Luke Chapman had parked his car on PCH and gone night-swimming at Zuma Beach. An illegal dip, because state sand was off-limits after dark and Chapman had had to scale a high link fence. Chapman’s alcohol level was twice the legal limit, which made Milo wonder about his ability to climb the fence, but the coroner’s theory was that “this young, white, well-nourished male” had been caught in a riptide and lost coordination due to intoxication. Water in the lungs confirmed drowning. The corpse had washed up at the far end of Zuma, where public sand abutted Broad Beach. Multiple contusions and abrasions consistent with battery by surf and sand had been apparent. But no obvious signs of foul play.

No obvious signs unless you were prepared to interpret the bruises on Chapman’s arms and legs and back evidence of his having been forced down into the water. Knew Zuma had been one of the King’s Men’s party spots.

Milo recalled Chapman’s vacant expression. The dumb kid in the group. Participating in Janie Ingalls’s murder and sitting on the horror for months, but unable to get over it. Maybe he’d gotten loaded and blubbered the wrong thing to his buddies and made himself an extreme liability.

Bought himself the big blue kiss.

On the other hand, accidents happened . . .

Bowie Ingalls: man versus tree.

Pierce Schwinn: man versus rock.

Luke Chapman: man versus water.

What was left, fire? Suddenly Milo’s head filled with images of Caroline Cossack and Wilbur Burns roasted alive. Bodies charred beyond recognition, the perfect obliteration of the past.

The King’s Men. A nasty bunch of spoiled, rich party animals cleaning up after themselves and earning a nice, cushy twenty years.

More than cushy: Ferraris and chauffeurs, cribs in Holmby, dabbles in the film biz, private dinners with politicos and power brokers.

They’d gotten away with it.

These King’s Men would’ve jumped at the chance to stomp Humpty Dumpty’s skull.

The Cossack brothers, Specs Larner, Coury. And the smart one—Nicholas Dale Hansen. What was he about?

He looked the guy up in the property files. Nothing. What did that mean, he was leasing the house on North Roxbury?

He found himself a quiet corner in the basement of the building, hidden between stacks of old plot maps, made sure no one was around and took the risk of an NCIC call using the ID of a West Valley D-I named Korn—a punk he’d supervised two years ago, low on initiative, high on attitude.

Wasted risk: Nicholas Dale Hansen had no criminal history.

The only thing left to do was go home and play with his laptop. Or take a shortcut and ask Alex to do it—his friend, initially a computer Luddite, resistant to the whole notion of the Internet, had become quite the web-surfing whiz.