“Could we come in to talk about it, sir?”

“Come in? Of course, you need to come in, sure, yeah. My God!” Corey stepped aside. Both of his cheeks were tear-streaked.

A lot of detective work is accomplished over the phone. Some D’s even notify telephonically. Milo had come in person because, among other things, he wanted to study Richard Corey’s initial reaction. Psychopaths, skillful as they are at manipulating others, have trouble with emotional regulation and generally screw up at either extreme: theatrical histrionics or cold stoicism.

To my eye, Richard Corey’s behavior revealed nothing. I glanced at Milo as we entered the condo. Detective stoicism.

Corey trailed us then sped up and walked ahead, collapsing on a sagging brown fake-suede sofa and burying his face in his hands. The space was expansive and well laid out: open floor setup with a slick chrome-and-teak kitchen, high beamed ceilings, glass instead of plaster wherever feasible, exposing gorgeous views of the inlet and the ocean beyond.

But years after his divorce, Corey hadn’t done his bachelor pad justice. The place he’d chosen to sink a million and a half dollars into remained as sparse and sad as a newly single man’s temporary crib: blank walls, unadorned wood floors, just the one sofa and two metal-and-black-vinyl folding chairs for seating, a forty-inch plasma screen set up on cinderblocks and bottomed by a pasta of wires, a flimsy-looking treadmill to the right of the hallway leading to the sleeping area.

Blocking the bottom half of the best view—French doors leading to an empty deck—was an off-kilter plywood desk topped by a laptop, a cell phone dock, and a laser printer. More wire-snarl coiled to the floor. Stacks of paper covered a good third of the floor.

The place smelled of ocean and stale food and inertia.

We stood by as Richard Corey sat on his sole piece of upholstery and cried silently.

Finally, he muttered, “Sorry,” and looked up. Sniffing, he crossed to the kitchen, fumbled in several drawers, and returned with a dinner napkin that he used to dry his face. His knees knocked against each other. He tugged at his beard. “What the hell happened?”

Milo said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, sir, but Mrs. Corey was shot in the parking lot of her lawyer’s office building.”

“Fellinger’s building? That’s Century City. What, a mugging? Someone jacked the Jag?”

“Doesn’t appear that way.”

“Then what?” said Corey. “This makes no sense!”

“That’s why we’re here, sir. To try to make sense.”

Corey didn’t move or speak. We sat down on the folding chairs.

“Fellinger,” Corey repeated. “She told me she’d made an appointment. That’s what I meant by we just spoke.”

“When was that, sir?”