As we returned to the city, Sean Binchy called in. Van Nuys Division had no record of any call from the Daneys about Rand’s disappearance.

“No big surprise,” said Milo. “He wasn’t officially missing, so it wasn’t filed.”

“What’s the current status of your felonious friend theory?”

“Have I abandoned it completely because Barnett Malley owns a black truck? Like Daney said, plenty of pickups in the Valley. But Malley had good reason to hate Rand. I’d be an idiot to ignore him.”

“When were you planning on visiting him?”

“I was thinking tomorrow,” he said. “Late enough to avoid the morning rush but early enough not to get tied up coming back. First, I’m gonna try to find out where he works. If I get lucky and it’s somewhere closer, I’ll call you.”

He scribbled in his notepad, returned it to his pocket. “Or even luckier, some mitigating factor will emerge. Like an ironclad alibi for Malley.”

“You don’t want it to be him,” I said.

“Hey,” he said. “How about lunch? I’m thinking tandoori lamb.”

* * *

We stopped at the station first, where he cleared his messages and ran Barnett Malley through NCIC and the other criminal databases and came up empty. Same for Lara Malley.

I stayed on my feet, expecting we’d soon leave for Café Moghul. But he just sat there, eyes closed, passing the phone from one hand to the other until he called the Hall of Records downtown and asked for a clerk who owed him a favor. It took awhile to get through but once he connected, the conversation was brief. When he hung up, he looked weary.

“Lara Malley’s deceased. Seven years ago, suicide by firearm. Women are shooting themselves more, nowadays, but back then it was a little unusual, right? Pills were the ladies’ choice.”

“Not always, if the ladies were serious,” I said.

“Mommy cashes in a year after Kristal’s murder. Enough time to see life wasn’t getting any better. The Malleys ever get any therapy, Alex?”

“Don’t know.”

He began punching his computer keyboard as if it was a sparring partner, logged onto the state firearms registration file. Squinted and stared and copied something down and drew his lips back in a strange, hollow smile that made me glad I wasn’t his enemy.

“Mr. Barnett Melton Malley has amassed quite an arsenal. Thirteen shotguns, rifles, and handguns, including a couple of thirty-eights.”

“Maybe he lives alone in a secluded area. He’d have more reason than most to be vigilant.”

“Who says he lives alone?”

“Same answer,” I said. “If he started a new family, he’d want to protect it.”