Ten more minutes passed, during which Milo polluted the Seville with cigar smoke and returned a message from Rick. A clinic that tested for STDs and genetic disorders was situated in a Cedars-affiliated building on San Vicente. Rick had phoned the director, an immunologist he knew casually, only to be barked at.

Any breach of patient confidentiality would be fought aggressively and Rick should know better.

Milo said, “So much for professional courtesy. Sorry.”

“Guy’s always been a dick, don’t worry about it.”

“That’s why I love you.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“You want me to start listing?”

“Nah. Wait until you’re home and have time to expound.”

After another quarter hour, Milo decided to ring Phil and Connie Suss’s gate buzzer.

“Not that I have any idea how to explain my interest.”

“You can always take the soft approach, see how they react.”

“Meaning?”

“Apologetic, self-deprecating, the name Suss came up in the personal effects of a victim, if they’d be kind enough to spare a few minutes.”

“Genuflect and kiss ass,” he said. “I’d rather get my face sanded.” A beat later: “Okay, sounds like a plan.”

Just as he was reaching for the door handle, Connie Suss-Longellos stepped out her front door, wearing a black-velvet tracksuit and running shoes, no makeup, blond hair tied in a high pony. Starting up the Lexus, she lowered the hardtop and drove to the gate.

Filigree parted electrically. She turned south.

Milo said, “Oh Lord of Detection, lead us to the Promised Land.”

A previous trip had taken forty years.

I kept my mouth shut.

Chapter 29

onnie Longellos-Suss drove to a nail salon on Ventura near White Oak.

Milo said, “Don’t see the river Jordan anywhere.”

She stayed inside for thirty-two minutes and he took the opportunity to murder a chili dog from a nearby stand and slurp two Cokes. When she stepped outside examining a silver manicure, he was rubbing a greasy lapel stain with soda water.

Down came the top on the Lexus for a half-mile drive east into Sherman Oaks. She parked in front a boutique named Poppy’s Daydreams.

No additional spaces.

Milo said, “Circle the block.” Then: “Damn.”

“What?”

“There’s an Orange Julius and I filled up on the brown stuff.”

I drove around the block, was nearing the clothing store when Connie reappeared, checked her parking meter, fed coins, continued on foot.

One block east to a bistro named Max Cuisine.

Milo said, “Wonder if that means portion-sized. Hang a U and park across the street.”

By the time we reached the restaurant Connie had been served. Her plate said the portions were anything but generous: something small and pale and vaguely fowl-like floating on a cloud of green wisps. Bottle of designer water at her elbow, untouched bread basket. Her fork hung midair as she perused a copy of Modern Painter.