Too late for the lunch crowd, too early for dinner, and she was the only patron. But for the lace-trimmed streetwalkers and absinthe-addled boulevardiers inhabiting a collection of Toulouse-Lautrec prints, the only other human face in sight was a heavy woman in a chef’s toque smoking at a far table while scanning Le Monde.

When we entered, Connie Suss ignored us. When we got two feet away she paid attention.

Milo’s badge unhinged her mouth. “Is everything okay? With my husband?”

“Everything’s fine, ma’am. May we sit down?”

“Um … I guess so. What’s going on?”

She put the fork down, then the magazine. Handsome woman, with clear blue eyes and clean, symmetrical features. She’d managed to maintain the tan while avoiding conspicuous damage. Maybe the color was spray-on. Or something her brother-in-law or sister-in-law had provided. Did doctors do that kind of thing? In Beverly Hills, probably.

We sat on either side. The table’s small size enforced intimacy. She scooted an inch from Milo’s bulk, found herself closer to me, and grimaced. I gave her some space.

“What’s going on, guys?”

“Sorry to bother you—is it Ms. Suss or Ms. Longellos?”

“Depends.”

Milo raised an eyebrow.

“What I mean,” she said, “is I use Longellos professionally but legally I’m Suss. When I met my husband I was already established so keeping my maiden name seemed easier.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“Did, I’m retired. Finance, investment banking, that’s how I met my husband, I managed money with a company that handled his family’s finances. Then I got into art—why is this important? Why am I talking about anything to the police?”

“It’s really nothing,” said Milo, “but we need to be thorough. Your name came up in the personal effects of a victim.”

“A victim? What kind of victim? I don’t understand.” She inched back.

“Homicide, ma’am.”

Connie Longellos’s head shot forward as if she’d been shoved brutally. “What? What on earth would my name be doing with a—this is crazy, you must be mistaken.”

“Connie Longellos,” said Milo. “We traced you through that name.”

“Well, that’s crazy, that’s really totally insane.” She fingered the zipper of her track jacket. Lush velour, tiny logo on the sleeve. An Italian brand I’d never heard of. “Who is this victim?”

“A woman named Tiara Grundy.”

“Now I know it’s insane. I have no idea who that is.”

“She also went by Tara Sly.”

“Same answer, guys. That one sounds like something a porn actress would use. No, you’re totally mistaken, I don’t know any Tiara or Tara anybody. How’d my name come up—was it on a piece of art? I’ve sold a lot of art in my day, I suppose she could’ve been a customer.”

“No, ma’am,” said Milo.

“Then what? Where was my name?”

“Personal effects.”