“Two—no, says here three. Almost four, really, my son can’t add. Oh, boy. So why’d we let him go that far? ’Cause we screwed up, let him slip through the cracks. We manage twenty-six buildings here and in Arizona and Nevada, all of them thirty units minimum, except for that dump on Russell. My wife inherited it from her grandfather, it was his first investment, helped him start up the company so it’s like a family big-deal. Up to me, we’d sell it but she’s sentimental.”

“Did Muhrmann leave anything behind?”

“Let’s see … says here just trash. Lots of trash, we had to pay for hauling. So technically, he owes us for that, too.”

“Did you ever meet him, Mr. Caspar?”

“Never had the pleasure.”

“How’d he connect with you?”

“We advertise in local papers, on Craigslist, other onlines. What’d he do, scam someone else?”

“Who in the company dealt with him?”

“You sound serious. More than a scam?” said Caspar. “He did something serious?”

“We’d just like to talk to him, sir.”

“So would I. I put it out to collection but no one can find him.”

“Was the year’s worth in cash?” said Milo.

“That’s what it says here. I know what you’re thinking but it’s not our responsibility to figure out how they come up with payment.”

“Cash literally or a money order?”

“It’s listed as cash.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“Rental was eight a month, times thirteen is ten four, we rounded off the damage deposit to six, made it eleven even.”

“Eleven thousand in cash,” said Milo.

“You’re trying to tell me he’s a dope dealer?” said Caspar. “I get cash from all types. Unless someone tells me there’s a problem, it’s none of my business.”

“To qualify he had to give you prior addresses. Could I have them, please?”

“We didn’t bother with priors because he told us up front his credit was zero.”

“What about references?”

“Let me check … yeah, there’s one. C—as in cookie—Longellos.” He spelled it. “Says here she confirmed he worked as personal assistant, was honest, faithful, true-blue.”

“She,” said Milo.

“My note says Ms. C. Longellos.”

“How about her number, Mr. Caspar?”

Caspar read off a 310. “You find him, I wouldn’t mind if you let me know.”

“Happy to help,” said Milo. “I’d be even happier if one of your employees actually met him face-to-face and called me by the end of today.”

“Sure,” said Caspar. “Quid pro whatchamacallit.”

C. Longellos’s number placed her in Pacific Palisades.

Not in service.

No current DMV records for that address existed but the data bank coughed up the two-year-old DUI conviction of a woman named Constance Rebecca Longellos. Forty years old, P.O.B. in Encino.

I said, “Another under-the-radar devotee. Maybe Harriet Muhrmann’s instincts were right and alcoholic misery loved company.”