Her downturned eyes were aimed at the bedspread, and my appearance didn’t cause them to shift. She had a pasty, acne-scarred face—raw bread dough, pocked by airholes—and her flat nose nearly touched her upper lip. Faded brown hair striped with silver was tied back in a stub of a ponytail.

Aimee, the cook at the Celestial Café. She’d prepared my crepes, doubled my portion without charging me extra, remained virtually mute.

Just as I’d finished my meal, Bert had come in. Nice coincidence; now I knew it had been anything but.

Marian Purveyance had owned the café until Aimee Baker took over.

He gives people things.

I said, “Didn’t know you were a restaurateur, Dr. Harrison.”

Bert flushed nearly as purple as his jumpsuit. “I used to fancy myself an investor, bought up a few local properties.”

“Including the land this house stands on,” I said. “You even transplanted agaves.”

He kicked one foot with the other. “That was years ago. You’d be amazed at the appreciation.”

“If you ever sold anything.”

“Well . . . the time has to be right.”

“Sure,” I said, and I found myself throwing my arms around the old man.

Aimee turned, and said, “You’re nice.”

Bill said, “Which one you talking about, baby?”

“Both,” she said. “Everyone’s nice. The whole world is nice.”

CHAPTER

39

Detective III Craig Bosc whimpered. Vomit flecked his well-formed lips.

Milo said, “I’ll be right back. Don’t think of leaving, lad.”

Bosc watched with panic as Milo collected the homemade videos and the dope and left. Milo brought the stash out to the rental Polaris, locked them in the trunk, and moved the car directly in front of Bosc’s house. When he returned, the former auto cop hadn’t budged.

He undid the leg restraint and hauled Bosc to his feet. Pressed his gun in the small of Bosc’s back, making sure not to grow overconfident of his own dominance. Bosc was a fool, and he’d lost more than a bit of self-confidence, but he was also an athlete, young and strong and desperate. When he took hold of Bosc’s arm he felt iron musculature.

“Now what?” said Bosc.

“Now, we take a ride.”

Bosc’s body grew limp and Milo had to struggle to maintain his grip. Maybe a ploy . . . no, Bosc was really frightened. He’d passed wind and the stench filled the room and Milo eased him back on the couch, let him sit. Putting on the stone face, but he felt ashamed. What had he sunk to?

“Come on,” Bosc pleaded. “I told you everything. Just let it be.”

“What do you take me for, Craig?”

“I take you for smart. You’re supposed to be smart,” said Bosc.

“Exactly.”

“You can’t be serious, this is crazy.” Genuine terror enflamed Bosc’s eyes. Imagining the worst, because he, himself, was sorely lacking in the conscience department, and if the tables were turned . . .