“Nichols impress you as a potential?”

“I don’t get into their personal lives,” said Rodriguez. “Step one, they show up, step two, they do the freaking job. I get that from a few of them with any regularity, I’m a happy guy.”

“Nichols dependable?”

“He’s actually one of the good ones. Like clockwork. Here on the dot- kind of faggy, actually.”

“Faggy,” said Milo.

“Faggy,” Rodriguez repeated. “As in picky, prissy, choosy. Everything has to be just so, he reminds me of my wife.”

“Picky how?”

“He wants his lunch box kept away from dust, gets ticked when guys mess with his tools or don’t show up on time. Any change in routine ticks him off. He folds his jacket, for chrissake.”

“Perfectionist.”

“What’s your beef with him?”

“Nothing yet.”

“Hope it stays that way,” said Rodriguez. “He shows up, does the freaking job.”

Roy Nichols was six-three, an easy 250, with a hard, protruding belly, flour-sack arms and tree-trunk thighs. Under his hard hat was a head shaved clean. The stubble that blanketed his face was fair, and so were his eyebrows. He wore a sweat-soaked earth-colored T-shirt under blue denim overalls, had a rose tattoo on his right biceps. His face was square and sun-baked, bottomed by a double chin, scored with deep seams that made him look older than his thirty years.

Rodriguez pointed to us, and Nichols surged ahead of him and swaggered in our direction.

“Round one, ding,” muttered Milo.

Nichols reached us, and said, “Police? About what?” His voice was thin and shockingly high. I bet many a phone caller had asked to speak to his mother. I bet Roy Nichols never got used to it.

Milo extended a hand.

Nichols showed us a dusty palm, muttered, “Dirty,” and lowered it to his side. He rolled his neck. “What do you want?”

“To talk about Flora Newsome.”

“Now? I’m working.”

“We’d appreciate a few minutes, Mr. Nichols.”

“About what?” A flush rose from Nichols’s bull neck and made its way up his cheeks.

“We’re taking a fresh look at the case and are talking to everyone who knew her.”

“I knew her all right, but I don’t know who killed her. I’ve already been through all that crap with some other cops- I’m on the job, man, and they pay me by the hour. They’re Nazis, man. I stay too long in the bathroom, they dock me. If it was a union job, they couldn’t do that, but it isn’t, so give me a break.”

“I’ll square it with Mr. Rodriguez.”

“Right,” said Nichols. He toed dirt, rolled his neck some more.

“Just a few minutes.”

Nichols cursed under his breath. “At least let’s get out of the fucking sun.”

We walked to a corner of the site shaded by two portable toilets. The chemicals had failed, and the stench was aggressive.

Nichols’s nostrils flared. “Reeks. Perfect. This is all bullshit.”

“You get upset pretty easily,” said Milo.

“You would, too, if your time was money and someone wasted it.” Nichols unsnapped the leather lid of his wristwatch and peered at the dial. “Those first cops spent days with me, man. What a hassle. I could tell right away they thought I was a suspect because of the way they played around with me.”

“Played?”

“One’s nice, the other’s an asshole. A he and a she. He faked being the nice one. I’ve seen enough TV to know the game.” He ran a hand over his skinhead. “Now, you. What, you’re getting overtime, trying to stretch it out?”

Milo stared at him.

Nichols said, “Didn’t they tell you I had a perfect alibi for when Flora was killed? Watching the game in a sports bar, then I shot pool and played some darts and got drunk. A buddy drove me to my house just after midnight, and I threw up all over the living room couch. My wife tucked me in and didn’t give me shit until she woke me up two hours later after stewing on it and then she reamed me. So I’m accounted for, okay? A whole bunch of people verified it, and your buddies know it.”

Milo glanced at me. Both of us thinking the same thing: His wife hadn’t mentioned that.

“You have any theories about who killed Flora?”

“No.”

“None at all?”

Nichols licked his lips. “Why should I?”

“We’ve heard you do have a theory.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Flora’s sex drive. Or lack thereof.”

“Shit,” said Nichols. “You’ve been talking to Lisa. What do you expect her to say? We’re getting divorced, she hates my fucking guts. Didn’t she tell you I was home that night? Shit, she didn’t. See- she hates my guts.”

“What about your theory?”

“Yeah, yeah, I told her that, but I was talking out of my butt- like you talk to your wife, you know.”

Milo smiled.

“They need you to talk,” said Nichols. “Females.” He opened and shut his hand several times, miming chatter. “You come home after a hard day’s work and just wanna chill and they want to talk. Myah myah myah. So you tell them what they want to hear.”

“Lisa wanted to hear about Flora’s sex drive?”

“Lisa wanted to hear that she was hot, the hottest, hotter than anyone else I ever met in my life.” Nichols humphed. “That’s what that was all about.”

Milo stepped closer to Nichols. “You stroked Lisa by putting down Flora? Any particular reason you chose Flora as the bad example?”

Nichols edged back.

“Did Flora have sexual problems, Roy?”

“If you call not being able to do it problems,” said Nichols.

“She couldn’t have sex?”

“She couldn’t come. She had no feelings down there, used to lie there like a… a carpet. She didn’t like to do it. Wouldn’t come out and say so, but she had a way of letting you know.”

“What way was that?”

“You’d touch her, and she’d get this… upset look. Like she- like you hurt her.”

“Doesn’t sound like a fun relationship.”

Nichols didn’t answer.

Milo said, “Still, you went out with her for what- a year?”

“Less than that.” Nichols’s eyes widened. “I know what you’re getting at.”

“What’s that, Roy?”

“That I got mad at her because she wouldn’t put out, but it wasn’t like that. We didn’t fight, I never did anything but be cool with her. I took her out to movies, dinner, whatever. Spent money on her, man, and it wasn’t like I was getting anything back.”

“Uneven trade,” said Milo.

“This is making me sound bad.” Nichols’s meaty shoulders flexed. He smiled. “Big deal how I sound, I have a total four-plus alibi, so you can think what you want.”

“Did you break up with Flora because of her sexual problems, Roy?”

“That was part of it, wouldn’t it be for anyone normal? But it’s not like we were even really going together. We were neighbors, grew up together. Our parents hung out, we had barbecues together, whatever. Everyone kind of threw us together, know what I mean?”

“Parental matchmaking,” I said.

He looked at me with gratitude. “Yeah, exactly. ‘Flora’s such a nice girl.’ ‘Flora would make a great mom.’ And she dug me, she definitely did, so why not, she wasn’t half-bad-looking, coulda been hot if she knew how to dress. And how to screw. But we hung out more than we went out, you know? Even so, I spent money on her, lots of lobster dinners. When we broke up everything was cool.”

“She wasn’t upset?”

“Sure she was, but it wasn’t any big hysterical scene, know what I mean? She cried a little, I told her we’d be friends, and that was that.”

I said, “Did you remain friends?”

“There was no… animosity.”

“Did you continue to see each other?”

“No,” said Nichols, regarding me with wariness now. He cupped his clean head with one big hand, scratched loose a flake of sun-baked skin. “I’d see her at my folks’. There was no bad feelings.”