He began the two-block walk to the city lot where he’d left the Taurus. Melting in with the afternoon pedestrian throng, dialing up his cell phone like every other lemming on the street. Probably giving himself ear cancer or something, but those were the breaks. Faking normal felt good.

Alex picked up on the first ring, and Milo thought he sounded disappointed. Waiting for a call from Robin? What was up with that?

Milo asked him about running a search on Nicholas Hansen, and Alex said, “Funny you should ask.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” said Milo. “I’m dealing with Nostradamus.”

“No, just a guy with spare time,” said Alex. “Hansen wasn’t hard to find, at all. Guess what he does for a living?”

“He looked kinda corporate in high school, so some hoo-hah financial thing with a bad smell to it?”

“He’s an artist. A painter. Quite a good one, if the images posted by the New York gallery that handles him are accurate.”

“An artist and he leases in Beverly Hills and drives a big Beemer?”

“A successful artist,” said Alex. “His prices range from ten to thirty thousand a canvas.”

“And what, he churns them out?”

“Doesn’t look like it. I phoned the gallery pretending to be an interested collector, and he’s sold out. They described his style as postmodern old masters. Hansen mixes his own pigments, makes his own frames and brushes, lays down layer after layer of paint and glaze. It’s a time-consuming process and the owner said Hansen finishes four, five pictures a year. She implied she’d love to have more.”

“Four, five a year at his top fee means 150, max,” said Milo. “A year’s lease on a house in the flats could be more than that by itself.”

“Plus galleries usually take around thirty percent,” said Alex, “so, no, it doesn’t add up.” He paused. “I hope you don’t mind, but I drove by his house. It’s a nice one—big old Spanish thing that hasn’t been made over. The BMW’s in the driveway. Freshly polished. Dark green, almost the exact shade as my Seville.”

Milo laughed. “Do I mind? Would it make a difference? No, it’s fine unless you knocked on the door and accused the bastard of murder. Which, I’d love to do. Because, guess what, the plot curdles.”

He told Alex about Luke Chapman’s drowning death.

“Another accident,” said Alex. “Normally, I’d say ‘ah,’ but you’ve been crankier than usual.”

“Say it. I’ll give you Novocaine before I start drilling.”

Alex let out an obligatory chuckle. “I also got a brief look at Hansen. Or someone who’s living at the same address. While I was driving by, a man came out the front door, went to the BMW, and removed a sheet of wood from the trunk. Nicholas Hansen paints on mahogany.”