Someone with excellent knife skills.

I read on.

Katherine was described by the Grosses as “lovely,” “sweet,” and “shy.” Ralph Gross termed Darius Kleffer a “damn maniac” and his wife concurred. Twice the ex had “barged in” at the office “ranting at poor Katherine.” The first time, he obeyed the Grosses’ command to leave. The second time he didn’t, hovering around Katherine, trying to convince her to leave with him. The Grosses called the police but “the lunatic” left before the black-and-white arrived.

Research into Kleffer’s background revealed two arrests for battery on fellow drinkers in Hollywood clubs, both charges eventually dismissed. His volatility, the notion of a chef cooking dinner for two, and the fact that Kleffer had lived close by in North Hollywood seemed to wrap it up and I understood Milo’s confidence in a quick close.

He drove to Kleffer’s apartment, but Kleffer hadn’t lived there for three months and had left no forwarding. A week of searching failed to locate him and Milo was surer than ever he’d targeted the right quarry.

Obvious.

Until it wasn’t.

I got up and poured my third cup of coffee. The first two had been savored at six thirty a.m. with Robin, before she took our dog to her studio out back and resumed carving a guitar top. I offered a cup to Milo.

“No, thanks.”

“All of a sudden you’re into self-denial, Big Guy?”

“For Catholics it’s a genetic trait,” he said. “Atonement must at least be attempted.”

“The big sin being …”

“Failure.”

I said, “I would’ve come to the same conclusion on Hennepin.”

“Maybe.”

“I digest facts the same way you do.”

He didn’t answer.

I said, “You can beat yourself up all you want but Kleffer looked perfect.”

“Until he didn’t.”

I pointed to the blue folder. “There’s nothing in here about why you scratched him off.”