“Time for a second interview.”

“I tried. No sign of him or anyone else at the PlayHouse this morning, ditto for his apartment. Mrs. Stadlbraun wanted to have tea again. I drank enough to constipate a rhino and she talked about her grandkids and her godkids and the lamentable state of modern morality. She said she’d started watching Peaty more closely but he’s gone most of the day. I’m gonna have Binchy tail him.”

“Any decent phone tips?”

“Mostly the usual Martians and maniacs and morons, but there was one I’m following up on. That’s why I called. Wire service picked up the Times story and some guy in New York phoned me yesterday. Couple of years ago his daughter went missing out here. What got me interested was she was going to acting school, too.”

“The PlayHouse?”

“Father has no idea. There seems to be lots he doesn’t know. An MP report was filed on this girl— Tori Giacomo— but it doesn’t look like anyone pursued it. No surprise, given her age and no sign of foul play. The guy insisted on flying out so I figure I can spare him some time. We’re scheduled at three p.m., hope he likes Indian food. If you’ve got time, I could use some supplementary intuition.”

“About what?”

“Ruling his daughter out. Listen to him but don’t tell me what I want to hear.”

“Do I ever?”

“No,” he said. “That’s why you’re my pal.”

Pink madras curtains separate Café Moghul’s interior from the traffic and light of Santa Monica Boulevard. The shadowy storefront is walking distance from the station and when Milo needs to bolt the confines of his office, he uses it as an alternative work site.

The owners are convinced the presence of a large, menacing-looking detective serves the same purpose as a well-trained rottweiler. Once in a while Milo obliges them by handling homeless schizophrenics who wander in and try to sample the all-you-can-eat lunch buffet.

The buffet’s a recent introduction. I’m not convinced it wasn’t put in place for Milo.

When I got there at three p.m., he was seated behind three plates heaped with vegetables, rice, curried lobster, and some kind of tandoori meat. A basket of onion naan was half full. A pitcher of clove-flavored tea sat at his right elbow. Napkin tied around his neck. Only a few sauce specks.

Off-hour for lunch and he was the only diner. The smiling, bespectacled woman who runs the place said, “He’s here, sir,” and led me to his usual table at the rear.

He chewed and swallowed. “Try the lamb.”

“A little early for me.”

“Chai tea?” said the bespectacled woman.

I pointed to the pitcher. “Just a glass.”

“Very good.”

Last time I’d seen her, she’d been trying out contact lenses.