I hadn’t talked to my best friend in a while, and that was fine with me.
After giving the D.A. my statement on Lauren Teague’s murder, I’d had my fill of the criminal justice system, was happy to stay out of the loop until trial time. A wealthy defendant and a squadron of paid dissemblers meant that would be years away, not months. Milo had remained chained to the details, so I had a good excuse for keeping my distance: The guy was swamped, give him space.

The real reason was, I didn’t feel like talking to him, or anyone. For years, I’d preached the benefits of self-expression but my tonic since childhood had been isolation. The pattern had been set early by all those bowel-churning nights huddled in the basement, hands over ears, humming “Yankee Doodle” in order to block out the paternal rage thundering from above.

When things got rough, I curled like a mollusk into a gray pocket of solitary confinement.

Now I had forty-three death shots on my dining room table. Death was Milo’s raw material.

I called the West L.A. detective’s room.

“Sturgis.”

“Delaware.”

“Alex. What’s up?”

“I got something I thought you should see. Photo album full of what look like crime-scene photos.”

“Photos or copies?”

“Photos.”

“How many?”

“Forty-three.”

“You actually counted,” he said. “Forty-three from the same case?”

“Forty-three different cases. They look to be arranged chronologically.”

“You ‘got’ them? How?”

“Courtesy the U.S. Postal Service, first-class, downtown cancellation.”

“No idea who might’ve favored you with this.”

“I must have a secret admirer.”

“Crime-scene shots,” he said.

“Or someone takes very nasty vacations and decided to keep a scrapbook.” The call-waiting signal clicked. Usually I ignore the intrusion, but maybe it was Robin from Portland. “Hold for a sec.”

Click.

“Hello, sir,” said a cheerful female voice. “Are you the person who pays the phone bill in the house?”

“No, I’m the sex toy,” I said, and reconnected to Milo. Dial tone. Maybe he’d gotten an emergency call. I punched his desk number, got the West L.A. civilian receptionist, didn’t bother to leave a message.

The doorbell rang twenty minutes later. I hadn’t changed out of my running clothes, hadn’t made coffee or checked the fridge—the first place Milo heads. Looking at portraits of violent death would make most people lose their appetites, but he’s been doing his job for a long time, takes comfort food to a whole new level.

I opened the door, and said, “That was quick.”

“It was lunchtime, anyway.” He walked past me to where the blue leather binder sat in full view, but made no move to pick it up, just stood there, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, big belly heaving from the run up to the terrace.

Green eyes shifted from the book to me. “You sick or something?”

I shook my head.