No badge, but people tend to obey him. The man lowered his window.

“Morning, sir. Know anything about your neighbor?”

Big shrug. Nervous smile. “No hablo Ingles.”

Milo pointed. “The school. La Escuela.”

Another shrug. “No se.”

Milo looked into his eyes, waved him away. As the Dart sped off, we returned to the porch, where Milo jabbed the button several more times. A chime sonata went unanswered.

“Okay, I’ll try again tonight.”

As we turned, footsteps sounded from inside the PlayHouse. Lace wiggled in the window but didn’t part.

Then nothing.

Milo swiveled and rapped the door hard. Scratches, as a bolt turned. The door swung open and a heavy man holding a broom and looking distracted said, “Yeah?” Before the word was out of his mouth, his eyes tightened and distraction gave way to calculation.

This time Milo had the badge out. The heavy man barely glanced at it. His second “Yeah?” was softer, wary.

He had a splotchy, pie-tin face, a meaty, off-kilter nose, brambles of curly graying hair that flew from his temples, muttonchops that petered to a colorless grizzle. The mustache atop parched lips was the sole bit of disciplined hair: clipped, precise, a gray-brown hyphen. Tight eyes the color of strong tea managed to be active without moving.

Wrinkled gray work shirt and matching pants, open sandals, thick white socks. Dust and sweepings flecked white cotton toes. The tattoos that embroidered his fleshy hands promised to snake up under his sleeves. Blue-black skin art, crude and square-edged. Hard to decipher, but I made out a tiny little grinning demon’s head, more impish than satanic, leering at a puckered knuckle.

Milo said, “Is Nora Dowd here?”

“Nope.”

“What about Dylan Meserve?”

“Nope.”

“You know Mr. Meserve?”

“I know who he is.” Low, slurred voice, slight delay before forming syllables. His right hand gripped the broom handle. The left had gathered shirt fabric and stretched it over his substantial belly.

“What do you know about Mr. Meserve?” said Milo.

The same hesitation. “One of the students.”

“He doesn’t work here?”

“Never saw that.”

“We were told he’s a creative consultant.”

No answer.

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

Small yellow teeth made a play at a cracked upper lip. “A while.”

“Days?”

“Yeah.”

“Weeks?”

“Could be.”

“Where’s Ms. Dowd?”

“Dunno.”

“No idea?”

“Nossir.”

“She’s your boss.”

“Yessir.”

“Want to guess where she might be?”

Shrug.

“When did you see her last?”

“I work days, she’s here at night.”

Out came Milo’s pad. “Your name, please.”

No answer.

Milo edged closer. The man stepped back, just as Ralph Jabber had.

“Sir?”

“Reynold.”

“First name, please.”

“Reynold. Last name’s Peaty.”

“Reynold Peaty.”

“Yessir.”

“Is that Peaty with two e’s or e-a?”

“P-E-A-T-Y.”

“You work here full-time, Mr. Peaty?”

“I do the clean up and the lawn mowing.”

“Full-time?”

“Part-time.”

“Got another job?”

“I clean buildings.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Peaty?”