Back at the holding cell, Chavez was wide awake, jumpy, complaining about the food.

The guard said, "No more dope in his system, he's getting grumpy." He unlocked the door.

Milo said, "More pictures, Gilberto."

"You kidding." Chavez reached behind, scratched his back. Clawed hard. "I think you got bugs in here."

"No, we're clean, Gilberto. Start looking."

Chavez flipped pages too quickly.

"Take your time."

"I see, I know."

Upon turning the final page: "Oh, shit."

"You found them?"

"No, that's the shit," said Chavez. "They no here, now you gonna keep me!"

"Go through them again, Gilberto."

"They no here!" Chavez shouted. Small, rough, workingman's hands curled. "I want out!"

"Easy, Gilberto."

"You lock me up, I do what you say and you still lock me up."

"That weed locked you up."

"That no mine."

Milo flashed him a pitying look.

"Weed," said Chavez, "is jus a ticket."

"Not that much weed, Gilberto."

Tears filmed Chavez's eyes.

Milo said, "Do your best for me and I'll help you."

"Fine, fine, fine! You want me look say yes, I say yes." Jabbing the first page. "This one. This one. And this one, I give you three, okay? You want four, five? Okay, this one and-"

"Settle down, Gilberto."

"Madre de Dios-they no here!"

"Go through it one more time," said Milo. But his heart wasn't in it.

CHAPTER 27

Milo slouched back to his office. Tried the lab again for prints in the Corvette.

The car had been wiped clean.

He knuckled both eyes. "Yeah, yeah, he's that careful but leaves the damn hat out in plain view. Maybe it fell off his damn head when he lit the damn fire and he got scared and ran. Figured the damn blaze would get rid of damn everything."

I said nothing.

"Don't use that attitude with me, sonny." He called San Antonio PD about the first drive-by of Gisella Mendoza's place.

Been and gone, no sign of unusual activity.

"When in doubt, gluttony."

At Cafe Moghul the bespectacled woman heaped his plate with every item on the buffet, added lobster just out of the tandoori.

"At least somebody loves me," he muttered, tucking a napkin under his chins.

The woman beamed.

As he finished his third bowl of rice pudding, Sean Binchy entered the restaurant. "Wouldn't bug you but some guy called twice in the last half hour, Loot, says it's about Martin Mendoza. I tried your cell but it was off."

Milo fumbled in his pocket, flipped the phone open. "Switched off by accident." Glancing at me. "Unless Freud was right and there are no accidents."

I said, "Freud was wrong about lots of things but this one I'll leave up to you."

"Huh." He turned to Binchy. "What'd this guy have to say about Mendoza?"

"No details, just that he wants to talk to you."

"How did he know to ask for me?"

"Beats me, Loot." Binchy pulled out his pad. "Name's Edwin Kenten, here's the number."

"Kenten phoned personally?"

"Yup. Why wouldn't he?"

"What I've been told, he's a guy gets people to do things for him."

Edwin Kenten put the lie to that by answering his own phone. His voice was nasal, thin, softened by a musical accent-wetlands Florida, southern Georgia.

"Lieutenant Sturgis, thanks for calling back promptly."

"No problem, Mr. Kenten. Who referred you to me?"

"Marty Mendoza 's family gave me your name and it's Marty I'd like to talk to you about. I know you're extremely busy, sir, but if there's some way we could meet, I'd be grateful. We could have tea in my office. I'm in Westwood, Wilshire near Broxton."

"What's a good time, Mr. Kenten?"

"At your convenience, Lieutenant."

"I can be there in twenty."

"I'll leave your name with my parking man."

A gracious fourteen-story office building clad in limestone and brick and crowned by hand-carved moldings took up the southwest corner of Wilshire and Glendon.

Butting up against all that architecture was Edwin Kenten's fifteen-story headquarters, an assertively ugly off-white rectangle striped with garish blue glass.

"The gift," said Milo, "and the box it came in."

KNT Enterprises took up the top floor of the shipping carton, accessible by a key-operated elevator marked Private. The parking lot attendant was built like a bouncer, with a wide smile as deep as a decal. Phoning for authorization, he produced the key, turned twice. "Mr. K.'s ready for you. Have a nice day."

We stepped into a windowless, off-white waiting room carpeted in shag the color of a puppy's accident. An unmarked door at the rear was painted matte gray. The amenities consisted of four folding chairs haphazardly positioned, a coffee table hosting a jar of crumbling biscotti, a few plastic bottles of generic water, and two leaning-tower heaps of old magazines.

The man waiting for us was sixty-five to seventy, pudgy and bald on top with gray curls tufting above leprechaun ears. A powder-blue silk shantung shirt billowed over pink linen pants and white patent loafers. The shirt matched the man's curious eyes. The trousers color-coordinated with a diamond pinkie ring. The face of his wristwatch was larger than some cell phones.

He inspected both of us, guessed correctly. "Lieutenant? Eddie Kenten."

"Good to meet you, sir. This is Alex Delaware."

"Pleasure. You boys come in."

Kenten's sunburned face was a near-perfect sphere. Same for his torso and abdominal region, as if a trio of apples had been stacked carelessly. When he turned toward the door, each segment rolled with eerie independence. He appeared on the brink of falling apart and I felt myself tensing up to prevent disaster.

We followed him past a maze of plain-wrap cubicles. Twenty or so people worked quietly at phones and computers. Kenten waved to a few, smiled at everyone. Continuing toward the requisite corner office, he exuded gingery aftershave that hit us in gusts.

His personal space was predictably vast with blue-glass walls, but northern and western vistas were blocked by taller structures. To the east, the tops of Wilshire Corridor condos were barely visible. Only the southern view was free and clear: miles of houses and low-profile shopping sinking into the flight paths over Inglewood. Everything clouded by a milk-chocolate puff of smog.

A cheap-looking desk was heaped with papers where it wasn't crowded with framed snapshots. Some of the pictures were positioned for visitor viewing: a younger, thinner, crew-cut Kenten in formal army dress marrying a bony woman nearly a head taller, a slew of kids and grandkids in various stages of development.

A circular folding banquet table and plastic chairs served as the conference area. A plug-in kettle, tea bags strewn loosely, and more crumbling biscotti were the refreshments du jour.

Kenten said, "Can I pour for you fellows?"

"No, thanks, sir."

"You don't mind if I indulge, do you?" Ripping open a packet of Earl Grey, Kenten poured, steeped, pawed a biscotti, chewed noisily, unmindful of crumbs on his shirtfront.

Blowing into the teacup, he pursed his lips. "Nice and hot… thank you for coming."

"What can we do for you, Mr. Kenten?"

"Everyone calls me Eddie. I'll come right to the point: The Mendozas are worried you're looking into Marty as having something to do with the death of Ms. Elise Freeman. I'm here to tell you Marty had nothing to do with it."

"You know that because-"

"Because I know Marty, Lieutenant. I'm the one who brought him to Prep." Kenten put down his tea. "I thought I'd done him a favor."

"You feel differently now?"

"With the police chasing after him?" Challenging words, but twinkly eyes and grandfatherly cheer.

"We're not chasing him, Mr. Kenten. We'd like to talk to him."