The director of security was a black man named Alfred Bayless wearing a black blazer, gray pants, and white turtleneck. He’d come down to the crime scene just as we were leaving.

Milo asked to see security tapes.

Bayless said, “This is a disaster. Okay, let’s go to my place.”

On the ride up, Bayless said, “Worked auto and burglary at Hollenbeck, sixteen years. Thought retirement would be quiet.” He looked at me.

Milo said, “This is Dr. Alex Delaware, our psych consultant.”

“You think this was a nut-job?”

“It’s not run of the mill, could be anything.”

The moment we arrived at Bayless’s office, he copied several disks, placed them in paper sleeves, handed them over.

“Thanks. How much time do these cover?”

“From seven a.m. when the lot opens until just before you called me.”

Bayless led us to the wall of monitors and fooled with one of the recorders. A blank screen at the bottom lit up then filled with a steady parade of incoming vehicles. Bayless pushed a button that shifted the view to outgoing traffic. Clear view of machines but not of the drivers. If a car didn’t move too quickly you might make out a license plate.

“That’s it?” said Milo.

“Yeah, I know, nothing in the parking tiers.” Bayless shook his head. “Disaster, nothing like this has ever happened before.”

“Hopefully it won’t happen again.”

“You work the bodies and still believe in luck?”

“Only the bad kind.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said Bayless.

“Listen, I don’t want to ask but I have to—”

“Yeah, yeah, why no cameras in the tiers.” Bayless motioned us out of the security room, continued a couple of steps up the hallway, dead-ended at a door marked Utility, looked around.

Milo said, “You’re being surveilled yourself?”

Bayless smiled. “You never know. In answer to your question, you want the official reason or the real one?”

“How about both?”

“Officially, we’ve got state-of-the-art surveillance and safety, hardware and software as well as top-notch expertly trained personnel. Reality is we’re bush league. One of the first things I suggested when they hired me eight months ago was cameras on the parking levels. I mean where does bad stuff happen? Not in the damn lobby.”

He scanned the hall. “But the wise men who manage this place saw no reason to take on the expense, this is Century City, people don’t come to Century City to do bad things.”

“All those lawyers and it’s a shrine to virtue?”

Bayless managed a snorting laugh. “Anyway, those are yours to keep. I hope some of that bad luck converts to mediocre.”

Back down to the parking lot under discussion. I’d parked my Seville on the top tier, my name on a list allowing me access to a section guarded by a uniformed cop. Four spaces away sat Milo’s current unmarked, a bilge-green Impala.