“On TV,” she said. “One of those movies, cowboys and horses. She was like the girl he loved.”

“The main cowboy.”

“Totally. He put her on the horse and they did a lip-lock. She was hot.”

I said, “Was Jack playing guitar in the background?”

“Huh? Oh, no, he was like into trumpets or something. In a TV band.”

“One of those late-night shows?”

Blank look. If I was a network head I’d be worried about longevity.

Milo said, “So what kind of business do Daisy and Jack run upstairs?”

“I dunno.”

“What kind of mail do they get?”

“Dunno that either.”

He smiled. “You never look?”

“Mail comes in the morning,” she said. “I get here at noon. Why don’t you just go up and talk to them if you’re so interested?”

“They’re in?”

“Dunno.”

“Okay, thanks, Cheyenne.”

“So maybe they’re in trouble, huh?”

Stairs carpeted in cheap blue low-pile polyester led to a windowless foyer rimmed by five slab doors. No sound from behind any of them. Gold Standard Professionals’ neighbors offered electrolysis, bookbinding, tax preparation, and gift counseling.

Milo said, “Gift counseling? What the hell does that mean?”

I said, “Maybe they tell you who’s been naughty or nice.”

“Next there’ll be laxative counseling. ‘We open new channels of communication.’ Okay, here goes nothing.” He rapped on Gold Standard’s door. A male voice said, “Who’s there?”

“Police.”

“What?”

“Police. Please open up.”

Another “What?” but the door cracked.

Jack Weathers had added a clipped white mustache and some wrinkles since his Clarion interview. He was tall, well built, seventy to seventy-five, wore a white polo shirt under a sea-green cashmere V-neck, taupe linen slacks, calfskin loafers sans socks. His skin was shiny and spray-bronzed, his eyes a deeper tan. A wedding band crusted with pavé diamonds circled his left ring finger. One pinkie hosted a white-gold emerald ring, the other a rose-gold creation dominated by a massive amethyst. The gold chain around his neck was curiously delicate.

He said, “Police? I don’t understand.”

Milo flashed the badge. “Could we come in, please, Mr. Weathers?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Of course, sir.”

A female voice said, “Jack? What’s going on?” Before Weathers could answer, a woman came up behind him and shoved the door wide open.

A foot shorter than her husband, Daisy Weathers had on a black jacquard silk top, cream gabardine slacks, red stilettos that advertised a virtuoso pedicure. Serious bling glinted at all the predictable spots. The white in her hair verged on silver-plate. The style was some cosmetologist’s ode to meringue. Her eyes were glacier-blue, oddly innocent. Small bones and a sweet face had kept her cute well beyond the expiration date.

Jack Weathers said, “They’re the police.”

Daisy Weathers said, “Hi, boys. Collecting for the law enforcement ball? We give every year.” Sultry voice. She winked.

Milo said, “Not exactly, ma’am.”