“Then who’s my target?”

“Not who,” I said. “What. Paperwork.”

I walked him to the lot across the street from the station where he retrieved his unmarked and followed me home. Passing me up at Westwood Boulevard, he got there first.

The fax from Olivia sat in my machine. One page of names and social security numbers, birth dates, periods of foster care.

Twelve girls, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. Eight were still living with the Daneys. One name was familiar. Quezada, Valerie. The restless, resentful girl Cherish had tutored in math. Cherish leading her through the steps, the essence of patience. Moments later, Cherish’s tears when she talked about Rand…

The list covered only a twenty-five-month period. Olivia’s handwritten note at the top said, This was as far back as I could get. The geniuses’ archival system is a mess. Maybe permanently.

Milo said, “Let’s start by cross-referencing the four who no longer live with them.”

“To what?”

“Worst-case scenario, for starts.” He phoned the coroner, asked to speak with “Dave,” and said, “No, not today, but I’m sure I’ll get there eventually. And get me a better mask, next time, I’m no stranger to decomposition but… yeah, nothing like water damage. Listen Dave, what I need is just a record-check… yeah, I know, hearing my voice makes your day.”

Five minutes later we got the callback from Coroner’s Investigator David O’Reilly: None of the four names matched the crypt’s roster of unnatural deaths. Milo phoned the Hall of Records, got the runaround before hooking into county records and the roster of natural deaths.

He put the phone down. “They all seem to be alive. Our bit of good cheer for the day.”

I thought: They could’ve died outside of L.A. County. “What next?”

“Any ideas?”

“You could try to locate them, see if they’ve got anything to say about the Daneys. I’d focus on these two, who are still minors. Maybe life got better for them and they no longer need fostering. On the other hand…”

“I like that,” he said. “Constructive pessimism.”

Olivia gave us a contact at D.C.S. and we had the data by three p.m.

Leticia Maryanne Hollings, seventeen, was still a state ward, living with a “kinship guardian”- an aunt in Temecula. No one answered the number and Milo filed it for future reference.

Wilfreda Lee Ramos, sixteen, was no longer on the foster list. Her last known contact was a twenty-five-year-old brother, George Ramos.

Phone listing for him but no address. City of residence was “L.A., Ca.” Occupation: “Student.” The 825 number made the U. a good bet.

I tried it. Inactive. A phone call to the university registrar revealed two George Ramoses currently enrolled. One was an eighteen-year-old freshman. The other, twenty-six, was a first-year law student, and that was all I could learn.

Milo got on the line, pushed his credentials, couldn’t cadge any more out of the clerk. Same thing at the law school office.

We drove to campus, parked on the north end, walked to the school, where Milo bantered with an amiable white-haired secretary who said, “You just called. Unfortunately, the answer’s the same. Privacy regulations.”

“All we want to do is talk to Mr. Ramos, ma’am.”

“Ma’am. Just like in a cowboy movie,” she said, smiling. “I’m sure that’s true, Lieutenant, but don’t forget where we are. Can you imagine how many of these people would love to file a suit for breach of privacy?”

“Good point,” he said. “Would it help if I told you Mr. Ramos isn’t in trouble but his sister could be? I’m sure he’d like to know. Ma’am.”

“Sorry. I wish I could help.”

He relaxed his shoulders. Deliberately, slowly, the way he does when he’s struggling to stay patient. Big smile. He pushed black hair off his forehead and pressed his bulk against the counter. The secretary moved back instinctively.

“Where are the first-year students, right now?”

“They should be out of… jurisprudence class. Maybe out on the lawn.”

“How many are we talking about?”

“Three hundred seven.”

Milo said, “Male Hispanic. You guys doing better with your minority admissions or will that narrow it down?”

“He’s not real Hispanic-looking,” said the secretary.

Milo gazed at her. She blushed, leaned forward, whispered, “If someone was real tall, they’d be easy to spot.”

Milo smiled back. “We talking basketball, here?”

“Maybe a guard.”

Long, slow strides carried George Ramos across the lawn in an awkward but purposeful trajectory. Like a wading bird- an egret- making its way through a marsh. I put him at six-six. Pale and balding and stooped, carrying a stack of books and a laptop. Whatever hair he had left was medium brown and fine and streamed over his ears. He wore a blue V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt, pressed khakis, brown shoes. Tiny-lensed glasses perched above a beak nose. Young Ben Franklin stretched on the rack.

When we stepped in front of him, he blinked a couple of times and tried to pass us. When Milo said “Mr. Ramos?” he stopped short.

“Yes?”

Badge-flash. “Do you have a moment to talk about your sister, Wilfreda?”

Behind his glasses, Ramos’s brown eyes hardened. His knuckles bulged and whitened. “You’re serious.”

“We are, sir.”

Ramos muttered under his breath.

“Sir?”

“My sister’s dead.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“What in the world led you to me?”

“We’re looking into some foster children and- ”

“Lee committed suicide three months ago,” said Ramos. “That’s what everyone called her. Lee. If you knew anything about her, you’d know she hated ‘Wilfreda.’ ”

Milo kept silent.

“She was sixteen,” said Ramos.

Milo said, “I know, sir.” It’s rare for him to have to look up at anyone. He didn’t like it.

Ramos said, “What kind of parents would name someone Wilfreda?”

The three of us found a bench on the west side of the lawn.

George Ramos said, “What do you want to know?”

“Lee’s experiences in foster care.”

“What, a scandal?”

“Maybe something like that.”

“Her experiences,” said Ramos. “For Lee, foster care was a lot easier than being at home. Her father- my stepfather- is a fascist. Those preachers she lived with didn’t give her any supervision. Custom-order for someone like Lee.”

“What do you mean?” said Milo.

“Lee was rebellious in the womb, did her own thing no matter what. She got pregnant when she was in foster care, had an abortion. The coroner told us that after the autopsy. The preachers talked a good case but my feeling is they collected the money and let Lee run wild.”

“Which coroner told you this?”

“Santa Barbara County. Lee was living in Isla Vista, with some dopers, when she…” Ramos removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“This was after she got out of foster care,” said Milo.

Ramos nodded. “The fascist finally allowed her to come home on condition she stick to all his rules. She was home for two days before she ran away. The fascist said she should live with the consequences of her own behavior and my mother has always been totally under his thumb. So no one went looking for Lee. We found out where she’d been staying after she died. Some crash pad in Isla Vista, ten kids living like animals.”

I said, “The fascist isn’t your father but you and Lee had the same last name.”

“We don’t. Her name’s Monahan. When he got so fed up with her that he made her a ward of the state, he burned her clothes and locked her out and told her she was no longer his daughter. She said fuck you and started calling herself Ramos.”