Without his wife present, Jack Forbisher seemed more eager to help. Had more to offer than we’d expected.

The bookstore where Francesca DiMargio worked was called Even Odd.

Her parents lived close by in West L.A. “Never met ’em but you could say we’ve done business because usually the rent came from them.”

Milo said, “How much is usual?”

Forbisher thumbed his address book. “Six out of nine months. Also the damage deposit. They’re not going to be seeing any of that again.”

Milo said, “Their address, please.”

Forbisher read it off. “So tell me, which of the three cleaners is best?”

“They’re all good, sir.”

“There’s always one who stands out.”

“Try Bio-Vac.”

“Hope they’re the most reasonable,” said Forbisher. “I don’t think I should have to pay a dime but no sense fighting City Hall.” Brief glance at the diamond window. “I don’t even want to know what they’re doing back there. My wife needs to get back to normal or my life will be a living hell.”

Milo lit up a panatela, blew out enough smoke to envelop his head for several seconds, rematerialized and led me into the backyard. Wafts of cheap tobacco didn’t help. Neither did being outdoors. The stench was overpowering, a stomach-churning, brain-searing reek that saturated the ten yards separating the main house from the structure that still looked like a garage.

Jack Forbisher was right about one thing: Once you smelled decomp you never forgot it. Despite a steady breeze from the west, my eyes began to water. Milo dragged hard on his cigar. He turned and I spotted sheen around his nostrils. Lining his nasal passages with Vapo-Rub. He offered me the tube. I used it and it helped, but not much.

A thousand bucks a month had gotten Francesca DiMargio a hundred fifty square feet of what real estate agents call “open plan.” The space was now filled with techs wearing white hazmat suits and gas masks. Most worked steadily. One figure stood to the side, doing nothing. He waved.

Milo said, “Sean. He caught the call.”

Binchy’s arms dangled at his side. Relaxed, nothing bothers him.

Plenty to get bothered about, here.

The thing that had once been Francesca DiMargio was a brown/​black/​green/​maroon putrid mass dissolving onto the polished cement floor at the mouth of a one-step kitchenette. Tooth and bone flashed white beneath sloughing skin. Metallic glints, at least seven that I counted, indicated the body piercings. Hard to say where they’d been located originally because so much skin had collapsed and oozed.

Four festering limbs had been positioned in a way that evoked Kathy Hennepin. So did the use of a bedsheet to completely cover the body. What remained of the linen had been pushed aside so that the photographer could snap and pop.