She stared at us with bleary, heavy-lidded eyes. White powder smudged the space between her perfect nose and her perfect lips. The bikini was white, barely qualified as a garment with the bra not much more than pasties on a string and the bottom a nylon triangle not up to the job of pelvic protection. Breasts the size of grapefruits heaved a split second after the rest of her chest moved, the mammary equivalent of digital delay. Her feet were bare and grubby, her nails blood-red talons.

She rubbed her eyes. “Huh?”

“Police, ma’am. Is Mr. Rader here?”

She swiped at the white granules above her mouth.

Milo said, “Don’t worry about your breakfast, we just want to talk to Donny Rader.”

The girl’s mouth opened. A frog-croak emerged. Then a squeak. Then: “Don-nee!”

No need to shout, Rader was already behind her, materializing from the left, wearing a red silk robe. The robe was loosely belted, exposing a hard, tan body. The pockets bulged. A bottle of something with a booze-tax seal around the neck poked from one. The contents of the other were out of view. Maybe a bag of white powder. Or just a glass. If he bothered with a glass.

He pushed the girl out of the way, did the same eye rub. “Whus happening?”

Big man, larger and more muscular than he came across on the screen. Coarser, with a near-Neanderthal brow shelf, grainy skin, thickened nostrils that flared like a bull’s.

Long, shaggy, ink-black hair flew everywhere. His eyes fought to remain open. Described in the fan mags as black, they were actually deep brown. Just enough contrast to see the pupils. Widely dilated despite the bright afternoon light.

White powder on his face, too, a thick smear on his lips and chin. Snowy dust littered the red robe’s shawl collar. The top seam of the other robe pocket.

Milo said, “Police, Mr. Rader.”

“Whu the fuh!” Throaty growl. The iconic slur.

“Police—”

“Fuh!” Donny Rader backed away.

Milo said, “Hold on, we’d just like to talk—”

“About whu?”

“We’d like to come in, Mr. Rader.”

“Whu the fu—hey! You ain’t cops, you’re some shit from her, trying to mess with my mind—”

“Sir, I can assure—”

“Assure my asshole, get the fuh outta here!”

“Mr. Rader, we really are the police and we—”

Donny Rader shook himself off hard, hair billowing, a hyena clearing its maws of blood. The girl in the bikini had remained behind him, clutching her face and hyperventilating.

Milo stepped forward, aiming to get his toe in the door.

Howling, Rader jammed his hand into the robe pocket that didn’t hold the bottle, yanked out something metallic and shiny.

He faded back, began to straighten his arm.