After two more cups of coffee from Roxy, a waitress who’d known Milo for years, Mia had told him everything. He asked her questions, made her backtrack, filled in more details until he was satisfied she’d spilled it all. Milo gave snorts and grunts, an occasional hmm, and a “You’ve got to be kidding me.” When she was finished, Mia felt limp.

Milo studied Mia’s face. “I saw those photos you gave Dirk, saw the meatloaf you gave him, too, so I knew the photos were important to you. It was making me crazy not knowing what you were up to. Alex Harrington, huh?” He took another sip of coffee, tapped his blunt fingertips on the vinyl tabletop. “All right. If you’re right about Mr. Alexander Harrington and Mr. Kent Harper, Mia, if you get ironclad proof, and I mean bulletproof proof, beyond-a-reasonable-doubt proof, we’ll publish it. Otherwise, you’d be setting up the paper in the middle of a huge scandal, with an X marked on our chests for all those big-money lawyers to shoot at, and they’ll come running faster than roaches out of the woodwork. Harrington’s supporters will denounce us in any case, call you a vindictive opportunist, maybe even a jilted lover. There’s so much wealth and power involved, it’s scary. And if there’s a trial, you’ll be front and center. You as well, Agent Sherlock.” Tap, tap, tapping his fingertips, he paused, assessed. “You, Agent Sherlock, have a big rep and you’re standing with Briscoe. That’ll mean something. You think one or both of these men has already tried to kill you and yet you don’t want to face them down, tell them what you know. I can understand that. But if I let you go forward with this and something goes wrong, people will think we were both barking mad.” He fell silent, picked up his coffee spoon, and began wiping it on his napkin so hard he could see his face. Sherlock and Mia said nothing, waited. He met their eyes. “But here’s the thing—if you bring down these men, prove they’re serial rapists, prove they murdered your friend Serena, maybe find her body—it could mean a Pulitzer for you, Briscoe, and a whole mountain of new advertisers and subscriptions for the Guardian. Some butt-kissing morons might proclaim me King of All Media.” Vintage Milo, but Mia saw a twinkle in his eyes. “All right, Briscoe, knowing all the problems, the risks, the possible payoffs, do you still wish to move forward?”

“Yes,” Mia said immediately.

He turned to Sherlock. “How are you going to be involved in all this?”

“I’ll be staying with Mia to keep her safe until our mutual friend, an FBI agent, gets here tomorrow.”