“Speaking of Lois Lane, I may have created a monster. I’m walking over right now, gonna start grub-festing without you. Seeing as you already had a sandwich.”

I found him at his usual corner table at Café Moghul, perched like a potentate behind platters of lamb, chicken, lobster, and crab, some kind of meatball big enough to hurl at Dodger Stadium, the usual Himalaya of naan and vegetables, bowls of mystery sauce.

Be nice if synchrony ruled the world and there was a master detective in Mumbai stuffing his face with burgers, fried chicken, and pizza.

Unlike every other time I’d been in the restaurant, the dining room was nearly full. The new patrons were uniformed cops and plainclothes detectives. Everyone chowing down on generous portions but none of the wretched excess left at the Altar of Milo.

I sat down. “Looks like the world’s caught on.”

“What they caught on to is a special lunch deal, half price on everything.”

A detective I recognized waved and brandished a lobster claw. Milo muttered, “Bargain-hunting vulgarians.”

The bespectacled woman brought me iced tea and a clean plate. She looked exhausted.

I said, “Busy.”

She beamed at Milo. “They listen to him.”

He said, “You’ve got to believe me, it was the flyer you left at the station.”

Her smile widened. Knowing she’d encountered a deity and figuring humility was one of his divine attributes.

I said, “What’s up, Mahatma?”

He leaned in close, lowered his voice. “Ol’ Kelly’s digging like a gopher. So far I’ve received about fifty pages of attachments on infanticides, none of which is relevant. Meanwhile, zip on Adriana, Wedd, or Charlene Chambers as herself or as Qeesha D’Embo. And none of the cult sites I’ve found seems to fit. Including their photos.”

“Cults post publicity photos?”

“You better believe it, they’re proud of themselves. Basically, it’s a party scene, Alex, lots of nudity and naughty groping. Weirdest thing I found was a Beelzebub-worshipping bunch that gets off by smearing themselves with food, the prime sacramental offering being baked beans. Vegetarian, of course.”

I said, “Someone’s engaged in truly ugly behavior, why advertise?”

Nodding, he downed half a plate of lamb, wiped his hands and mouth, scanned the room, switched to a low-volume leprechaun brogue. “I was a wee bit impish, laddy. Gave Ms. LeMasters the name and number of one Maria Thomas and told her it wouldn’t displease me if she harassed the brass about going public on selective info.”

“Selective as in what you decide.”

“Is there another definition?”

“Maria’s not going to make the connection to you?”