“Not for the rent part if he was the only one paying. We would need a valid driver’s license for the operator’s part.”

“Do you have one on file?”

“Hold on.”

Crossing the reception area to a bank of steel cabinets, he opened and shut several drawers, finally stood away, examining a piece of paper smiling. “Not bad.”

New Mexico license photo.

Tiara Melisse Grundy, five four, 105, brown and brown.

Long, dark, lank hair, no discernible makeup. But the lovely face above the white scooped neckline matched the girl who’d sold herself as Mystery.

She’d told SukRose the truth about her physical stats but had lied about her age: The DOB put her at one month shy of thirty.

Needing to be twenty-four because Leona Suss was being psychically cloned.

Even minimally groomed and wearing the borderline-sullen expression that comes from standing hours in line, Tiara Grundy looked young and fresh enough to pull it off.

Milo said, “Why’d you smile?”

“Guy renting for his chick.”

“You get a lot of that?”

“Enough,” said the clerk. “Costs a lot more than just leasing from a leasing company but they can go short-term and there’s no down payment.”

“We talking married guys?”

Smirk. “We don’t ask about their home situation.”

We left the office with Milo muttering, “Tiara Grundy,” as if he’d identified a new species.

I said, “Mark Suss eased in with a two-week rental, she built up his trust, he stretched it to a month, kept stretching, finally sprang for a full year. At that point, a conventional lease would’ve been cheaper but this was easier to hide, so he asked for a rebate.”

“Mr. Operator.”

“Even with a discount we’re talking serious money on top of the six thousand a month. Plus jewelry. There were probably additional supplements—money Leona Suss never knew about. That says Suss took the relationship seriously. Maybe Tiara did, too.”

“Love blossomed out of the mulch of sin?”

“Poetic.”

“Catholic,” he said. “Transgression’s always lurking in the shadows.”

His index finger stabbed the address on the license.

Post office box on Cerrillos Road, Santa Fe. He was on the phone before we reached the car.

The first call was to the crime lab, where he requested a go-over of the unit on Lloyd. His next quarry was Detective Darrell Two Moons of the Santa Fe Police Department.

Two Moons said, “Hey, L.A., long time. Bet you haven’t had decent Christmas chili since you were here.”

“Nothing close,” said Milo. “How’s everything, Darrell?”

“Kids are growing,” said Two Moons. “So’s my belly, unfortunately. Katz’s, too, we’re starting to look like your typical waddling detectives on one of those true-crime shows.”

“Try Pilates,” said Milo. “Tones up the core, improves posture, dissolves the body fat.”

“You do that stuff?”

“I’d rather drink battery acid.”

Two Moons laughed. “What’s up?”