“So what’s this, a new look?” A sausage finger aimed at my stubbled face.

“Maintaining a leisurely shaving schedule,” I said.

He sniffed, took in the room. “No one chewing at my cuffs. El Poocho out back with Robin?”

“Nope.”

“She’s here, right?” he said. “Her truck’s out front.”

“You must be a detective,” I said. “Unfortunately, false leads abound. She’s out.” I pointed to the book. “Check that out while I forage in the larder. If I can find anything that hasn’t petrified, I’ll fix you a sandwich—”

“No thanks.”

“Something to drink?”

“Nothing.” He didn’t budge.

“What’s the problem?” I said.

“How do I put this delicately,” he said. “Okay: You look like shit, this place smells like an old-age home, Robin’s truck is here but she isn’t and my bringing her up makes your eyes drop to the floor like a suspect. What the hell’s going on, Alex?”

“I look like shit?”

“To euphemize.”

“Oh, well,” I said. “Better cancel the photo shoot with In Style. And speaking of photography . . .” I held the book out to him.

“Changing the subject,” he said, squinting down at me from his six-three vantage. “What do they call that in psychologist school?”

“Changing the subject.”

He shook his head, kept his expression mild, folded his arms across his chest. But for spring-loaded tension around the eyes and mouth, he looked at peace. Pallid, acne-pitted face a bit leaner than usual, beer gut light-years from flat but definitely less bulge.

Dieting? On the wagon, yet again?

He’d dressed with uncommon color harmony: cheap but clean navy blazer, cotton khakis, white shirt with just a touch of fray at the neckline, navy tie, brand-new beige desert boots with pink rubber soles that squeaked as he shifted his weight and continued to study me. Brand-new haircut, too. The usual motif—clipped fuzzy at the sides and back, the top left long and shaggy, multiple cowlicks sprouting at the crown. A black forelock hooked over his pockmarked forehead. The hair from his temples to the bottoms of too-long sideburns had denatured to snow-white. The contrast with the black hair on top was unseemly—Mr. Skunk, he’d taken to calling himself.

“Spiffed and freshly barbered,” I said. “Is this some new-leaf thing? Should I not attempt to feed you? Either way, take the damn book.”

“Robin—”

“Later.” I thrust the blue album at him.

He kept his arms folded. “Just put it back down on the table.” Pulling out a pair of surgical gloves from the sets, he encased his hands in latex, studied the blue leather cover, opened the book, read the frontispiece, moved on to the first photo.

“Old,” he murmured. “The tint and the clothes. Probably someone’s creepy collection from the attic.”

“Department shots?”

“Probably.”

“A home collection pilfered from the evidence room?”