Milo had lured her with the promise of something juicy but nothing close to that appeared in the article, leaving LeMasters to play with human-interest filler: the mystery trajectory that had taken Adriana Betts from church-girl to murder victim, the impact of two Cheviot Hills murders upon affluent citizens.

Adriana’s sister, Helene, and the Reverend Goleman were quoted but their comments were no more revelatory than their station-house interviews. The sad mystery of a “strewn infant skeleton” was noted as was the “eerie parallel” to the bones found under Matt and Holly Ruche’s cedar tree. Nothing about the park baby’s racial makeup or parentage.

Milo’s name didn’t come up until the final paragraph, where he was described as “a veteran homicide detective left baffled.” The piece ended with an “anyone with information” message and his landline.

I figured he’d be busy all morning fielding leads, was surprised when he phoned at nine.

“Taking a break from the tipsters?”

“Got Moe and Sean on that, I need to roll. Just got a call from Floyd Banfer, Jack Weathers’s lawyer. He wants to meet, an hour and a half, B.H. parkway, corner Rexford.”

“Right near City Hall.”

“Banfer’s serving papers at BHPD, said he’d walk over.”

“He’s suing the police?”

“Some sort of workers’ comp deal on behalf of a fired officer. Nothing, he assured me, that I’d find objectionable.”

“What’s on his mind?”

“He wouldn’t say but he’s definitely antsy, Alex. I like that in attorneys. Makes them seem almost human.”

Milo and I arrived at ten twenty, found a bench on the north side of the parkway with a clear view of the Beverly Hills government complex. The original city hall is a thirties Spanish Renaissance masterpiece. The civic center complex built fifty years later tried to work deco and contemporary into the mix and ended up looking tacked on. A degraded granite path, Chinese elms, and lawn separated us from Santa Monica Boulevard. Traffic howled in both directions. An ancient man accompanied by a husky attendant inched a walker past us. A trio of Persian women in Fila tracksuits bounced by chatting in Farsi. A young woman who could have been a Victoria’s Secret model if the company raised its standards raced past all of them looking miserable.

Directly in front of us was a six-foot-by-ten-foot mound of lumpy chrome-plate.

Milo said, “What the hell is that?”

“Public art.”

“Looks like a jumbo jet had digestive problems.”

At ten twenty-six Floyd Banfer exited the police station, crossed the street, and headed toward us. When he arrived, he was flushed and smiling, a compact man with a peanut-shaped head, bright blue eyes, and the kind of white stubble that Milo calls a “terrorist beard.”

“Punctual,” he boomed. “Nice to be dealing with professionals.” Compact man with an expansive bass voice.

A hand shot out. “Floyd Banfer.”

“Milo Sturgis, this is Alex Delaware.”