The front office was a stuffy sliver of fluorescence with a high counter and walls paneled in something mustard-colored that bore no biological link to trees. A knobless door was cut into the rear paneling. A single Maxfield Parrish print—purple mountains’ majesty—hung to the left of the doorway. Behind the counter, a round-faced man in his late thirties sat on an old oak swivel chair and ate a big wet sandwich wrapped in wax paper. A coffeemaker and a computer sat to his left. Cabbage and slabs of meat and something red protruded from the sandwich. The man’s short-sleeved white shirt was clean but his chin was moist and as the door closed behind us, he swiped at himself with a paper napkin and aimed cautious gray eyes at us. Then he grinned.

“Detective Sturgis.” He hauled a thick body out of the chair and a pink forearm shot across the counter. An anchor tattoo blued the smooth flesh. His brown hair was cropped to the skull and his face was a potpie that had been nibbled at the edges.

“Georgie,” said Milo. “How’s everything?”

“People are very bad, so everything’s very good,” said Georgie. He glanced at me. “He doesn’t look like a business opportunity for me.”

“No business today,” said Milo. “This is Dr. Delaware. He consults for the department. Doctor, George Nemerov.”

“A doctor for the cops,” said Georgie, pumping my hand. “What do you specialize in, sexually transmitted diseases or insanity?”

“Good guess, Georgie. He’s a shrink.”

Nemerov chuckled. “People are nuts, so everything’s good for you, Doctor. If you knew more about this business, you’d try to lock me up, too.” Heavy eyelids compressed, and the gray eyes narrowed. But the rest of the soft, doughy face remained placid. “So what’s up, Detective Milo?”

“This and that, Georgie. Eating your spinach?”

“Hate that stuff,” said Nemerov, patting his anchor tattoo. To me: “When I was a kid, I was a big cartoon fan, Popeye the Sailor. One night, when I was a high school punk, me and some friends were over at the Pike in Long Beach and I got this shit put on me. My mother almost skinned me alive.”

“How is your mom?” said Milo.

“Good as can be expected,” said Nemerov. “Next month she’s seventy-three.”

“Give her my best.”

“Will do, Milo. She always liked you. So . . . why you here?” Nemerov’s smile was angelic.

“I’ve been looking into some old files, and your dad’s case came up.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Nemerov. “Came up how?”

“Willie Burns’s name surfaced with regard to another 187.”

“That so?” Nemerov shifted his weight. His smile had died. “Well, that wouldn’t surprise me. The guy was lowlife scum. You telling me he’s been spotted around?”

“No,” said Milo. “The other case is also old and cold. Actually went down before your dad.”