His smile was instantaneous, feral, frightening. “You probably think that question will stymie me but as a matter of fact, I’ve got the answer at my fingertips because I combed through her and Richard’s finances for a solid goddamn week and it’s not the Hennepin’s bosses—the Grosses. No sir, Urrick’s taxes are handled by a hoohah firm in the same building as Fellinger.”

“Really,” I said.

“What?”

“I’m grasping but maybe the building’s the link,” I said. “What if Hennepin had reason to be there—running an errand for the Grosses—and she got sniffed out by the same predator who went after Ursula?”

“So everything I’ve worked on Ursula—the money motive, Richard, some unhappy boyfriend—was a total waste of time and there’s some random psychopath stationed on Avenue of the Stars looking for random prey?”

It’s never random. I said nothing.

“Great, that’s fantastic, beautiful. Phantom of the office building? Even if I thought it made sense, why would he strangle and overkill-butcher one victim, wait four-plus months, and do another one execution-style?”

I said, “Well—”

“You’re gonna tell me it’s the signature, not the M.O., right?”

I smiled.

He said, “So what’s this guy signing his name to? The joys of cuisine?”

“Marissa may have stumbled upon it a few minutes ago. Pride of ownership.”

“He cooks a meal so he owns his victims? Why that, specifically? His mommy starved him in the crib? Insufficient breast-feeding?”

He strode away a second time, walked out to the middle of the road, and stood there, arms folded across his barrel chest. As if challenging a car to appear.

None did. Not a sound other than bird peeps. Beautiful place. Ursula Corey had left it, expecting a lovely day sweetened by altruism toward her children, only to die on oily asphalt.

When Milo returned, I said, “It wouldn’t need to be someone who’s at the building regularly. People come in and out. Occasional would be enough. That could explain four months between victims.”

“Reed studied those tapes. No one iffy entered or exited the morning Ursula was killed.”

“Define iffy.”

“In the case of a motorist, a tag that traces to a criminal record. In the case of a pedestrian, lurking, loitering, acting generally creepy or spooky, any sort of purposeless behavior.”

I said nothing.

He said, “Okay, it was a waste of time. Any better suggestions, genius?—aw, sorry, you’re the last person I should go off on. It’s just that this is nuts. The last thing I expected.”

“Same here.”

“God, I hope it’s not the building. Even compiling a list of employees and staffers would be impossible, people come and go.”

He turned toward the house. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a freaky food diorama in there. Boneless chicken … and guess where there also isn’t a camera?”

“The house.”