“Yeah. So was Fernie. Normally I’d assume they’d be damn thorough. But in this case, maybe they saw Barnett as a victim and didn’t think it through.” He frowned. “Bunny MacIntyre likes him but she didn’t vouch for his whereabouts Sunday.”

He poured himself tea but didn’t drink it. “I need to get hold of the entire file on Lara before I talk to Sue. That’ll be fun— reopening a case another D thinks is long-closed. Maybe I’ll use the helpless approach: Here’s what I’m faced with, Sue. I could use some help.”

He grabbed his fork again, held it poised over the bowl. “So how’s your appetite?”

“Fine.”

“Proud of you.”

* * *

He downed two Bengal premiums, called for the check, and was slapping cash on the table when his cell chirped Beethoven’s Fifth.

“Sturgis. Oh, hey. Yeah. Good to hear from you, thanks . . . Would that be okay? Yeah, sure. Let me write it down.”

Tucking the phone under one ear, he scribbled on a napkin. “Thanks, see you in twenty.”

Rising to his feet, he motioned me toward the exit. Some of the twenty-somethings stopped laughing and looked at him as he loped out of the restaurant. Big, scary-looking man. All that merriment; he didn’t fit in.

“That was Sue Kramer,” he said, out on the sidewalk. “She’s right here in the city. Working a suicide, as it turns out, and happy to chat about Lara. So much for reading the file.”

“It’s L.A.,” I said. “Improvise.”

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 17

The address was in Beverly Hills, Rexford Drive, south side of the city, between Wilshire and Olympic, where apartment buildings predominated.

“That’s her,” said Milo, pointing to a trim, dark-haired woman walking a champagne-colored toy poodle up the west side of the block.

He pulled up to the curb and Sue Kramer smiled and waved and gathered the dog in her arms.

“You’re not allergic are you, Milo?”

“Just to paperwork.”

Kramer got in the back of the unmarked. As Milo drove away, she sniffed the air. “That good old dirty-cuffs smell. Been awhile.”

“What’re you driving now, Ms. Private Enterprise? A Jag?”

“A Lexus. And a Range Rover.” Kramer was in her fifties, with a tight, leggy figure emphasized by black chalk-stripe pipe-stem pants and a tailored gray jacket over a white silk shell. Her hair was ink-black, cut short and spiked. No jewelry. Black Kate Spade purse.

“Hooh hah,” said Milo.

Kramer said, “The Lexus I earned myself. My new husband’s a financial guy. He bought me the Rover for a surprise.”

“Nice new husband.”

“Maybe the third time’s the charm.” The dog panted. “Chill, Fritzi, these are good guys— I think she’s smelling scumbag back here.”

Milo said, “My last passenger was Deputy Chief Morales. Got stuck driving him to a meeting at Parker.”

“There you go.”