The chefs were men. One was hefty with a rabbinic beard tucked into a snood-like net and long hair balled up and crammed into a greasy black Stetson. The other two were thin guys with sunken cheeks sporting Mohawks. Blue spikes in the center position, black to the right.

Darius Kleffer’s DMV shot matched Black. But Blue could’ve passed.

Kleffer spotted us, held up a delaying palm and kept working. Chop chop dice dice; a plate was shoved at one of the waitresses, who danced off to serve. Curly bit of shrimp spooning with a tiny crescent of foie gras. The pâté’s illegal to manufacture in California but you can still import it, goose and ducks be damned.

Wiping his hands on a towel, Kleffer stepped from behind the counter, already smoking an unfiltered cigarette.

He said, “Outside, okay? We got no open tables.”

We followed him through the restaurant. A few diners tried to catch his eye, students seeking the teacher’s approval. Kleffer ignored them, head pushed forward like a battering ram. He caught ash in his palm and managed to carry most of it outside. By the time we reached the sidewalk, two-thirds of his smoke had been sucked down and he chain-lit another before pinching out the glowing end with bare fingers. Brief sizzle of simmering skin; it didn’t seem to bother him.

Ducking into a cut between the restaurant and a perennially going-out-of-business Italian furniture store, he leaned against a grubby wall. “I litter, okay?” Ash and the dead butt sailed to the ground.

“Okay,” he repeated. He had a soft voice designed for apology, bloodshot brown eyes, a face blanketed with two days’ of spotty gray beard and some sort of accent, probably Northern European. His left arm was ink from knuckles to above his biceps. The right one was clear. Plenty of pinholes in both ears, but no jewelry in evidence.

Milo said, “Thanks for meeting with us on short notice.”

Darius Kleffer said, “Sure. Sorry I didn’t answer the first time.”

Downward glance.

“You were in New York.”

“I still could’ve answered your calls.” Head shake, twitch of jaw. “It was too hard. Sorry.”

“Talking about Katherine.”

“Yeah.” His cheek twitched.

“Ready to talk about her now?”

“I guess.”

“As I told you, we haven’t solved it. So anything you know that could help us would be appreciated.”

“I wish,” said Kleffer. “Sorry for not answering the first time. Really.”

“No need to apologize, Mr. Kleffer.”

“I know, I know—I guess I want to show you I’m no asshole. Even if you heard things about me.”

“From who?”

“Anyone who sees me when I’m drinking. When I drink, I’m a total asshole. When I don’t drink I think I’m a pretty much okay guy.”

Looking to us for validation.

Milo said, “Do you drink often?”