“Hollywood High. What kinda hassle she get herself into now?” Bowie Ingalls scratched an armpit and drew himself up to his full height. Trying to produce some fatherly indignation.

“When’s the last time you saw her, sir?”

“Um . . . she was—she slept over a friend’s.”

“When, sir?” said Schwinn, still taking in the room. Cool, all business. No one watching him do the detective thing would’ve imagined his lunatic tirade five minutes ago.

Milo stood to the side, worked on his cool. His mind wanted to work, but his body wasn’t giving up the anger planted by Schwinn’s outburst; heart still racing, face still hot. Despite the importance of the task at hand, he kept entertaining himself with images of Schwinn falling on his ass—hoist on his own petard, the self-righteous fucker—busted in flagrante with Tonya or some other “source.” That brought a smile to Milo’s brain. Then a question arose: If Schwinn didn’t trust him, why had he risked doing Tonya right in front of him? Maybe the guy was just nuts . . . he shook all that off and returned to Bowie Ingalls’s face. Still no fear, just maddening dullness.

“Um . . . Friday night,” Ingalls said, as if guessing. “You can sit down if you want.”

There was only one place to sit in the damned sty. A man-sized clearing among the garbage on the couch. Ingalls’s dozing spot. Appetizing.

“No, thanks,” said Schwinn. He had his pad out now. Milo waited a few moments before producing his. Not wanting to be part of some Ike-and-Mike vaudeville routine. “So Janie slept at a friend’s Friday night.”

“Yeah. Friday.”

“Four days ago.” Schwinn’s gold Parker ballpoint was out, and he scrawled.

“Yeah. She does it all the time.”

“Sleeps over at a friend’s?”

“She’s sixteen,” said Ingalls, whining a bit.

“What’s the friend’s name? The one from Friday night.”

Ingalls’s tongue rolled around his left cheek. “Linda . . . no—Melinda.”

“Last name?”

Blank stare.

“You don’t know Melinda’s last name?”

“Don’t like the little slut,” said Ingalls. “Bad influence. Don’t like her coming around.”

“Melinda’s a bad influence on Janie?”

“Yeah. You know.”

“Gets Janie in trouble,” said Schwinn.

“You know,” said Ingalls. “Kids. Doing stuff.”

Milo wondered what could possibly offend a scrote like Ingalls.

Schwinn said, “Stuff.”

“Yeah.”

“Such as?”

“You know,” Ingalls insisted. “Cutting school, running around.”

“Dope?”

“I dunno about that.”

“Hmm,” said Schwinn, writing. “So Melinda’s a bad influence on Janie but you let Janie sleep over Melinda’s house.”

“Let?” said Ingalls, coughing. “You got kids?”

“Haven’t been blessed.”