“Sounds like a good deal. Did the Westside include the Fauborg Hotel?”

Olga Koznikov blinked. “Lovely place.”

“Did Tara work there?”

“If a client wanted a quite lovely place, that would be a good choice, no?”

Thinking of the Fauborg’s typical guest, I said, “Was Tara a favorite with much older men?”

She studied me. “It’s good you don’t shave your chest hair. Men do that, now. I don’t understand it.”

“Did older men—”

“You are asking me to remember things from long ago.”

Milo said, “How about theoretically? Was she theoretically into geezers?”

Koznikov’s hand pressed down on a heavy bosom. “This is so long ago.”

“Olga, something tells me you remember everything you’ve ever done or thought.”

“A sweet thing to say, Lieutenant, but we all fade.”

“Tara never got the chance to fade. That’s what we’re here about.”

Koznikov flinched. For less than a second, a real person seeped through the kindly madam act.

As good as any therapist, Milo seized the moment: “She didn’t go easily, Olga.”

He placed a death shot on the desk.

Koznikov’s face didn’t change but the hand on her chest whitened.

“Help us, Olga.”

“She was so beautiful. Barbarians.”

“Any particular barbarians come to mind?”

“Why would I know people like this?”

Milo said, “Any barbarians, a name, anything.”

Koznikov shook her head. Slowly, balefully. “I would tell you. I’m sorry.”

“How long has it been since Tara worked for you?”

“Three years.” First time she’d strayed from theoretical. She realized it and her jaw tightened. “Three years is nearly a thousand days. I like to count. For exercise. Mental. For my memory.”

Prattling.

Milo said, “She left three years ago.”

One year before going cyber.

“I like crosswords, too. For the memory. But the English? Too elevated.”

“Why’d she leave, Olga?”

“People get tired.”

“Personal problems?”

“People get tired.”

“Did drugs or booze have anything to do with that?”

“People get tired without drugs and booze.”

“No substance abuse issues.”

“Some people have self-control.”

“Her mother didn’t.”

“What mother? She had no mother,” said Olga Koznikov.

“She was born in a test tube?”

“Her mother died when she was a little girl. In Colorado.”

“What town in Colorado?”

“Vail. She grew up in the snow. Once upon a time.”

“That so.”

“Her mother taught skiing, died in an accident, she was raised by the county.”

“What about her father?”

“Swiss tourist, she never knew him.”

“She told you that.”

“She showed me a picture.”

“Of Vail.”

“A pretty woman with a baby. Snow.”

“Interesting,” said Milo.

Koznikov’s cheeks fluttered.