I went to the kitchen and fetched water and a box of tissues, placed everything on the coffee table in front of the couple. The table was shaped like a lyre, pecan wood with tiny black freckles, resting on gilded griffon legs. A basket of wax fruit, a bronze nutcracker shaped like a crocodile, and a collection of framed photos crowded the surface.

Most of the pictures were of conventional-looking people in their thirties—two couples, each with a pair of small children. In one picture, Clara and Bill stood among them. No one with tats and pierces.

A single shot off to the left portrayed a cute young teenage girl who resembled Francesca Lynn DiMargio’s DMV photo if you factored out the blue-and-scarlet buzz cut, the snaky black neck tattoos, studs, hooks, and barbells inserted into eyebrows, nose, lips, and the tender space between lower lip and chin.

Pierces everywhere but her ears. A shy girl shouting defiance with negative space?

I studied the expression on her pre-modification face. Forced smile. Tense, preoccupied. Posing but still caught off guard.

Clara DiMargio grew silent. Her husband removed his arm from her shoulder and scooted a few inches away.

Milo said, “We’re so sorry for your loss, but if you could talk to us it might help find out what happened.”

Bill said, “What happened is probably she lived like a freak and it got her.”

His wife cried out, “Oh!” and used both hands to grab her own cheeks.

“Like it matters now? Like she’s gonna get upset?”

Clara howled. He set his mouth tighter and his mustache bristled.

Milo said, “We’re open to any information you want to give.”

Bill said, “She lived her own life, shut us out.”

“Oh, God,” his wife whimpered.

He shifted farther away. “Like that place she supposedly worked. Like it was a real job and we were supposed to be thrilled.”

“Even Odd. You’ve been there?” said Milo.

“Why would I? Being in a bookstore in a bad neighborhood at night is a job? Who buys books at night?”

Clara dried her tears. “Frankie said people came in.”

“She told you that?”

“Yes, she did.”

“Hmmph. Well, she never told me nothing.” To us: “In the slums they’re all of a sudden big readers?”

Clara said, “Silverlake is not the slums.”

“Right, it’s Beverly Hills. Look. These guys are here for information, I’m giving them information. You want to tell me hanging out with losers couldn’t a had something to do with it? Gimme a break, Clara.”

He shot up, walked into the kitchen, shaking a fist.

Clara said, “He’s upset.”

Milo and I sat there. Moments later, Bill DiMargio was back, empty-handed. As if spotting the water for the first time, he poured himself a glass and slurped noisily.

I said, “Did Frankie have problems with nighttime customers?”

“No,” said Clara. “Not that she said.”