Plastic-wrapped Wagyu steaks, ducks, and veal sweetbreads. A similarly wrapped goose, two disarticulated quails, three packages of ground venison. All the labels from a yuppie market in Brentwood that pulls off price-gouging by sheathing it in eco-religion.

Local and sustainable, indeed. The goose looked past its prime, and abandoned long enough, all this flesh would soon be rotting. The bottom bin of fruits and vegetables had already taken on a rancid odor. Unaffected were a bottle of Laurent-Perrier Brut Champagne and a six-pack of “organic gourmet” water “harvested” from an obscure island in the South Pacific.

Gonzales said, “Looks like someone was planning to stuff their face.”

“Probably not,” I said.

“Why not?”

“He knew when he’d be leaving. This is all about advertising.”

“Advertising what?”

“Himself. As a man of elevated taste.”

The big puzzle remained: How could the woman Patrolman Buenavista had seen with Williams disappear without being spotted? But a third call to the rookie, this time from Gonzales, produced a prosaic downer of an explanation that left him punching his palm and shaking his head.

“Fool’s a green-bean,” he muttered. “ ‘Oh, yeah, Sarge. She did leave in another car. A van, actually.’ ”

Milo said, “Williams’s Ford.”

“They traded cars, huh? Or the Corolla was stolen and Williams had her take his drive, maybe meet up with him so he could ditch it.”

“Sounds like a plan, Frank.”

“Damn … at least this chicklet left alive.”

“Don’t write her an insurance policy.”

“That’s for sure,” said Gonzales. “He took Corey by surprise, probably has one planned for her. You say this girl was in the service?”

“Yup.”

“You’d think she’d have some smarts.”

“He’s got a way with women, stomach the direct route to the heart and all that.”

“He cooks for them?”

“Sets a lovely table,” said Milo. “Then everything turns to garbage.”

“Clever,” said Gonzales. “The cooking part, I mean. Before I met my wife I had the basic crazy girlfriend, used to make dinky tostadas for her, didn’t take much more than that.”

His smile spread under his mustache. “Not the wife, though. Can’t fool her, she’s got taste buds.”

Forensics completed, body transported, resumption of quiet. No neighbors had come out to watch, not even a light switching on.

Just before midnight, Milo yawned and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

I raced back to L.A. One mile into the fifty-mile journey, Milo’s eyes were closed. By mile two, he was snoring.

Hard to say if that indicated uncanny relaxation in the face of evil and frustration or just escape. Either way, the soundtrack he provided was thunderous and steady, sibilance broken by random gasps and the occasional infantile squeak.

When my cell phone beeped, he continued the serenade.

My answering service. I triggered the hands-off.