Reed’s love interest was a physical anthropologist in the bone lab. “Liz is cool. And the girl’s probably Muslim. They don’t drink.”

“Good point,” said Milo. “Okay, candy’s still dandy.”

“You want me to go easy or hard on her?” said Reed.

“I want you to do what it takes to squeeze out every bit of info she’s got on Prince Teddy and that Swedish girl.”

“I’m thinking I’ll go real slow, not threaten her unless I’m smelling bullshit, then it’s full press.”

“Keep doing that, Moses.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking,” said Milo. “Be the guy who stands out from the crowd.”

I drove away from the station with Milo in the Seville’s passenger seat, fidgeting, rubbing his face, growling about L.A. traffic, all those scofflaw morons who kept cell-phoning, look at that idiot weaving, look at that brain-dead asshole stopped at a green, what’s a matter, don’t we have a shade you like, loser?

The Star Motor Inn sat on a gray block of Sawtelle, between Santa Monica and Olympic. Ricki Flatt answered the door wearing the same high-waisted jeans and an oversized black Carlsbad Caverns T-shirt. Her hair was loose and frizzy, her mouth small. Behind her, the bed was made up to military specs. Images flashed on a TV screen not much larger than my computer monitor.

“Lieutenant.”

“May we come in?”

“Of course.”

The room smelled of Lysol and pizza. No sound from the TV. The show was a cooking demonstration, a fluorescent-eyed woman so thin her clothes bagged, bouncing with joy as she stir-fried something. Carrots, celery, and a lump of what looked like yellow Play-Doh.

One of Milo’s rules-to-live-by is Never Trust a Skinny Chef. Sometimes he applies that to detectives. To any profession at random, depending on how the day’s going.

One time I couldn’t resist and asked about personal trainers.

He said, “I’m talking real jobs, not sadists.”

His mood during the drive had grown progressively more foul. You’d never know it from the way he handled Ricki Flatt. Sliding a chair close to hers, leaving me to perch on a corner of the bed, he un-holstered his softest smile—the one he uses with little kids and old ladies. With Blanche, too, when he thinks no one’s looking.

“Get any sleep, Ricki?”

“Not much.”

“Anything you need, please tell me.”

“No, thanks, Lieutenant. Did you get into the storage unit?”

“Haven’t heard back from Port Angeles PD yet.”

“I just hope Scott doesn’t find out I held on to the money.”

“I explained that to them.”

“It makes me nervous—having it in my possession.”

“It’ll be out of your life soon.”

“Is it drug money, Lieutenant?”

“No evidence of that.”

“I really don’t see it. Desi was never into drugs.”