The lobby was half a football field of gray granite and brown marble under a thirty-foot coffered ceiling centered by a six-foot-wide Venetian glass chandelier. Bank of four elevators on each side. People in suits and business casual hustling back and forth. Plenty of gravity on some faces but no shortage of workplace levity—smiles, jests, bouncy strides. The news of the murder hadn’t made its way up from the basement.

I wondered if Ursula Corey had begun her final elevator ride feeling chipper.

Most of the tenants listed on the directory were law firms, the rest sounded like outfits that moved money around for fun and profit. Hundreds, maybe a thousand attorneys. The way people sue one another in L.A. you could probably develop an entire city occupied by legal types. But what masochist would take on the job of law enforcement, let alone toxic cleanup?

Milo and I scanned the F’s. A Feldman and a Feld were listed, both business managers.

He said, “Maybe to the housekeeper anyone with an office is an abogado,” and copied the suite numbers in his notepad. Dropping his eyes he stopped. Pointed to the spot where I’d just arrived.

Grant Fellinger. Law offices of Weintraub, Harrow, Micziewski and Fellinger. The entire south wing of floor seven.

“Best bet, right, lad?”

“Definitely,” I said. “Let’s give the housekeeper credit for knowing who’s an abogado and who isn’t.”

“There you go again,” said Milo. “Wanting to see the good in everybody.”

The lift was souped-up, barely audible, let us off seconds later facing a glass door backed by an inner wall of black slate. The law firm’s name was etched so discreetly you could barely read it. Maybe one of those if-you-have-to-ask-you-don’t-belong deals.

The young woman behind the reception desk was a pretty, bright-eyed Latina in a tasteful black dress and pearls. Serious mien. Terrific posture. Sitting that straight all day implied self-discipline. Milo’s badge evoked no change in expression.

“What can I do for you, Officers?”

“Is Ursula Corey a client of Mr. Fellinger?”

“One second please.” Deft fingers pushed buttons on a panel faster than I could follow. Handheld devices may have damaged attention span but they’ve done wonders for fine-motor coordination.

Half a minute later a tall man in his thirties wearing jeans with rolled bottoms, a tiny-collared white shirt, and a red paisley tie appeared. Longish dark hair was combed to look careless. Black-rimmed glasses and red-brown saddle shoes added up to hipster, not corporate lawyer.

His voice was soft, as if eager not to offend. “I’m Jens Williams, Mr. Fellinger’s paralegal. How can I help you?”

Milo repeated his question.

Jens Williams said, “Um, may I ask why you’re asking?” New England in his accent.

Milo smiled. “I’ll take that as a yes.”