Twelve girls, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Eight were still living with the Daneys. One name was familiar. Quezada, Valerie. The restless, resentful girl Cherish had tutored in math. Cherish leading her through the steps, the essence of patience. Moments later, Cherish’s tears when she talked about Rand. . . .

The list covered only a twenty-five-month period. Olivia’s handwritten note at the top said, This was as far back as I could get. The geniuses’ archival system is a mess. Maybe permanently.

Milo said, “Let’s start by cross-referencing the four who no longer live with them.”

“To what?”

“Worst-case scenario, for starts.” He phoned the coroner, asked to speak with “Dave,” and said, “No, not today, but I’m sure I’ll get there eventually. And get me a better mask, next time, I’m no stranger to decomposition but . . . yeah, nothing like water damage. Listen Dave, what I need is just a record-check . . . yeah, I know, hearing my voice makes your day.”

Five minutes later we got the callback from Coroner’s Investigator David O’Reilly: None of the four names matched the crypt’s roster of unnatural deaths. Milo phoned the Hall of Records, got the runaround before hooking into county records and the roster of natural deaths.

He put the phone down. “They all seem to be alive. Our bit of good cheer for the day.”

I thought: They could’ve died outside of L.A. County. “What next?”

“Any ideas?”

“You could try to locate them, see if they’ve got anything to say about the Daneys. I’d focus on these two, who are still minors. Maybe life got better for them and they no longer need fostering. On the other hand . . .”

“I like that,” he said. “Constructive pessimism.”

* * *

Olivia gave us a contact at D.C.S. and we had the data by three p.m.

Leticia Maryanne Hollings, seventeen, was still a state ward, living with a “kinship guardian”— an aunt in Temecula. No one answered the number and Milo filed it for future reference.

Wilfreda Lee Ramos, sixteen, was no longer on the foster list. Her last known contact was a twenty-five-year-old brother, George Ramos.

Phone listing for him but no address. City of residence was “L.A., Ca.” Occupation: “Student.” The 825 number made the U. a good bet.

I tried it. Inactive. A phone call to the university registrar revealed two George Ramoses currently enrolled. One was an eighteen-year-old freshman. The other, twenty-six, was a first-year law student, and that was all I could learn.

Milo got on the line, pushed his credentials, couldn’t cadge any more out of the clerk. Same thing at the law school office.

We drove to campus, parked on the north end, walked to the school, where Milo bantered with an amiable white-haired secretary who said, “You just called. Unfortunately, the answer’s the same. Privacy regulations.”

“All we want to do is talk to Mr. Ramos, ma’am.”