Loosening his belt, he announced, “Time for dessert,” and turned his attention to the light beer.

I said, “When are you planning to revisit Corey?”

“Tonight, soon as the traffic eases up, say seven thirty, eight-ish.”

“In the meantime, we could try for face-time with Cousin Flora. Maybe you can get something out of her that’ll help you find Williams.”

“His psychological makeup?”

“That would also be good,” I said, “but I was thinking last known address.”

Back to Century City. Might as well buy a permanent parking space.

We reached Flora Sullivan’s suite at five thirty-two p.m. Her firm sported a roster of partners that spanned three feet of black granite wall. As the workday drew to a close, lawyers and their staffers exited through three sets of glass doors set on separate walls.

The directory listed each partner as N, E, or W. Sullivan was W. The woman at the front desk of that section was large, white-haired, and imperious and locking her desk as we arrived. The first tip-off that she took herself far too seriously was her nameplate in oversized faux gold mounted on a beefy walnut stand.

ROSE MARIE GRUHNER

The second was her ignoring us completely.

Milo waited for a lull in the foot traffic before identifying himself as LAPD, no specialty cited, and asking to see Flora Sullivan.

Rose Marie Gruhner dropped keys in her purse. “She’s busy.”

“For how long, ma’am?”

“For as long as she chooses.”

Milo said, “I’m with the—”

Gruhner said, “I got it the first time, makes no difference.”

He edged closer to Gruhner’s desk and stood there. Gruhner finally looked up. “Sir. We get law enforcement all the time, the rules don’t change. No one without an appointment.”

“Cops all the time?”

“Frequently,” said Gruhner. “This is a real estate litigation firm, claims and counterclaims are the nature of the business.”

I said, “Process servers are always trying to con their way in.”

“Including marshals in uniform, sir. I tell them what I just told you two: No one gains entry without a prior appointment. We’d have chaos.”

“I’m a detective, ma’am, not serving papers on anyone.”

“I don’t make the regulations, sir, I only enforce them.”

I said, “Tell Ms. Sullivan that Leon Bonelli sent us.”

“I won’t tell her anything of the sort because she gave clear—”

“Trust me,” I said. “She’ll want to know. Leon Bonelli.” I spelled it.

Gruhner said, “Sounds like a tall tale.”

“It’s an extremely short tale.”

“Ach.” She punched an extension and relayed the information. As she listened, her face blossomed pink around the edges. “She is not happy. See yourselves in.”

As we walked past her, she called out, “Don’t you want directions?”

No need; Flora Sullivan was waiting in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed. Same pose Grant Fellinger had assumed. Maybe they taught it in law school.