“Craigslist,” said Tasha Adams, as if any other method was prehistoric. “Brenda and I are dancers, we came out from Chicago to audition for Rock On. We got hired then the show got canceled in preproduction but we already signed the lease and besides, we still wanted to try to break in somewhere. Brenda’s got a job teaching little kids ballet but I’m living off what I earned last year teaching modern. Neil pays on time and he minds his own business. Why do you want to talk to him?”

“A temp job he did last night.”

“That hotel.”

“He told you about it.”

“He said he finally got a gig through the temp agency but it was only one night, he might have to go back to McDonald’s or something.”

“When did he leave the apartment this morning?”

“Hmm,” said Tasha Adams. “I’d have to say forty minutes ago?”

“Going to the 7-Eleven.”

“That’s where he usually buys his drinks.”

“Beer?”

“No, soda. Neil’s straight as they come.”

“What time did he come home last night?”

“I’d have to say … eleven?”

“Could it have been later?” said Milo.

“Hmm … actually it was probably earlier … yeah, for sure, Teen Cribs was still on—but almost over. So just before eleven.”

Milo scrawled.

“Is there something you should be telling me?” said Tasha Adams. “He does live with us.”

“A guest at that hotel ran into some trouble last night, Tasha. Neil’s not a suspect, we’re just gathering information.”

“Trouble,” she said. “Like someone—oh, there he is. Hey, Neil, these guys want to talk to you. They’re the police.”

Nelson Mutter in a T-shirt, baggy shorts, and flip-flops stopped short. He studied Milo, then me. Mouthed, Huh? In one hand was a plastic Dodgers’ cup big enough to wash a family of parakeets.

Milo waved him over, shook his hand. “Neil? Lieutenant Sturgis.”

Mutter kept looking at me.

I said, “Nice to see you again, Neil.”

“Chi-vash,” he said, as if downloading a memory file on a balky computer. “Lots of ice. You’re police?”

“I work with the police.”

Tasha Adams said, “It’s about your gig last night, Neil.”

“Huh?”

Milo said, “Let’s all go inside.”

As promised, Mutter’s personal space—what there was of it—was spotless. The sofa bed was closed up, graced with three floral-print pillows. Mutter’s wordly possessions filled two duffels placed to the left of the couch. A glimpse into the single bedroom offered a view of exuberant girl clutter.

Milo said, “Sorry to displace you, Tasha, but we need to talk to Neil alone.”

“Oh. Okay.” Pouting, she entered the bedroom but left the door open. Milo went over and closed it, motioned Mutter to the sofa. “Make yourself comfortable, Neil.”

“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” Directing the question to me.