“Ain’t that the truth, amigo. Rick and I know a guy, used to be a tennis pro, developed heel pain so his doctor prescribed a handicapped parking permit. A few weeks later, the heel gets better but Jean-Georges is still putting his Jaguar wherever the hell he pleases. Meanwhile, some poor guy with one arm and a screwed-up leg has to borrow a pal’s wheels and parks in a handicapped slot. When he comes out, the parking Nazi’s writing him up. Fair enough. But what’s the chance the Nazi, seeing the one arm and the screwed-up leg, tears up the ticket?”

A big hand slapped the dashboard. “About the same as my being invited to the next Suss reunion.” Shaking his head. “Dunch. My thing’s cluttony.”

“Chronic gluttony?”

“I was thinking ‘constant’ but that’ll do.”

I took Benedict Canyon over the mountains as Milo checked his messages. A sheriff named Palmberg had phoned ten minutes ago.

Squinting, he made out the number. “Malibu station. Can’t think of any reason for a day at the beach.”

The Malibu desk officer said, “No one by that name works here.”

“He called me from there.”

“Hmm.”

“Lieutenant Sturgis. LAPD.”

“Hold on.” Moments later: “He’s from Downtown but he was here this morning. Here’s his cell.”

One beep before a bass rumble said, “Larry Palmberg.”

“Milo Sturgis returning your call.”

“Milo,” said Palmberg, as if digesting the name. “Got a murder out here in Topanga I thought you might be interested in. Less than a mile north from where you had one last week and the body seems to be about from that same time, give or take. Might not be related, then again.”

“Male or female?”

“Male, two gunshot wounds to the back, magnum load. Blew out his spine and everything in front of it.”

“Any sign of a shotgun?”

“Nope, just two bullet wounds. There’s a good amount of decomp but what I can tell you is he was a decent-sized fellow, dyed his hair blond, his driver’s license claims his mama named him Steven Muhrmann. I looked him up, fellow’s got a checkered past. Know him?”

“I know of him, Larry,” said Milo. “Can’t wait to make his acquaintance.”

Sheriff’s Homicide Investigator Laurentzen Palmberg was six four, two hundred and fifty solid pounds, in his midfifties, with a gray crew cut and firm, rosy cheeks. Gold-rimmed, small-lens eyeglasses creased a serious nose. He was smoking enthusiastically, snubbed out his cigarette as we stepped out of the Seville.

Introductions were quick. Palmberg took out a hard-pack of Parliaments, kept passing it from hand to hand. Otherwise, he looked serene. Deputies in tan uniforms abounded, Palmberg was the only person in civvies: well-cut gray pin-striped suit, white tab-collar shirt, orange tie patterned with the noble heads of Irish setters. One dusty-toed black loafer tapped the eastern edge of the road.