“Cut to the chase, eh? Well, good for you, it’s refreshing to see civil servants who care about doing a good job. What else did he tell me … that he’d found some late-in-life amusement and promised not to spend too much on her upkeep.”

“By upkeep—”

“Her apartment, her living expenses,” said Leona Suss.

“That didn’t bother you?”

“I said, ‘You old fool, if you’re going to do it, do it right, just keep a lid on the budget.’ I couldn’t have him gallivanting all over town and ending up in a ditch somewhere. Mark had the most atrocious sense of direction. The way I saw it, his being aboveboard about wanting to you-know-what gave me the chance to exert some proper judgment over his Viagra-induced enthusiasm. Besides, if he wanted to live out his last days being ridiculous, who was I to stop him?”

“He was ill?”

“Not in any formal sense but he was always talking about dying, his cholesterol was horrid and he refused to moderate his diet. Meat, meat, meat. Then more meat. Then cheese and sweet desserts. The last thing I wanted was for him to keel over and leave me with guilt over having denied him his fun.”

Milo said, “I see your point, ma’am, but that’s awfully tolerant.”

“Only if I allowed myself to see her as anything more than a toy. Mark loved me deeply and exclusively, he was emotionally faithful, we raised two wonderful boys, built a glorious life together. If he felt like swallowing little blue pills and ripping off some cheap tail, why should it bother me?”

I said, “So you set the upkeep budget.”

“I suggested an upper limit,” said Leona Suss, grinning wider than ever. “Six thousand a month, and that was far too generous. Not that I was in a position to dictate, Mark had put aside a little personal retirement fund—some tax thing on the advice of our accountant. Everything else was in the family trust with both of us as trustees. He was free to crack his little piggy bank at will but he told me my figure was appropriate.”

Milo said, “To some people six thousand a month would be huge money.”

She gestured around the room again. “To some people, all this would be a big deal but one gets used to everything and to me this is just a house.”

“Everything’s relative,” I said.

“Precisely.”

“A Frieseke, a Hassam, and a Thomas Moran isn’t sidewalk art.”

Lavender eyes narrowed. “A policeman who knows his paintings? How refreshing. Yes, those pictures are pricey by today’s standards but you’d be amazed at how little we paid for them thirty years ago. The secret to being a successful collector, fellas, is have exquisite taste then grow old.”

I said, “So six grand was a drop in the bucket.”