Tracy Mayo said, “She was? No, I didn’t. Back when we were kids, the zoo was one of her favorite places … it’s been a while.”

Milo said, “What can you tell me about her dating life?”

Tracy Mayo’s phone sigh was audible from where I was sitting. “Lieutenant, there’s eight years between Frankie and myself. By the time she was of dating age I was out of the house. Out of California.”

“Chicago?”

“Evanston,” she said. “I went to Northwestern, did media studies, thought I’d be an anchorwoman.” Small laugh. “I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you more.”

“So, no boyfriends.”

“Not that I—wait a sec, there was someone she mentioned, but it was a while ago.”

Milo sat up. “When?”

“Months ago. Let me think … the last time Frankie and I spoke on the phone … okay, it was right after my youngest son’s birthday, which would be three months ago. Just a brief chat because Frankie didn’t like talking over the phone. She sent Jaydon a little stuffed lion, so I called and had him thank her, then got on the phone, myself. Frankie sounded fine. Happier than usual, actually, I asked her what was new and she said she met a new friend.”

“A man?”

“I assumed a man because, as I said, she sounded different. Lighter than usual. Then she backed away, like she always did, said she had to go and just hung up. You think there could be a connection? She met the wrong person?”

“We always look at close relationships, Ms. Mayo.”

“So you don’t know who he is.”

“No, ma’am, but we’ll look into it.”

“Darn,” said Tracy Mayo. “Maybe if I’d been nosier. But probably not, Frankie was never one to confide.”

“New playmate three months ago,” said Milo.

I said, “A month after Kathy Hennepin’s death.”

“Time to groom a new one … I need to think, let’s score some home-brew.”

We had another go at nasty coffee in the big detective room. The room was nearly full and a look around explained why: Someone had brought in lattes laced with cinnamon. Men and women sipped from cardboard cups as they worked. When Milo drank from his scalding mug of institutional sludge without pausing for breath, a single pair of hands applauded and others joined in.

He bowed and we headed back to his office. I heard someone say, “Didn’t know shrinks were that tough.”

He picked up his desk phone. It rang before he could use it.

Moe Reed said, “Good news, first: ballistics match between Corey and DiMargio. Now for the bad: DiMargio did have a cell phone account until three months ago, when she canceled it. But looks like the records have been deleted. What kind of person doesn’t have a phone?”

“Someone disconnected, Moses.”