Hansen’s hand floundered some more, ended up on the doorjamb. He shook his head. “You’ve lost me, gentlemen.” His breath was ninety proof, and his nose was a relief map of busted capillaries.

“Be happy to clarify,” said Milo. He flicked his wrist, and sunlight bounced off the badge. “I assume you don’t want to talk out here in full view.”

Hansen shrank back some more. Milo was only an inch or so taller than Hansen, but he did something with his posture that increased the gap.

“I’m a painter, I’m in the middle of a painting,” Hansen insisted.

“I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation.”

Hansen’s mouth slackened, revealing uneven, yellowed teeth. He shut his mouth quickly, looked at his watch, then over his shoulder.

“I’m a big art fan,” said Milo. “Especially German Expressionism—all that anxiety.”

Hansen stared at him, stepped back farther. Milo remained in the dance, positioned himself inches from Hansen’s worried eyes.

Hansen said, “I hope this doesn’t take long.”

The house was cool and dim, saturated with the geriatric reek of camphor. The chipped terra-cotta tiles of the entry hall floor continued up the steps of a narrow, brass-railed staircase. Thirteen-foot ceilings were crossed by carved oak beams. The wood was wormholed and aged nearly black. The walls were hand-troweled plaster two shades deeper than the external vanilla and dotted with empty niches. Smallish leaded windows, some with stained-glass insets picturing New Testament scenes, constricted the light. The colored panes projected rainbow dust beams. The furniture was heavy and dark and clumsy. No art on the walls. The place felt like some ill-attended church.

Nicholas Hansen motioned us to a sagging, fringed sofa upholstered in a scratchy tapestry fabric, sat down facing us in a bruised leather chair, and folded his hands in his lap.

“I really can’t imagine what this could be about.”

“Let’s start with the King’s Men,” said Milo. “You do remember them.”

Hansen gave his watch another glance. Cheap digital thing with a black plastic band.

“Busy day?” said Milo.

Hansen said, “I may have to interrupt if my mother wakes up. She’s dying of colon cancer, and the day nurse took the afternoon off.”

“Sorry,” said Milo, with as little sympathy as I’d ever heard him offer.

“She’s eighty-seven,” said Hansen. “Had me when she was forty-five. I always wondered how long I’d have her.” He plucked at a cuff of his sweatshirt. “Yes, I remember the King’s Men. Why would you connect me to them after all these years?”

“Your name came up in the course of our investigation.”

Hansen showed yellow teeth again. His eyes creased in concentration. “My name came up in a murder investigation?”

“A very nasty murder.”

“Something recent?”

Milo crossed his legs. “This will go more quickly if I ask the questions.”