Nicholas Hansen’s green BMW sat in the cobbled driveway of the house on North Roxbury Drive. The street was lined with struggling elms. A few trees had given up, and their black branches cast ragged shadows on the sparkling sidewalks. The street was quiet but for a Beverly Hills symphony: teams of gardeners pampering the greenery of mansions up the block.

Milo was parked in a new rental car—a gray Oldsmobile sedan—six houses north of Hansen’s vanilla hacienda. By the time I’d switched off the engine he was at my window.

“New wheels,” I said.

“Variety’s the spice.” His face was pallid and sweaty.

“Something else happen to make you switch?”

“Contacting Hansen is a risk and maybe not a smart one. If he’s still in touch with the others, everything hits the fan. If he’s not, there may be no real payoff.”

“But you’re going ahead, anyway.”

He yanked out a handkerchief and sopped moisture from his brow. “The alternative is doing nothing. And who says I’m smart?”

When we reached Hansen’s property, he scowled and peered through a window of the BMW. “Clean. Meticulous.” As he stepped up to the door and stabbed the bell, he looked ready to tear something apart.

Nicholas Hansen answered wearing faded black sweats, white Nikes, and a distracted look. Brown and red paint stains on his fingers were the only clues to his occupation. He was tall and spare with an oddly fleshy face, looked closer to fifty than forty. Soft neck, basset eyes the color of river silt, grayish mouth stitched with wrinkles, a bald, blue-veined scalp ringed by a beige buzz. A middle-aged crisis stoop rounded his shoulders. I’d have guessed a burnt-out lawyer taking a day off.

Milo flashed the badge, and Hansen’s muddy eyes came alive. But his voice was low and mumbly. “Police? About what?”

I was standing behind Milo, but not so far that I couldn’t smell the alcohol breeze Hansen had let forth.

Milo said, “High school.” His voice was rough, and he didn’t use Hansen’s name, hadn’t even offered a cop’s patronizing “sir.”

“High school?” Hansen blinked, and the paint-stained fingers of one hand capped his bald head, as if he’d been afflicted by a sudden migraine.

“The King’s Men,” said Milo.

Hansen dropped the hand and rubbed his fingers together, dislodging a fleck of paint, inspecting his nails. “I really don’t understand—I’m working.”

Milo said, “This is important.” He’d kept the badge in Hansen’s face, and the artist took a step backward.

“The King’s Men?” said Hansen. “That was a very long time ago.”

Milo filled the space Hansen had vacated. “Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it, and all that.”