“Some of what?”

“After I verified payment and filled out the forms, she’d pack.”

I said, “Do you ever deliver locally?”

“Once in a while if it’s easy.” Her eyes brightened. “Hey, Frankie did that, too.”

“Delivered CDs.”

“Not CDs, the only thing we deliver is clothes. And not often, most people want everything sent.”

Milo said, “Any repeat deliveries?”

“Hmm,” said Bekka Mankell. “There’s a woman who came in once to browse, bought a whole bunch of pleather. After that she started calling up for more, asked if she could pay extra for personal delivery. We don’t get that much of it but we sent her a couple of boxes.”

“Pleather.”

“It doesn’t breathe,” she said. “People use it to party. Like rubber goods. I know she used it to party because she asked for bustiers, corsets, and she wanted an unmarked box and had to accept it personally.”

“From Frankie.”

“Both times. Frankie said it was on her way home, anyway.”

“Where does this woman live?”

“Not her house, she had it sent to her office.”

“Where?”

“Century City.”

“Avenue of the Stars?”

Nod. “You think she killed Frankie? Wow. Over the phone she was mellow. Except when she talked about how to deliver it. She wanted it brought down to the parking lot. That’s part of the fun.”

“Being naughty.”

“Being sneaky. Do you want to know her name?”

“You bet, Bekka.”

Another search behind the counter produced a small laptop. Tap tap. “Flora Sullivan.”

She read off the address.

No need for that.

We convened an hour later in Milo’s office. He pounded his keyboard without bothering to sit.

Flora Sullivan, Esq., was a partner in the Southern California branch of a national law firm. Her specialty was real estate. Forty-five years old and blameless in the eyes of the criminal justice system and the state bar association.

A headshot on the company website showed a thin woman with a notably long neck, a narrow mouth that probably looked pursed even when it wasn’t, and a small face under a cap of dark, curly hair. Square-lensed eyeglasses framed slightly bulging eyes.

Overall: bookish and birdlike. Imagining her in a pleather bustier brought up some strange pictures.

Milo scanned her brief bio. “Yale grad, Boalt law … look at the suite number. Eighth floor, one above Fellinger. The damn building, you were right.”

I said, “With the exception of Deirdre Brand, he met all of them there. And Deirdre panhandled nearby.”

“Those are the ones we know about. The bastard’s middle-aged. What self-respecting serial starts that late?”

He phoned Binchy, watching the building from across the street. “Sorry, nothing, Loot. He went in at nine, hasn’t left.”

“What I’m calling about is your looking for similars at other divisions.”

“Sorry, again,” said Binchy. “At least at the ones I reached, but I’m still trying. At least we got the bullet.”

Milo sat down. “What bullet, Sean?”