I said, “He sounded elderly. The pre-cell generation.”

“Brigid’s been seen at Borodi by herself, maybe she had some connection to it—worked for one of the subs and she was the one who initiated the tryst with Backer. And maybe she knew Monte—or he knew her because your guess about a tradesman was right on. I’m going downtown, get a hands-on with all the permits for the job. Who knows, maybe it’ll be constructive.”

At two p.m., he showed up at my house, lugging his scarred vinyl attaché case. The customary kitchen scrounge produced last night’s chicken and mash, a bottle of ketchup, stalks of celery in need of Viagra. Everything ingested at warp speed while standing at the counter then chased with a carton of orange juice. When he offered Blanche a scrap she turned away.

“Picky?”

“She doesn’t want to deprive you.”

“Empathic.”

“She takes the psych boards this year. I’m predicting a pass.”

Stooping to pet, he sat at the table, unlatched the case. “The general contractor was an outfit named Beaudry, out in La Canada, they specialize in big projects, got a website full of ’em. Not including Borodi.”

“Another confidentiality agreement?”

“I pressed a V.P., couldn’t pry a damn thing out, including any subs. And no knowledge of anyone named Monte. As if he’d tell me different.”

The attaché case rattled, twitching atop the table like a frog in a nasty experiment.

He pulled out his cell phone. “Sturgis … you’re kidding… on my way.” Standing and brushing bits of chicken from his shirt. “Bit of conflict at the dream palace.”

Scraps of yellow tape blew in the breeze. Two uniformed patrolmen held Doyle Bryczinski by his skinny arms. Thirty feet up, another pair of cops restrained a well-dressed, white-haired man, who wasn’t going down easy. Shouting, one foot stomping; the uniforms looked bored.

Bryczinski said, “Hey, Lieutenant. Could you tell them this is my turf?”

Milo addressed a female officer tagged Briskman. “What’s up?”

“This one and that one took issue with each other’s presence. Loud issue, a neighbor phoned 911. We got it as a 415, possible assault. When we arrived, they were just about ready to tussle.”

“No way I tussle,” said Bryczinski. “Why would I tussle? He’s an old fart, this is my turf.”

Milo placed a finger near Bryczinski’s lips. “Hold on, Doyle.”

“Can they at least let go of me? My arms hurt and I need to get off the leg.”

Milo glanced past Bryczinski, at something big and green-handled, lying just outside the fence. “Bolt cutters, Doyle?”

“Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“An emergency.”

“I put that chain there, Doyle.”

“I wasn’t going to cut nothing. It was just in case I had to go in.”

“For what?”

“What I said, an emergency.”

“Such as?”

“I dunno, another crime? A fire?”