“He looked terrible,” said Hansen. “Disheveled, unwashed—smelled like a barn. I didn’t know what to make of it. Then he said, ‘Nick, man, you were the only one who ever helped me, and I need you to help me now.’ My first thought was he’d gotten some girl pregnant, needed guidance about where to get an abortion, something like that. I said, ‘What can I do for you.’ And that’s when he broke down—just fell apart. Rocking and moaning and saying everything was fucked up.”

He held up the tumbler. “I could use a refill?”

Milo turned to me. “The bottle’s on the counter. Nicholas and I will wait here.”

I entered the kitchen and poured two fingers from the bottle of Dalwhinnie single-malt on the counter. Taking in details as I made my way back: yellow walls, old white appliances, bare stainless-steel counters, empty dish drainers. I opened the refrigerator. Carton of milk, package of sweating bacon, something in a bowl that looked like calcified gruel. No food aromas, just that same mothball stink. The whiskey bottle had been three-quarters empty. Nicholas Hansen cared little for nutrition, was a solitary drinker.

Back in the living room, Milo was ignoring Hansen and flipping the pages of his notepad. Hansen sat paralytically still. I handed him the drink and he took it with both hands and gulped.

Milo said, “Luke fell apart.”

“I asked him what was wrong but instead of telling me he pulled out a joint and started to light up. I grabbed it out of his hand, and said, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ I guess I sounded irritated because he shrank back and said, ‘Oh, Nick, we really fucked up.’ And that’s when he let it all out.”

Hansen finished the second Scotch.

Milo said, “Go on.”

Hansen regarded the empty glass, seemed to be considering another shot, but placed the tumbler on a side table. “He told me there’d been a party—a big one, some place in Bel Air, an empty house—”

“Whose house?”

“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask,” said Hansen. “I didn’t want to know.”

“Why not?” said Milo.

“Because I’d moved on, they were long gone from my consciousne—”

“What did Chapman tell you about the party?” said Milo.

Hansen was silent. Looked anywhere but at us.

We waited him out.

He said, “Oh my.”

“Oh my, indeed,” said Milo.

Hansen snatched up the tumbler. “I could use a—”

Milo said, “No.”

“A girl got killed at the party. I really need another drink.”

“What was the girl’s name?”

“I don’t know!” Hansen’s irises were wet—boggy mud.

“You don’t know,” said Milo.

“All Luke said was there’d been a party and things had gotten wild and they’d been fooling around with a girl and things got even wilder and all of a sudden she was dead.”

“Fooling around.”

No answer.