He didn’t get in contact until just after one p.m., thick-voiced and wrung-out. Rather than sleep, he’d returned to watching Grant Fellinger’s house. Fellinger’s Challenger and the BMW probably driven by his wife remained in place until seven fifty-eight a.m. when Fellinger left his house and drove the Dodge back to his office in Century City.

Moe Reed took over the watch, allowing Milo a brief stop at home in West Hollywood, where he showered, gobbled half a cold pizza and a generous square of cold baked ziti, while reading the paper. Sitting across from Dr. Rick Silverman, who breakfasted on fruit and Rice Krispies. While reading the paper.

“Wall Street Journal for him, Times for me. Neither of us are great in the morning, this morning we’re grumpy as hell. Finally, he got paged from the E.R. and I’m about to leave when I see I need to change my shirt, got tomato sauce on it, and that pissed me off more than anything. You think it’s a subconscious blood thing? I chose Italian out of big-time empathy?”

I said, “You’ve always liked pizza.”

“There you go again. Doing your reality thing.”

William and Clara DiMargio lived in an olive-green, one-story bungalow south of Pico and east of Overland. I waited ten minutes before Milo pulled up. He wore a gray suit that matched the sky, a chartreuse shirt, a tie the color of mud, the faithful desert boots, resoled for the umpteenth time. His hair was slicked and he’d shaved haphazardly, creating a grid of nicks at his jawline. His eyes were bloodshot, his head stooped.

Three-hundred-plus homicides. Here we go again.

A woman answered the door. Sixties, five three, black hair cut short, pretty face, small body swallowed up by a quilted blue housecoat.

She said, “Yes?”

“Mrs. DiMargio?”

“That’s me, what is this?”

Milo flashed his badge. Not the card; the card says Homicide. “Is Mr. DiMargio here?”

“Why?”

“It’s about your daughter Francesca. If we could come in, ma’am?”

Clara DiMargio said, “Can I see that badge again?” But she stepped back, gripping the doorframe for support.

A man’s voice said, “Clara?” just before its owner appeared. William DiMargio wasn’t much taller than his wife. Older than her or just aging faster, with frizzy white hair, eyelids surrendering to gravity, rough, weathered skin. An indifferently trimmed mustache spiked in all directions.

“The police, Bill.”

“What’s going on?” Bill DiMargio demanded. But he, too, made way for us.

As always, Milo did his best. As always, it didn’t seem to matter.

Clara DiMargio wailed and shook. Her husband held her at arm’s length as if he wanted to throw her away. Jut-jawed, eyes full of rage, spittle collecting at the corners of his lips as he mouth-breathed.