I tied a towel around my waist and walked to the front entry in time to see Milo let himself in.

“It was unlocked,” he said, closing the door hard and tossing the Times on the sofa. He stared at me and I drew the towel tighter.

“Good morning, nature boy.”

I motioned him in.

“You really should lock the door, my friend. I’ve got files at the station that illustrate nicely what happens to people who don’t.”

“Good morning, Milo.”

I padded into the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. Milo followed me like a lumbering shadow, opened the refrigerator and took out a plate of cold pizza that I had no recollection of ever owning. He tailed me back to the living room, collapsed on my old leather sofa—an artifact of the abandoned office on Wilshire—balanced the plate on his thigh and stretched out his legs.

I turned off the bathwater and settled opposite him on a camelskin ottoman.

Milo is a big man—six-two, two-twenty—with a big man’s way of going loose and dangly when he gets off his feet. This morning he looked like an oversized rag doll slumped against the cushions—a doll with a broad, pleasant face, almost boyish except for the acne pits that peppered the skin, and the tired eyes. The eyes were startlingly green and rimmed with red, topped by shaggy dark brows and a Kennedy-esque shock of thick black hair. His nose was large and high-bridged, his lips full, childishly soft. Sideburns five years out of date trailed down the scarred cheeks.

As usual he wore ersatz Brooks Brothers: olive-green gabardine suit, yellow button-down, mint and gold rep stripe tie, oxblood wing tips. The total effect was as preppy as W. C. Fields in red skivvies.

He ignored me and concentrated on the pizza.

“So glad you could make it for breakfast.”

When his plate was empty he asked, “So, how are you doing, pal?”

“I was doing great. What can I do for you, Milo?”

“Who says I want you to do anything?” He brushed crumbs from his lap to the rug. “Maybe this is a social call.”

“You waltzing in, unannounced, with that bloodhound look all over your face isn’t a social call.”

“Such intuitive powers.” He ran his hands over his face, as if washing without water. “I need a favor,” he said.

“Take the car. I won’t be needing it until late afternoon.”

“No, it’s not that this time. I need your professional services.”

That gave me pause.

“You’re out of my age range,” I said. “Besides, I’m out of the profession.”

“I’m not kidding, Alex. I’ve got one of your colleagues lying on a slab at the morgue. Fellow by the name of Morton Handler.”

I knew the name, not the face.

“Handler’s a psychiatrist.”