With a dozen calls to go, I took a coffee break and checked with my service. A family court judge had left a message thanking me for a “helpful” custody report, ditto one of the attorneys on the case. Third was Holly Ruche offering her gratitude, no specifics.

The service operator, a woman I’d never talked to before, said, “You have teenagers by any chance, Doctor?”

I said, “Why?”

“Everyone seems to appreciate you. If you tell me your teenagers do, I may make an appointment, myself.”

I laughed.

She said, “You sound cheerful, so that’s my answer. You don’t have any.”

I’d whittled the agency list to four companies when the man who answered at Gold Standard Professionals in Beverly Hills listened to my pitch but didn’t reply.

I said, “You know Adriana?”

He said, “Hold on for a moment, please.” Deep, mellifluous voice.

As I waited, I examined the company’s Internet ad. The pitch featured twenties-style cartoons of butlers, footmen, chefs in toques, maids in lace uniforms, lettering in an angular art deco font. Boldface motto: The ultimate in classic service, beyond the ultimate in classic discretion.

Maybe discretion was what kept me on hold for seven minutes before the connection was cut.

I redialed, got voice mail. After fielding more indignation at the remaining three agencies, I gave Gold Standard another try.

This time no one answered.

I Googled the company. A single reference popped up, a piece from the Beverly Hills Clarion that could’ve been a paid ad or least-resistance journalism. Gold Standard’s owners were Jack and Daisy Weathers, “former performers, now entrepreneurs in the field of high-end service,” who’d parlayed their knowledge of “the unique demands of the industry with post-graduate training in human factors and development.”

For Jack that meant a master’s degree from a “university” I knew to be a correspondence mill. No educational specs for Daisy. The accompanying photo showed the Weatherses to be white-haired, tan, wearing matching pink shirts and smiles crammed with post-graduate dental work.

The smooth voice could easily have been that of an actor, so maybe I’d talked to the boss. Gold Standard’s address was a P.O.B. in Beverly Hills, 90211. South end of the city, maybe a mail drop.

Was there no need for an office because clients of sufficient importance merited house calls? Or did one have to pass muster before being favored with private-club status? If the latter was the case, I’d flunked. Maybe that had nothing to do with Adriana, just disdain for an obviously undeserving plebe with no link to “the Industry.” But no other agency had reacted that way.

I put in a call to Milo. He said, “I was just going to call you. Eat, yet?”

“Had a sandwich.”

“That’s a snack not a meal. The usual place.”

“No reporter in tow, huh.”