“Twelve years,” she said. “Mostly Vice and Auto and then I did some jail duty. I’m working private security now, big company, we handle some of the casinos.”

“No shortage of work in Sin City,” said Milo.

“You guys aren’t exactly sitting around.”

The drinks arrived.

Marcia Peaty tried her martini. “Better than I remembered.”

The waiter asked if we were ready to order.

Chicken potpie, sand dabs, sand dabs.

“Another memory,” said Marcia Peaty. “Can’t get them in Vegas.”

Milo said, “Can’t get ’em too often in L.A., either. Mostly it’s rex sole.”

She looked disappointed. “Cheap substitution?”

“Nope, they’re basically the same— little flatfish with lots of bones. One lives deeper, no one can tell the difference.”

“You into fishing?”

“I’m into eating.”

“Virtually the same, huh?” said Marcia Peaty. “More like twins than cousins.”

“Cousins can be real different.”

She removed an olive from her drink. Chewed, swallowed. “How I found out about Reyn was I’d been trying to call him for days and no one answered. It’s not like I call him regularly, but one of our great-aunts died and he inherited some money— no big deal, twelve hundred bucks. When I couldn’t get hold of him, I started calling around— hospitals, jails. Finally, I learned what happened from your coroner.”

“Calling jails and the crypt,” said Milo. “That’s a specific curiosity.”

Marcia Peaty nodded. “Reyn was high-risk for problems, always had been. I didn’t have any fantasies of turning him into a solid citizen, but every so often I’d feel protective. We grew up together in Downey, he was a few years younger, I’m an only child and he was, too, so kin was in short supply. Once upon a time I thought of him as a little brother.”

I said, “High-risk brother.”

“I’m not going to sugarcoat him but he wasn’t a psychopath, just not smart. One of those people who always make bad decisions, you know? Maybe it was genetic. Our fathers were brothers. My dad worked three jobs putting himself through Cleveland Chiropractic, cracked enough backs to go from trailer trash to respectable. Reyn’s dad was an alcoholic loser, never held down a steady job, in and out of jail for penny-ante stuff. Reyn’s mom wasn’t much better.” She stopped. “Big sad story, it’s nothing you guys haven’t heard before.”

Milo said, “How’d you both end up in Nevada?”

“Reyn ran away from home when he was fifteen— more like walked out and no one cared. I’m not sure what he did for ten years, I know he tried the marines, ended up in the brig, dishonorable discharge. I moved to Vegas because my dad died and my mom liked playing the slots. When you’re an only child, you feel responsible. My husband’s from a family of five kids, big old Mormon clan, totally different world.”