I said, “Of course.”

He turned back to Milo. “I read about your ‘occurrence’ this morning. Least I’m assuming that’s the case you’re working. Is it?”

Milo said, “Yes, sir.”

“Box of baby bones. Sad. The article said they were probably old, I figure you’re here to pinpoint a likely offender using property tax rolls. Am I right?”

Milo smiled.

John J. Del Rios said, “Can’t fault you for that approach, makes sense. But if it’s an old 187, why the psych angle?”

Milo said, “Cases that are out of the ordinary, we find the input helpful.”

“Psychological autopsy?”

“Basically. Could we come in, sir?”

“Oh, sure,” said Del Rios. “No sense keeping you in the heat.”

He waved us into a lime-green, beam-ceilinged front room cooled by a grumbling window A.C. Burnt-orange carpeting was synthetic, spotless, firm as hardwood. Blocky oak furniture from the seventies, the kind purchased as a suite, was placed predictably. Horse prints clipped from magazines were the concession to art. The only sign of modernity was a wall-mounted flat-screen, hung carefully so no wires showed. A pass-through counter led to a kitchen devoid of counter equipment. The house was clean and orderly, but ripe with the stale-sweat/burnt-coffee/Old Spice tang of longtime bachelorhood.

J. J. Del Rios headed for an avocado-colored fridge. “Something to drink? I’m having a shot of grape juice. Virgin Cabernet, if you will.” He gave a bark-like chuckle. “Too early for my one-a-day booze infusion but the antioxidants in grape skin are good for you, you don’t even need the alcohol.” He brandished a bottle half full with magenta liquid. “Good stuff, no added sugar.”

“Water’ll be fine, sir.”

“ ‘Sir.’ Been a while since I heard that from someone who meant it.” Another low, clipped laugh. “Don’t miss the job but there was a nice order to it, everyone knowing their place.”

“You ran the jail division.”

“Big fun,” said Del Rios. “Keeping lowlifes locked up, making sure they knew they weren’t living at the Hilton.”

“How long did you do it?” said Milo.

Del Rios returned with two waters in one huge hand, juice in the other. We all sat.

“What’s this, small talk to gain rapport? If you know I ran it, you know for how long.”

Milo said, “Didn’t dig that deep, sir.”

Del Rios snorted that off. “Tell me about your bones.”

“Infant,” said Milo. “Half a year old, give or take.”

“That was in the paper.”

“That’s what we know so far.”

“You’ve narrowed down the time frame to when my family owned the place?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How?”

“Afraid I can’t get into that, sir.”

Del Rios smiled. “Now I’m not liking the ‘sir’ so much.”

Milo smiled back.

The warmth generated by the exchange might’ve heated a baby gnat.