Bypassing their house, they continued south. Without breaking stride, Grant Fellinger planted a kiss on his wife’s cheek. She pecked him back.

The two of them, marital bliss personified. Like one of those ads for cruise ships, middle age filled with romance, what a hoot.

They sure looked comfortable with each other. When they returned a second time, Fellinger’s hand was draped over his wife’s shoulders, and her arm looped around his thick waist.

Exhibiting the ease you saw in contented couples.

Milo supposed he and Rick could fit that description, all those years together, fewer arguments, almost no drama.

Huge accomplishment, given the stress of both their jobs.

Given the fact that both of them were prone to crankiness.

Also the fact that they were men raised during a certain era; gay or not, emotional expression had never been a big factor in their household.

So no arm-looping for the two of them, even in West Hollywood where PDAs were business as usual.

Times had changed. Intellectually, Milo was fine with that. But sometimes when he saw young guys in Boystown hugging and kissing and doing whatever the hell they pleased, it could jolt him and make him feel ancient.

Rick never said anything but it was definitely the same for him. Squinting the way he did, the compulsively barbered mustache rising and falling as his jaw flexed.

Hell, they were getting old. Just sitting around like this was freezing up his joints, let’s not even talk about the urinary system.

The lovebirds returned to their house, Bonnie Jo laughing at something Grant said, laughing again as Grant patted her more-than-ample ass.

All that happy-hearth hoohah hadn’t prevented the bastard from screwing Ursula Corey and Lord knew how many other women.

Helluvan actor.

Was he concealing a lot worse than adultery?

Bonnie Jo’s laughter lingered in Milo’s head.

She loves the guy.

This one would not be easy.

Night three, as Moe Reed follows at a safe distance, Flora Sullivan drives home to Hancock Park, stays inside her mansion for an hour and fifty-two minutes before emerging, pushing a man in a wheelchair. Guy around her age, gray-haired, handsome, and broad-shouldered, the contrast even more marked when his upper body is measured against his withered legs.

Sullivan steps in front of the chair. The man smiles as she straightens his collar. She propels the chair curbside. Parked cars are thin on June Street tonight, and Reed worries his three-year-old Mustang, borrowed from the Narcotics impound stable, will be spotted, sitting obliquely north.

But Sullivan and the man in the chair have eyes only for each other. They talk. She adjusts his clothing a few more times. He takes hold of her hand and brings it to his lips, briefly.