“Why do you think that?”

“The usual tells,” said Groot. “Looking everywhere but at me, too quick on the draw, like he’d rehearsed it. Also, he just gave me a feeling from the beginning. The car was a nice one, BMW 5 series, all tricked out, only a couple of years old, low mileage. But he didn’t seem that bugged about having it boosted. Made the right speech but no emotion—again, like he’d rehearsed.”

“Insurance thing?” said Milo.

“He filed with his carrier the day after I interviewed him.”

“When did it happen?”

“Nineteen months ago.”

“What were the circumstances?”

“Taken from his driveway sometime during the night,” said Groot. “It’s not impossible, his building’s got an open carport. But supposedly he’d left it locked with the security system set and I talked to the neighbors and no one heard any alarm go off. He seemed so hinky I actually ran a check on him. But he had no obvious ties to any scammers, no record of anything.”

“What’s this solid citizen’s name?”

“Melvin Jaron Wedd, like getting married but two ‘d’s.”

“This guy really twanged your antenna, huh?”

“You know what it’s like, El Tee. Sometimes you get a feeling. Unfortunately none of mine led anywhere. The car’s never shown up.”

“Loretta said nice red wheels might be going to the Mideast.”

“Two-year-old Bimmer’s nice,” said Groot, “but probably not nice enough for that. Mexico or Central America, maybe. For all I know it’s being used to ferry around Zeta hit men.”

“What line of work is Wedd in?”

“Something showbizzy. Can I ask what your curiosity is about the car and this Chambers woman?”

“She might be a really bad girl,” said Milo. “Or a victim. Or neither and I’m spinning my wire wheels.”

Groot chuckled. “The job as usual. You want to follow up with Wedd?”

“Might as well.”

“Here’s his info.”

Milo copied, thanked Groot, clicked off. Seconds later, he’d pulled Melvin Jaron Wedd’s driver’s license.

Male white, thirty-seven, six two, one ninety, brown, brown, needs corrective lenses.

Wedd’s photo showed him with a pink, squarish face, smallish eyes, thin lips, a dark spiky haircut. He’d posed in a black V-necked T-shirt. Black-framed glasses gave him the hipster-geek look of any other Westside guy working a Mac at a Starbucks table.

“Doesn’t look like a warlock,” said Milo.

I said, “More like Clark Kent at leisure.”

He ran Wedd through the banks just in case something had popped up since Groot’s search. No criminal record, a scatter of parking tickets, the most recent thirty months ago. All paid in a timely fashion.

Then he switched to the DMV files and said, “Well, looky here.”