She had on a black pencil skirt and white silk blouse with a Peter Pan collar. The heels on her red shoes put her into NBA guard territory. Dark curls were drawn back tight. Silver-rimmed eyeglasses dangled from a chain around the long stalk of her neck.

The resemblance to Jens Williams was hard to avoid.

She watched our approach, blank-faced. The trek to her door was longer than to Fellinger’s, offering a sideshow of abstractions in pastel tones. Hidden speakers streamed a soft-strings version of “Eleanor Rigby.” Scary song, when you thought about it.

When we were twenty feet away, Flora Sullivan swung into action like a bronco released from a pen, race-walking toward us on stick-limbs, face splotched salmon-pink.

A flamingo who’d imbibed too much rosy plankton.

She planted herself in the center of the hallway. “Who do you think you are to bandy about personal information to my staff?”

Milo said, “Ms. Sullivan, I’m Lieutenant Milo Sturgis, LAPD—”

“That is not an answer.”

“Sorry, ma’am, but the moat was deep and we needed to lower the drawbridge.”

Flora Sullivan blinked. Her eyes were dark blue and wide. The miserly mouth I’d seen in her photo was glossed crimson. Not a pretty woman by a long shot, but she had presence.

“I am not interested in medieval architecture, Officer Whoever You Are. Now you answer me: What gave you the right to lie your way in here by referencing a dear friend of mine?”

“Your personal life has no concern for us, Ms. Sullivan. We need to talk about your cousin John Jensen Williams.”

“Jens? What in the world about? He’s a distant cousin, I barely know him.”

“You knew him well enough to get him a job in this building.”

“I did him a favor—oh, that. I was assured that once J. J. was gone the matter would be resolved.”

Milo said, “This is about homicide.”

“What?” she shrieked. A tide of noise rolled behind her and caused her to shut up. A group of well-dressed, tired-looking people rounded a corner and headed our way. One of the men gave a finger-wave. “Flo.”

“Mark.”

The group passed. Lots of quizzical over-the-shoulder looks.

Flora Sullivan said, “Shit. Let’s talk in my office.”

Size- and layout-wise, her work space was a near twin of Fellinger’s, softened a bit by more pastels and blond furniture. Only two photos, both of Sullivan and her husband, headshots offering no hint of disability.

She unfolded her long frame behind her desk. “Before I hear any more nonsense about homicide, you’re going to give me a straight answer: What does Mr. Bonelli have to do with your business?”

“Nothing,” said Milo.

“You lied in order to con your way in here. Is that proper police procedure?”

“Ms. Gruhner was a bit of an obstacle.”