Ray’s voice went on: “Ynez lives in North Carolina. She’s an emergency room nurse. We were together—lived together—for about eight years, but it’s been—it hasn’t been working for a while, and definitely not since Calvin died. I broke things off over the summer.” He looked at me, then to the road. “Alicia originally connected me with Janis, back when I first came to L.A. I helped them both with Kim Lord’s case, and Alicia promised to keep me abreast of developments in Calvin’s. But then she got divorced, and the sole custody of her son has been too much for her to manage, so she took a desk job. She’s not on homicide anymore. She can’t help me much now, and I’m not sure she wants to. She’s pretty tight with Ynez.”

Ray looked to be in his early thirties: of course he’d have been in some significant relationships by now. The fact of Ynez didn’t surprise me. It was his closeness with Alicia—apparently, they knew everything about each other, about her son, about Calvin. Why hadn’t either of them mentioned this before? It would have been so easy to slip it into conversation months ago.

“So you are still investigating Calvin’s case,” I said.

“Actually, today, I’m getting paid to investigate Hal Giroux,” said Ray.

“Really,” I said.

“Really.”

His little notebook said differently. But if I mentioned it, Ray would know that I’d snooped in his stuff. We passed a truck full of crates of apples, the fruits red in the shadows of the wooden slats.

“I guess I don’t trust you in a suit,” I said finally.

“You shouldn’t. And I really am sorry. I could have been straight with you a long time ago—about—about everything.” Ray gestured with his open hand, as if the traffic and the steep hills and the smog-white sky around us were included in his omissions. Then, without waiting for me to answer, he said, “There’s another thing I was wanting to tell you, if you don’t mind my changing the subject.”

“Go for it.”

Ray rummaged in the bakery bag with one hand and pulled loose a palmier, the light, golden, flaky pastry rolling toward itself in two big swirls. “You like these?” he said. “My stepmother, Willow, used to make these. She ruined my brother for whoopie pies, donuts, all that stuff. Drove our dad crazy. But really”—he bit into it, crumbs flying—“these things are not that good. And they make a huge mess. Cal thought he had one up on the whole neighborhood, though. He’d tasted the authentic Paris cookie.” He held it out to me. “Want one?”

“Was he always like that?” I said, fishing for the other palmier. “Wanting to be superior?”