My message machine was blank. I wondered if I should call Milo and ask him to check the specifics of Rand Duchay’s release. Solicit a detective’s guess as to what Rand had wanted and why he hadn’t shown.

A quarter century of homicide work had implanted a doomsday chip in Milo’s brain, and I had a pretty good idea of how he’d respond.

Once a scumbag, always a scumbag, Alex. Why mess with it?

I made myself a tuna sandwich and drank some decaf, set the house alarm, and settled on my office couch with two months’ worth of psych journals. Somewhere out in the darkness a coyote ululated— a warbling, shrieking a cappella solo, part scavenger’s protest, part predator’s triumph.

The Glen’s teeming with the creatures. They dine on the haute garbage that fills Westside trash cans, and some are as sleek and fearless as house pets.

I used to have a little French bulldog and worried about letting him out in the yard alone. Now he was living in Seattle and life was simpler.

I cleared my throat. The sound echoed; the house was full of echoes.

The howl-sonata repeated itself. Enlarged to a duet, then grew to a coyote chorus.

A pack of them, exulting in the kill.

Food-chain violence. That made sense and I found the noise comforting.

* * *

I read until two a.m., fell asleep on the couch, managed to drag myself to bed at three. By seven I was up, awake without being rested. The last thing I wanted to do was run. I dressed for it anyway, was heading for the door when Allison called from Greenwich.

“Good morning, handsome.”

“Morning, gorgeous.”

“I’m glad I caught you.” She sounded a little down. Lonely? Or maybe that was me.

“How’s life with Grandma?”

“You know Gra— ” She laughed. “You don’t know her, do you? This morning, despite the fact that it’s freezing, she insisted we take a walk around the grounds and look for ‘unique leaves.’ Ninety-one and she’s forging through snow like a trapper. She studied botany at Smith, claims she would’ve gotten a Ph.D. if she hadn’t ‘been swept into matrimony’ at twenty.”

“Find anything?” I said.

“After clawing through a four-foot snowbank, I managed to produce one brown shriveled thing she found ‘interesting.’ My fingers were numb and that was with gloves on. Gram, of course, eschews hand-coverings except at lunches in the city.”

“Greatest generation. How large is the property?”

“Twelve acres, with lots of trees and rare plants she put in over the years.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It’s getting a little run-down,” she said. “And the house is way too big for her. Still clearing your consults?”

“They’re clear.”

“Good for you.”