He opened the door and came face-to-face with two tall men in their thirties. Both were broad-shouldered and good-looking, in well-cut charcoal suits, starched white shirts, and blue silk ties.

Corporate Bobbsey twins—except one guy was white—Swedish pink, actually, with a crew cut the color of cornflakes—and the other was black as the night.

Together they nearly spanned the width of the tiny, stale room, a two-man offensive line. Black had opened the door. He had a smooth, round head topped by a razor-trimmed cap of ebony fuzz and glowing, hairless, blue-tinged skin. The clear, hard eyes of a drill instructor. His unsmiling mouth was a fissure in a tar pit.

Pinkie hung toward the rear of the tiny room, but he was the first to speak.

“Detective Sturgis. Have a seat.” Reedy voice, Northern inflection—Wisconsin or Minnesota. He pointed to the room’s solitary chair, a folding metal affair on the near side of the interrogation table, facing the one-way mirror. The mirror, not even close to subterfuge, every suspect knew he was being observed, the only question was by whom? And now Milo was wondering the same thing.

“Detective,” said the black man. Offering him the suspect chair.

On the table was a big, ugly Satchell-Carlson reel-to-reel tape recorder, the same gray as the twins’ suits. Everything color-coordinated—like some psychology experiment and guess who was the guinea pig . . .

“What’s going on?” he said, remaining in the doorway.

“Come in and we’ll tell you,” said Pinkie.

“How about a proper introduction?” said Milo. “As in who are you and what’s this all about?” Surprising himself with his assertiveness.

The suits weren’t surprised. Both looked pleased, as if Milo had confirmed their expectation.

“Please come in,” said Black, putting some steel into “please.” He came closer, stepped within inches of Milo’s nose, and Milo caught a whiff of expensive aftershave, something with citrus in it. The guy was taller than Milo—six-four or -five—and Pinkie looked every bit as big. Size was one of the few advantages Milo figured God had given him; for the most part, he’d used it to avoid confrontation. But between these guys and the Wagnerian Dr. Schwartzman it had been a bad day for exploiting body type.

“Detective,” said Black. His face was strangely inanimate—an African war mask. And those eyes. The guy had presence; he was used to being in charge. That was curious. Since the Watts riots, there’d been some race progress in the department, but for the most part it was lip service. Blacks and Mexicans were despised by the brass, shunted to dead-end patrol jobs in the highest-crime segments of Newton, Southwest, and Central, with scant chance for advancement. But this guy—his suit looked like mohair blend, the stitching on the lapels, hand-sewn—what kind of dues had he paid and who the hell was he?