He’d emerged from the guest bathroom, toweling his head and squinting. Wearing last night’s clothes but looking frighteningly chipper. “Breakfast,” he proclaimed. “I know the place, they make these big, monster flappers with crunchy peanut butter and chocolate chips.”

“That’s kid food,” I said.

“Maturity is highly overrated. I used to go there all the time, believe me, Alex, this is what you need.”

“Used to go there?”

“Back when I wasn’t watching my figure. Our endocrine systems are shot so we need sugar—my maternal grandfather ate pancakes every day, washed them down with three cups of coffee sweeter than cola, and he lived till ninety-eight. Woulda gone on a few more years, but he tumbled down a flight of stairs while ogling a woman.” He pushed an errant thatch of black hair out of his face. “Unlikely to be my fate, but there are always variants.”

“You’re uncommonly optimistic,” I said.

“Pancakes,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get going.”

I changed into fresh clothing, thinking about Aimee and Bert, all the unanswered questions.

Thinking about Robin. She’d called last night, from Denver, left a message at 11 P.M. I phoned back at 6:30, figuring to leave a message at her hotel, but the tour had moved on to Albuquerque.

Now, here we were, facing two stacks of peanut butter hotcakes the size of frypans. Breakfast that smelled eerily of Thai food. I corroded my gut with coffee, watched him douse his stack with maple syrup and begin sawing into it, then took hold of the syrup pitcher in my unburnt hand. The ER doctor at Oxnard Hospital had pronounced the burn “first-degree plus. A little deeper and you would’ve made second.” As if I’d missed a goal. He’d administered salve and a bandage, swabbed my face with Neosporin, wrote me a scrip for antibiotics, and told me to avoid getting myself dirty.

Everyone at the hospital knew Bert Harrison. He and Aimee were given a private room near the emergency admissions desk, where they stayed for two hours. Milo and I had waited. Finally, Bert came out, and said, “We’re going to be here for a while. Go home.”

“You’re sure?” I said.

“Very sure.” He pressed my hand between both of his, gave a hard squeeze, returned to the room.

Georgie Nemerov and his crew drove us to the spot at the entrance to Ojai where Milo had left his rental Dodge, then disappeared.

Milo had joined up with the bounty hunters, formulated a plan.

Lots of questions . . .

I tipped the pitcher, followed the syrup’s drizzle, watched it pool and spread, picked up my fork. Milo’s cell phone chirped. He clicked in, said, “Yeah?” Listened for a while, hung up, stuffed his face with a wad of pancake. Melted chocolate frosted his lips.

I said, “Who was that?”

“Georgie.”

“What’s up?”