The half bath was a cubicle in the corner. My nose had accommodated to bedroom stench but this was a new challenge. The shower was fiberglass, barely big enough for a woman, let alone a man of Peaty’s bulk. Originally beige, now brown, with a blackish-green crop of something flourishing at the drain. A streaked, spotted mirror was glued to the wall over the sink; no medicine cabinet. On the floor next to the cracked, grimy toilet was a small wicker box. Inside was an assortment of antacids and OTC analgesics, a toothbrush that looked as if it hadn’t been used in a while, an amber pharmacy bottle containing two Vicodin pills. The original prescription had been for twenty-one tabs, prescribed by a doctor at a Las Vegas clinic seven years ago and filled at the clinic’s pharmacy.

“Saving it for the bad times,” I said. “Or the good.”

“The occasional highball,” said Milo. “Trailer-park style.”

He returned to the bedroom, searched under the bed, came up dusty and empty-handed. Held his hands away from his slacks, glanced at the bathroom. “I’m not sure using that sink would make me cleaner...let’s see if there’s a hose outdoors.”

* * *

Before we descended the stairs, he took me for a look at the kill-spot. Peaty had shed a lot of red. The spot where he’d fallen was demarcated by black tape.

A uniform stood outside the Vasquez apartment. Milo saluted her and we found a hose near Mrs. Stadlbraun’s apartment. She was back inside, drapes drawn tight.

When he finished washing off, he said, “Any insights?”

“If Peaty’s our bad guy, he didn’t keep trophies or anything else of interest,” I said.

* * *

But I was wrong.

In the rear of the rust-spotted red minivan, Milo found boxes of cleaning supplies, tarps, brooms, mops, washcloths. Buried under the tarps was a brown, double-decker toolbox. A key-lock dangled from the hasp but it had been left unbolted.

Milo gloved up and opened the box. In the top foldaway rack were screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, pliers, little plastic cylinders of screws and nails. In the compartments below were a set of burglar picks, two rolls of duct tape, a box cutter, a wire cutter, a push-button stiletto, a spool of thick, white nylon rope, four sets of women’s panty hose, a blue steel automatic pistol wrapped in a grubby pink washcloth.

Loaded gun. Plenty of ammunition left in the box of .22-caliber bullets wedged into a corner of the toolbox.

Next to the bullets, something else wrapped in terry. Round, firm.

Milo unwrapped it. Souvenir snow globe. The pink plastic base read MALIBU, CALIF. SURF’S UP!

He upended the sphere. White flakes fluttered over a cobalt ocean. He examined the underside of the base. “Made in U.S.A. New Hampshire. That explains it. Sons of bitches wanted to think of us frozen just like them.”