Ballou said, “Whoa, Speed-Racer. So can we go ahead with the staging, Lieutenant?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“When?”

Milo motioned to the crime scene van. The two techs got out, retrieved cases from the rear, and walked toward us.

Ballou said, “Whoa. CSI?”

“Just like on TV,” said Milo.

“You think something bad actually happened here? I mean there was nothing but food. Maybe it’s just a kid pranking.”

“Maybe but we need to check it out.”

Mick Ballou said, “Can you at least give me an estimate of when?”

The techs reached us, a couple of men in their twenties. Milo said, “Breakfast area at the end of the kitchen. I’ll be in soon, tell you what to do.”

Ballou said, “Can you give me an approximate—”

“No, sir.”

“Candy’s got a tight schedule.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“In a fluctuating market, timing’s everything, Lieutenant.”

“Have a nice day, sir.” Milo opened the Jaguar’s driver’s door.

Mick Ballou said, “Shit, I thought this would be an easy one.”

As he drove off, Milo said, “Join the club, moron.”

As we returned to the house, Binchy and Reed emerged and Milo told them they could go. In the breakfast room, he instructed the techs to check out every inch of the space, then move on to the entire kitchen. One man was six four and thin, the other a head shorter and even skinnier. Both wore stubble goatees and eyeglasses.

“Humongous place,” said Tall. “Give me a poor victim in a one-room shithole any day.”

“No victim I see,” said Short. “We’re checking out food, dude.”

Tall looked past him. “Vast, we could be here all day.”

Milo said, “If you get hungry, I’ll call out for dinner.”

Short said, “Ironic. Ha. I vote for Mexican.”

Tall said, “I vote for finishing before dinner.”

Milo and I returned outside. He leaned against the empty corral, rubbed his face, stared at the pretty sky.

“You know and I know,” he said. “Ain’t we the lucky ones?”

A beat.

I said, “Hennepin redux?”

He cursed. “How the hell can it be, Alex? Someone’s out to plague me?”

Suddenly he loped toward his car, slapped the trunk hard enough to redden his palm, returned looking ready to commit an atrocity.

“First salmon, now goddamn boneless chicken breast?”

I said, “The kind of meals a man might see as girlie.”

“Meaning?”

“Low fat, plenty of fiber, moderate portions.” I wasn’t sure if I was kidding. Milo didn’t see any humor in it.

“C’mon, Alex, what the hell? Someone with a thing for me? Poor Ursula was nothing but a pawn? I mean how would they know?”

I thought of his favorite bumper sticker: Even paranoids have enemies. “Maybe Hennepin and Corey are somehow connected.”

“An accountant and a tycooness?”

“Tycoonesses need accountants. Who was Ursula’s?”