Twenty minutes after he reentered Corey’s condo, Milo emerged, brandishing a clear plastic evidence bag and waving me over. Inside the bag was a single piece of U.S. paper currency, wilted around the edges.

Legal tender but it was hard to make out the denomination through the mist inside the bag.

Milo said, “You can touch it.”

Cold. “The fridge?”

Milo said, “Wedged in back of the vegetable bin, I was lucky to spot a tiny corner sticking out.”

I said, “A stray that fell unnoticed. From the big cash-stash Corey kept there.”

“Nothing there, now. Williams scored a big haul.” He exhaled. “Idiot Corey couldn’t use a bank or a brokerage account because he’d been evading taxes for who knows how long. So he cooled his dough. Literally. Must’ve taken up a lot of space, there sure wasn’t much else in there.”

“Not a food guy.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Any wisdom from the scene? To me it looked like a sneak attack from the rear.”

“From the rear and above, the amount of bone damage says a hefty swing—going for the outfield. Corey’s position suggests he was couch-potato-ing, no indication he had any idea what was in store.”

“Trust thy neighbor,” I said. “He pays Williams to shoot Ursula, tosses in free rent.”

“Double-barreled idiot. Letting a guy he knew to be homicidal live next door, and get behind him with a baton. Entell said Williams was wearing a jacket, so easy enough to conceal.”

I said, “Interesting choice of weapon.”

“What do you mean?”

“Using police equipment.”

He ground his jaws, slapped hair out of his face. “Corey was smart enough to make a fortune, what the hell possessed him?”

His eyes shifted to Frank Gonzales a few yards away, talking on the phone. “Damn paper warrant for both units, it was me, I’d just go next door because Williams was seen with a woman but no one noticed her leaving and if that ain’t grounds I don’t know what is.”

Gonzales saw him scowling, held up a finger. Milo pulled out a panatela, lit and smoked and paced and fidgeted for the fourteen minutes it took for Gonzales to say, “Okay, it arrived in my office.”

We followed him to the unit where John Jensen Williams had possibly lived with a young, dark-haired, huge-chested woman. Milo’s head lowered for battle, as he struggled not to take the lead.

Gonzales gave the door a token knock, called out, “Police, open up!” and when that brought no response, ordered a uniform to get a ram.

Clearing the place didn’t take long. No one inside, dead or otherwise, the only furniture two futons, a folding card table, and two matching chairs.

Chemical smell of recent cleanup.

No clothes in the closet, no obvious sign of habitation until Milo gloved up and examined the kitchen.

This refrigerator was crammed tight with food.