But that big aha! moment dies when two more people join the party, a pair of fortyish women, one blond, the other black with beautifully coiffed gray hair, both wearing well-tailored dark suits.

The party of four walks abreast, waits for the green light, and crosses the boulevard, heading straight for the building where Milo has developed a nice relationship with the parking attendants based on mutual respect and cash.

A dark residential block is one thing, Avenue of the Stars drunk on incandescence is another. And no 928 to give him respectability; today he’s behind the wheel of an LTD that might as well bear signage proclaiming Unmarked!

He starts the car up and bails out of there, driving half a block before hazarding a backward look.

Fellinger and the three women are entering the structure across the street.

From one office building to another? What the hell?

Milo drives around the corner, parks at a neighboring office structure, and overtips the valet outrageously to buy himself time and space.

Making it to the building Fellinger’s group has entered, he learns from a sign in the lobby that a restaurant named Gio occupies the top floor.

Said establishment isn’t doing a riproaring business, at least not this early; even the long, ebony bar is mostly empty. Maybe the tenants—mostly entertainment firms—want to get the hell out of there after long days of dickering and swindling.

Or the food sucks.

Whatever the reason, Fellinger and the three women are easy to spot because no one blocks visual access to their corner table with a terrific city view.

Fellinger and the black woman are seated with their backs to the untended maître d’s booth. The other two women face them.

No way any of them will notice Milo; he is standing outside the restaurant, peering through the holes created in a wall of glass pocked artistically.

A waiter brings drinks: two oversized Martini glasses of something coppery-red garnished with fruit salad for the pretty young receptionist and the black woman, what looks to be cola but could be rum and Coke for the blonde.

Fellinger raises an Old-Fashioned glass of something clear—vodka or gin. Clinks all around.

A different waiter brings bread. Fellinger waits until all three women have selected from the basket and either buttered or dipped in what is probably olive oil. Only then does he bite into his roll. What a gentleman.

Menus arrive. Fellinger orders from a wine list. Two bottles, white and red.

Everyone relaxed, happy, chatting without care.

Nice boss, taking the staff out after work.

This could really get complicated.

Or worse, he’s really, really wrong.

I finished reading the surveillance summaries, put them down.

Milo said, “Fascinating, huh?”

He was at my house, at eleven a.m., sprawled on the living room sofa looking thrashed and discouraged.

“I still think you’re going about it the right way.”