde.”

She giggled.

Milo didn’t.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to make light of it; to be honest, it’s a little scary. Though I guess it’s not hugely surprising.”

“A murder?”

“Something creepy happening there.”

“There’ve been problems before?”

“That entire dump is a problem. Just sitting there, gathering mold, no security lights at night, the chain’s wide open, anyone can walk in. Everyone hates it. My dad wanted to sue whoever owns it.”

“Who owns it?”

“I’ve heard some Arab,” she said. “Or maybe a Persian. Some Mideast type, I’m not sure. No one seems to be able to find out. It’s not that we’re prejudiced, we’re certainly not. That place”—pointing up the block—”that big apricot thing, is owned by the Nazarians and they’re Persians and they’re great people. I just don’t see the point of framing up and not following through for two whole years. No one does.”

“Any neighborhood rumors about why it’s just sitting there?”

“Sure. Money. Isn’t it always about money? So why not sell? As in to someone who’ll actually build something tasteful.”

“Yeah, it is a little over-the-top,” said Milo.

“A little?” said Amy Thal. “It’s gross. I’m not talking size-wise, who’re we kidding, this isn’t South Central. But the style, no one can figure it out, that stupid third floor stuck up there like a wart. I’m a design student—fashion, not interior—but you don’t need design training to recognize awkward and ostentatious and plain old butt-ugly.”

“I don’t know design from badgers and chipmunks,” said Milo, “and even I can tell.”

Amy Thal smiled. “Badgers and chipmunks, that’s cute—coatis and raccoons, too? Anyway, that’s all I can tell you, Lieutenant. I’m just doing the parentals a favor because one of the felines is almost nineteen and we don’t want her stumbling into the pool.”

“Could I show you a picture?”

“Of who?”

“One of our victims.”

“There was more than one?”

“Two,” said Milo.

“Oh … you’re not saying it was some psycho Manson thing, are you?”

“Nothing like that.” Out came Jane Doe’s photo.

Amy Thal wrinkled her nose. “Oh, wow.”

“Ms. Thal?”

“I can’t be sure but I think I’ve seen her around. Not regularly, she doesn’t live here.”

“Could she work here?”

“I doubt it, everyone knows everyone else’s staff and I’ve only seen her twice and she just looked like she didn’t belong.” Taking another look. “It definitely could be her.”