He cut loose another triangle of hotcake, chewed, swallowed, drank coffee. “Seems there was an accident late last night. Eighty-third Street off Sepulveda, rental Buick hit a utility pole at high speed. Driver and occupant rendered inorganic.”

“Driver and occupant.”

“Two db’s,” he said. “You know what high-speed impact does to the human body.”

“Garvey and Bobo?” I said.

“That’s the working hypothesis. Pending verification of dental records.”

“Eighty-third off Sepulveda. On the way to the airport?”

“Funny you should mention that, they did find tickets in the wreck. Pair of first-class passages to Zurich, hotel reservations at some place called the Bal du Lac. Sounds pretty, no?”

“Lovely,” I said. “Maybe a ski vacation.”

“Could be—is there snow there, right now?”

“Don’t know,” I said. “It’s probably raining in Paris.”

He motioned for a coffee refill, got a new pot, poured, and drank slowly.

“Just the two of them?” I said.

“Seems that way.”

“Odd, don’t you think? They’ve got a full-time chauffeur and choose to drive themselves to the airport? Own a fleet of wheels and use a rental car.”

He shrugged.

“Also,” I went on, “what would they be doing on a side street in Inglewood? That far south, you’re heading for the airport, you stay on Sepulveda.”

He yawned, stretched, emptied his coffee cup. “Want anything else?”

“Is it on the news, yet?”

“Nope.”

“But Georgie knows.”

No answer.

“Georgie has the inside track,” I said. “Being a bail bondsman and all that.”

“That must be it,” he said. He brushed crumbs from his shirtfront.

I said, “You’ve got syrup on your chin.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He threw money on the table and got up. “How ’bout we take a little digestive stroll.”

“East on Wilshire,” I said. “Up to Museum Row.”

“You are nailing those hypotheses, Professor. Time for Vegas.”

We walked to the pink granite building where the Cossack brothers had once played executive. Milo studied the façade for a long time, finally entered the lobby, stared down the guard, left, and returned to the front steps where I’d been waiting, pretending to feel civilized.

“Happy?” I said, as we headed back to the coffee shop.

“Ecstatic.”

We retraced our walk to the coffee shop, got into Milo’s rental of the day—a black Mustang convertible—drove through the Miracle Mile and across La Brea and into the clean, open stretch of Wilshire that marked Hancock Park’s northern border.

Milo steered with one finger. No sleep for two days but beyond alert. I had to fight to keep my eyes open. The Seville had been towed to a shop in Carpenteria. I’d phone in later today, get a report. Meanwhile, I’d drive Robin’s truck. If I could stand the sweet smell of her permeating the cab.