Finally, a coroner’s assistant who knew something got on the line. The death was written up just as Marge Schwinn had described: massive head injuries and fractured ribs consistent with a fall, copious blood on a nearby rock. Ruled accidental, no suspicious circumstances. No dope or booze in Schwinn’s system. Or the horse’s, the clerk added. An equine drug scan seemed thorough, and Milo told the C.A. so.

“Special request of the widow,” said the guy, a middle-aged-sounding guy named Olivas. “She wanted the horse tested and was willing to pay for it.”

“She suspect something?”

“All it says here is that she requested a full drug scan on Akhbar—that’s the horse. We had a vet in Santa Barbara do it, and she sent us the results. Mrs. Schwinn got the bill.”

“So the horse was clean,” said Milo.

“As a whistle,” said Olivas. “It busted itself up plenty, though—two broken legs and a torsion injury of the neck. When the widow got there, it was down on the ground moaning, pretty much out of it. She had it put down. What’s up, the insurance company has problems with something?”

“No, just checking.”

“It was an accident, he was an old guy,” said Olivas. “Riding a horse at his age, what was he thinking?”

“President Reagan rode when he was in his eighties.”

“Yeah, well, he had Secret Service guys to look after him. It’s like old people driving cars—my dad’s eighty-nine, blind as a bat at night, but he insists on getting behind the wheel and driving to L.A. to get authentic menudo. That kind of thing and idiots on cell phones, give me a break. You’d see what I see comes in here every day, you’d be scared.”

“I’m scared,” said Milo, hefting his phone.

“Pays to be scared.”

He craved caffeine and cholesterol, drove to Farmers Market at Fairfax and Third and had a green chili omelet and two stacks of toast at DuPars. Keeping his eye on a homeless guy in the next booth. The bum wore three jackets and hugged a battered, stringless guitar. The instrument made Milo think about Robin, but the psychosis in the homeless guy’s eyes pulled him into the here and now.

They engaged in a staring contest until the homeless man finally threw down a couple of dollars and waddled off mumbling at unseen demons and Milo was able to enjoy his eggs.

Once again, he thought, I’ve brought peace and light to the world.

But then the waitress smiled with relief and gave him a thumbs-up, and he realized he’d really accomplished something.