Choosing me first. I introduced myself, minus the doctorate, and he shifted quickly to Milo.

“Lieutenant.” Going for rank. Military experience or plain old logic.

“Good to meet you, Mr. Giacomo. Hungry?”

Giacomo’s nose wrinkled. “They got beer?”

“All kinds.” Milo summoned the bespectacled woman.

Lou Giacomo told her, “Bud. Regular, not Light.” Removing his jacket, he draped it over the back of his seat, tweaked the arms and the shoulders and the lapel until it hung straight. The plaid shirt was short-sleeved. His forearms were muscled, hirsute cudgels. Producing a billfold, he withdrew a pale blue business card and handed it to Milo.

Milo passed it over.

LOUIS A. GIACOMO, JR.

Appliance and Small Engine Repair

You Smash ’Em, We Patch ’Em

Red wrench logo in the center. Address and phone number in Bayside, Queens.

Giacomo’s beer arrived in a tall, chilled glass. He looked at it but didn’t drink. When the bespectacled woman left, he wiped the rim of the glass with his napkin, squinted, swabbed some more.

“Appreciate you meeting with me, Lieutenant. Learn anything about Tori?”

“Not yet, sir. Why don’t you fill me in?”

Giacomo’s hands clenched. He bared teeth too even and white to be anything but porcelain. “First thing you gotta know: No one looked for Tori. I called your department a bunch of times, talked to all these different people, finally I reached some detective— some guy named Mortensen. He told me nothing but I kept calling. He got sick of hearing from me, made it real clear Tori wasn’t high-priority, it was missing kids he was into. Then he stopped answering my calls, so I flew out but by that time he’d retired and moved to Oregon or somewhere. I lost my patience, said something to the detective they transferred me to, to the effect of what’s wrong with you, you care more about traffic tickets than people? He had nothing to say.”

Giacomo frowned into his beer. “Sometimes I lose my patience. Not that it woulda made a difference. I coulda been the nicest guy in the world, no one was gonna do anything to find Tori. So I have to go back and tell my wife I got nothing and she goes and has a nervous breakdown on me.”

He pinged a thumbnail on the side of his glass.

Milo said, “Sorry.”

“She got over it,” said Giacomo. “Doctors gave her antidepressants, counseling, whatever. Plus, she had five other kids to deal with— the baby’s thirteen, still in the house. Keeping busy, that’s the best thing. Helps her not think about Tori.”

Milo nodded and drank tea. Giacomo finally lifted his glass and drank.

“Tastes like Bud,” he said. “What is this place, Pakistani?”

“Indian.”

“We got those where I come from.”

“Indians?”

“Them and their restaurants. I never been.”

“Bayside,” said Milo.