“The most we could attempt would be conspiracy and that’s a stretch. We’re not wasting time on something that isn’t winnable.”

“What about the dope in her purse?”

“Oh, sure,” said Theroux. “We can get her a couple years on that, some of it’ll probably be suspended. I thought you were talking a serious charge.”

Milo said, “I’m less concerned with punishing her than finding out where Meredith Santos is. If we can’t hold anything over her head, there’s no leverage to get her to talk.”

“So dangle a totally suspended sentence on the dope and see if she bites.”

Later that day, Milo called Newgrass and made the offer.

The PD said, “I’ll ask her.”

An hour later: “She says she’d love to make a deal but she really never heard of this person. How about you don’t file on the drugs, anyway?”

“Why not?”

“She’s being sincere.”

“Just like you,” said Milo. He slammed down the phone.

When Frank Gonzales heard the news, he said, “That’s the way it goes. Cookies crumbling all over the damn place. No, forget that. No more food analogies.”

Three days after the death of John Jensen Williams, Milo called Albert Tranh.

“It’s safe for the girls to come home now, Mr. Tranh.”

“Why’s that, Lieutenant?”

“The bad guy’s out of the picture.”

“Arrested?”

“Six feet under.”

“Oh,” said Tranh. “I see. Well, that’s good but I’m not sure why you’re telling me.”

“If you find yourself in a situation where you can pass along the information, I’m sure the girls will appreciate it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, Lieutenant.”

A day later, Tranh phoned. “Ashley and Marissa are appreciative, though obviously there’s a lot else on their minds.”

“When are they coming back?”

“I’ve been informed that they may remain where they are.”

“In Vancouver.”

“Apparently,” said Tranh, “they’ve found employment. Seem to be learning responsibility.”

“Good lesson for rich girls,” said Milo.

“All the more reason,” said Tranh.

“Any horses up there?”

“The topic has come up.”

Eight days after the death of John Jensen Williams, the combined force of Milo and Frank Gonzales finally convinced one of Kashmeer Katte’s fellow dancers to spill.

Kashmeer had sublet off the books, scoring the converted garage of a dingy bungalow in East Hollywood rented by three of the other strippers.

“Another back house,” I said.

“Unbelievable,” said Milo. “We’re talking carbon copy of Frankie’s place. No taxidermy, this place yielded better treasure. Three handguns, including the .25 used to kill Ursula, the 9mm used to shoot Frankie, and another 9mm with both Williams’s and Richard Corey’s prints that had never been fired.”

“The gun Corey waved at his daughters.”