She said, “I had allergies to the cleaning solution. My nephew’s an ophthalmologist, he says LASIK’s safe.”

Milo tried to hide his wince but I caught it. He lives with a surgeon but blanches at the thought of doctor visits.

“Good luck,” I said.

The woman said, “I’m still not sure,” and left to get my glass.

Milo wiped his mouth and pulled a blue folder from his attaché. “Copy of Tori Giacomo’s missing person file. Feel free to read but I can summarize in a minute.”

“Go ahead.”

“She was living in North Hollywood, alone in a single, working as a waitress at a seafood place in Burbank. She told her parents she was coming out to be a star but no one’s aware of any parts she got and she had no agent. When she disappeared, the landlord stored her junk for thirty days then dumped it. By the time MP got around to checking, there was nothing left.”

“The parents weren’t notified when she skipped?”

“She was twenty-seven, didn’t leave their number on her rental application.”

“Who did she give as a reference?”

“File doesn’t say. We’re talking two years ago.” He consulted his Timex. “Her father phoned from the airport an hour ago. Unless there was some disaster on the freeway, he shoulda been here already.”

He squinted at numbers he’d scrawled on the cover of the folder, punched his cell phone. “Mr. Giacomo? Lieutenant Sturgis. I’m ready for you...where? What’s the cross street? No, sir, that’s Little Santa Monica, it’s a short street that starts in Beverly Hills, which is where you are...three miles east of here...yes, there are two of them. Little and Big...I agree, it doesn’t make...yeah, L.A. can be a little strange...just turn around and go north to Big Santa Monica...there’s some construction but you can get through...see you, sir.”

He hung up. “Poor guy thinks he’s confused now.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later a compact, dark-haired man in his fifties pushed the restaurant door open, sniffed the air, and walked straight toward us as if he had a score to settle.

Short legs but big strides. Racewalking to what?

He wore a brown tweed sportcoat that fit around the shoulders but was too roomy everywhere else, a faded blue plaid shirt, navy chinos, bubble-toed work shoes. The dark hair was flat-black with reddish tints that betrayed the use of dye. Dense at the sides but sparse on top— just a few strands over a shiny dome. His chin was oversized and cleft, his nose fleshy and flattened. Brooding eyes looked us over as he approached. No taller than five nine but his hands were huge, sausage-fingered, furred at the knuckles with more black hair.

In one hand was a cheap red suitcase. The other shot out. “Lou Giacomo.”