“It’s still a long way from evidence,” he said. “But like you said, what else do I have? Let’s learn more about the monkey-man.”

Back at the station, we detoured for toxic coffee in the big detective room and headed for Milo’s closet-sized, solitary-confinement office. While he logged onto his email, I pushed the spare chair into a corner and checked my messages. Robin saying hi, no need to call. I stepped out into the hall, anyway, and took a vacation from ugly. Hearing about her day, divulging as little of mine as possible, planning dinner at home, the two of us grilling hanger steaks.

“Wine?” she said. “Or we stay clearheaded?”

“No payoff in clear,” I said.

“Because no progress?”

“Something like that.”

“No sense getting into it?”

“I’ll tell you over wine.”

Reentering the windowless cell, I found Milo working his desktop with the grim concentration of a truant kid video-zapping alien spacecraft.

His targets: the criminal files, local and NCIC.

Nothing on Grant Fellinger.

DMV gave up three moving traffic violations in as many years, two near Fellinger’s office, one less than a mile west on Santa Monica Boulevard near Westwood. Two vehicles, a BMW 6 series and a vintage Dodge Challenger. Same offense each time: incomplete stop.

Milo said, “Man in a hurry. That mean something psychologically?”

“If I could answer that with a straight face I’d have a talk show.”

“Dr. Alex,” he said. “Dispensing folksy wisdom and tough love in between commercials for reverse mortgages … onward, here are his real estate records … he’s got a house in the Palisades … not real close to Hennepin’s apartment but not that far, either, he gets the urge, easy enough to booty-call and drop over.”

“Booty-calls would’ve meant phone calls between Kathy and him.”

His mouth worked. He checked the Hennepin murder book, just in case. Slammed it shut. “Zilch. So what, he just drops in, joy of spontaneity and all that? She’s impressed by him, rich confident guy, making her feel stable. Which to her also means safe, she leaves the door unlocked for him.”

“So he can tote in the evening’s refreshments.”

“With all that, you’d expect someone to notice, Alex. But like I said, the only guy anyone ever saw go in and out was Kleffer.”

I said, “Kleffer’s hard to miss. A middle-aged guy arriving after dark wouldn’t be. Or for most of their trysts they used Fellinger’s place, not Kathy’s. Any record of a second home?”

“Little fun pad for ol’ Grant? I like it.” He typed.

His enthusiasm was short-lived. No other real estate listings in L.A., Ventura, Orange, or San Bernardino counties under Fellinger’s name, his family trust, or his law firm. He turned away from the screen.