Anita Moss’s mouth closed. When she spoke next it was at a near whisper. “You’ve found them?”

“Who, ma’am?”

“The people who killed Nestor.”

Milo said, “Sorry, no. This is about something else.”

Anita Moss’s face tightened. “About something Nestor did?”

“It’s possible, ma’am.”

She looked out at the waiting room. “I’m kind of busy.”

“This won’t take long, Ms. Moss.”

She opened the door and walked through, approached an old man in work clothes with a collapsed jawline and an eye on the racing form. “Mr. Ramirez? I’ll be with you in one minute, okay?”

The man nodded and returned to the odds.

“Let’s go,” said Anita Moss, sweeping across the room. By the time Milo and I reached the exit, she was out of the building.

She tapped her foot on the sidewalk and fooled with her hair. Milo offered to seat her in the unmarked.

“That’s all I need,” she said. “Someone seeing me in a police car.”

“And here I thought we were camouflaged,” said Milo.

Anita Moss started to smile, changed her mind. “Let’s go around the corner. You drive a bit and I’ll catch up with you and sit in the car.”

* * *

The unmarked had taken on heat and Milo rolled down the windows. We were parked on a side street of cheap apartments, Anita Moss sitting stiffly in the back. A few women with children strolled by, a couple of stray dogs wove from scent to scent.

Milo said, “I know this is hard, ma’am— ”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Moss. “Ask what you need to.”

“When was your brother murdered?”

“Four weeks ago. I got a call from a detective and that’s all I’ve heard about it. I thought you were following up.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Lafayette Park, late at night. The detective said Nestor was buying heroin and someone shot him and took his money.”

“Do you remember the name of the detective who called you?”

“Krug,” she said. “Detective Krug, he never gave me his first name. I got the feeling he wasn’t going to put too much time into it.”

“Why’s that?”

“Just the way he sounded. I figured it was because of the type of person Nestor was.” She straightened her back, stared at the rearview mirror.

“Nestor was an addict,” said Milo.

“Since he was thirteen,” said Moss. “Not always heroin but always some kind of habit.”

“What else besides heroin?”

“When he was little, he huffed paint and glue. Then marijuana, pills, P.C.P., you name it. He’s the baby in the family and I’m the oldest. We weren’t close. I grew up here but I don’t live here anymore.”

“In Westlake.”