She placed the sunglasses next to one of her photos. Moved the frame so that we could see the image better.

Beautiful brunette with long, wavy, windswept hair peering up at a cloudless sky. A smile that could be interpreted a thousand ways.

“I’m going to say something that’s going to sound disgustingly snobby but it’s the truth: I can easily spend more than that on a single excursion to Chanel.”

“So all things considered, Tara was a cheap date.”

“She was cheap in every sense of the word. Liked to talk to Mark in a phony British accent. Like she was Princess Di. He laughed at her.”

Milo said, “Do you know where her apartment is?”

“West Hollywood, Mark didn’t want to drive far. If you wait here, I’ll fetch the address.”

She was gone less than a minute, returned carrying a three-by-five card that matched the apricot couches. The cat padded several paces behind her, tail up, ears perked, eyes unreadable.

“Here you go.” After copying the information on a scrap of paper, she handed it to me.

From the Desk of Leona Suss

An address on Lloyd Place written in elegant fountain-pen cursive.

“I drove by exactly once,” she said. “Not to stalk the old fool, to make sure he was getting his money’s worth. Nice place, at least from the outside.”

Milo said, “How much of the six went for rent?”

“I couldn’t tell you. One thing I did insist should come out of the total was testing her for diseases. I couldn’t have Mark infecting me with some gawdawful plague.”

Cocking her head and batting her lashes. Wanting us to know she’d remained sexually active with her husband.

I said, “You saw the results of the tests?”

“A couple of times. Not the most pleasant of tasks but one needs to safeguard one’s health.”

“Do you remember where she got tested?”

“Some doctor on San Vicente. And no, I didn’t save the reports, I’m not one for tawdry souvenirs.”

“You saw the reports,” said Milo, “but you don’t know Tara’s last name.”

“The reports came with a number code.”

“You took it on faith that the code was her.”

“Of course I did, I trusted Mark. Without trust there’s no relationship.”

She unfolded herself, pranced to the mantel, pushed a button. The Slavic maid appeared. “Ma’am?”

“I’d like some Diet Snapple, Magda. Peach—how about you fellas?”

“No, thanks.”

Magda curtsied and left.

“She’s from Kosovo, lost a lot of her family,” said Leona Suss. “My ancestors were immigrants from Bulgaria, settled in Lawrence, Kansas. Father worked building church organs for the Reuter Company until he was eighty. I find immigrants the best workers.”

Magda returned bearing a cut-crystal tumbler on a silver tray. Lemon, lime, and orange wedges rode the rim of the glass.

“Thank you so much, Magda.”

“Ma’am.”