But he just sat there.

Milo repeated the question.

"What do you think, guys? I'm not talking ballet. We're talking a pole, okay?" He winced. "You wouldn't be asking all this if she didn't get herself into trouble. What's going on?"

"So far, nothing," said Milo.

Blevins peered at him skeptically.

"That's the truth, Mr. Blevins, and I'm sure it can all be cleared up once we talk to Bri. Where do she and Selma dance?"

"Don't know, don't want to know. They started doing it the second they turned eighteen and were legal. I tried to talk Bri into junior college. She said she'd never make as much money as she could doing… that. Everything nowadays is about money, right?"

Blevins checked his Palm Pilot. "Due at work soon."

"Where's that, sir?"

"Ref-Gem Motorworks, in Westchester. We build high-performance components for custom cars and boats. I'm on the paper end, assistant controller, reason I'm home at this time of day is with the economy they asked us to voluntarily cut our hours, so I'm down to thirty per week and they give me flex-time. Makes it harder on Bri 'cause I'm here more. She likes to be around when I'm not."

"So she lives here."

"When she chooses. The rest of the time? No idea."

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"That would have to be two-no, three days ago. She showed up at eight in the morning just as I was leaving, big coincidence. Hello, good-bye, she usually comes in for food and clothes."

"Where does she work?"

"You call that work?" said Blevins. "All she'd tell me is gentleman's clubs. Like any gentleman would go there."

"Was Selma with her?"

"Selma dropped her off but didn't stick around, probably 'cause I was there, Selma knows how I feel about her."

"Bri doesn't drive?"

"She had a car but it got repo'd." Tight smile. "Guess gentlemen don't pay the bills."

"Do you have any idea where Selma lives?"

"Don't know, don't care."

"Who are Bri's other friends?"

"Her line of work, you don't have friends, you have oglers-oh, excuse me: regulars. That was a big deal to her, she kept trying to impress me with the fact she had regulars. I'm thinking great, some pervert has enough money to waste it on you. But I kept my mouth shut, what's the point?"

"Did she tell you anything about her regulars?"

"Rich, they're always rich, right? With the private jets and the platinum cards. I wanted to say, What, you found an old cassette of Pretty Woman?"

"What else besides rich?"

Blevins ticked off his fingers. "Rich, handsome, young, smart-goes to Stanford. Does that make sense? Stanford's up north, why would a smart person-any person fly down here regularly to watch pole dancing? Like there's no poles in Palo Alto."

"So we're talking one guy in particular."

"Two Stanford guys, one for her, one for Selma. Guess if you're going to fantasize, make it good."

"What else did she say about them?"

"It's actually relevant to something?" said Blevins.

"At this point, that's hard to say, sir. We collect as much information as we can, sift through."

"Doesn't sound too efficient."

"Sometimes it's the only way, Mr. Blevins. So what else did Bri tell you?"

"Two rich guys come in to watch her and Selma dance, soon they're taking her and Selma to Aspen, Vail, I forget which, some ski place. On a private jet, no less. This was months ago, it was summer, she tried to get money out of me for ski clothes. See what I mean? She can't even put together a logical fantasy."

Milo said, "Two guys, one jet."

"Maybe one owns it, the other gets to use it, maybe they're partners-hey, maybe you and I can split a private jet. What brand do you like? I'm a Buick guy, myself-guys, I really need to get to work."

We walked him to his car. Milo said, "Did Brianna ever put a name on these fantasy guys?"

"I'm glad you're getting it: fantasy. Like when after her mother died and she started wanting to be a princess. I told her, 'Look what happened to Diana.'"

"So no names."

"Actually, there was, something with a T. Trevor, Turner? Tristan, yeah Tristan. Like that's a real name. Right out of one of those trash paperbacks her mother used to read."

"Not Tremaine? Or Trey?"

Blevins thought. "Nope, Tristan. Like that opera-Tristan and Isabel."

"What about Tristan's friend?"

"If she told me his name I wasn't listening. When you see Bri, don't tell her I finked on her, it's tense enough."

He drove away and we got back in the unmarked. Milo put his cell on speaker and reached Moe Reed.

"Martin Mendoza's status as prime suspect has dropped, Moses, so no need for the watch on his parents, same for the Kenten estate. Unless you've picked up something interesting."

Reed said, "Early this morning, Officer Ramirez spotted Kenten's grandson entering again, another short visit, no surfboard. This time he had a passenger, but a white kid, not Mendoza."

"Two white boys in a nice car," said Milo. "I've got a lead on a couple of strip-joint enthusiasts claiming to be Stanford students." Milo filled in the details.

"Sure, Garret Kenten could fit."

"What did Garret's passenger look like?"

"They drove in and out fast, she couldn't even get a fix on hair color because he wore a baseball cap. But she says definitely Anglo."

"Blue cap with an S insignia?"

"She didn't specify. Want to hold?"

"Sure."

Moments later: "Tan, too far for any insignia, Loo. Brown shirt is the only other thing she can swear to."

"In my office is a Windsor Prep yearbook, Moses. Blue leather, fancy gold seal, it's right below the murder book. Go through it right now and look for any Tristans, starting with seniors. I'll wait."

"On the way, Loo."

A train whistle broke the silence, then faded west. A couple of ravens settled atop Harvey Blevins's house, pecked at gravel, dislodged a few pebbles and cackled in triumph.

Reed came back on. "Okay, got the book… here's the senior class… no Tristans… here's a Tristram. Big dark-haired kid, kinda got that actor thing going on-the fake smile, you know?"

"Could he pass for twenty-one?"

"Oh, sure, easy. Want me to check Tristans in the junior class?"

"Go."

Moments later: "Nope, just one Tristram, last name Wydette." Reed spelled the surname.

Milo and I looked at each other. The morning we'd met up with President Helfgott, he'd flown in on a Gulfstream borrowed from a Myron Wydette.

Milo said, "Fantasy springs to life."

"Pardon, Loo?"

"What does the book say about Young Master Tristram?"

"His extracurricular activities," said Reed. "Business club, foreign policy club, Model U.N., mock trial, varsity baseball, varsity golf-they've got a golf course?"

"Nine holes. I'm more interested in the Great American Pastime."

"Sir?" said Reed. "Oh. The hat in the car. Maybe he played baseball with Mendoza, developed a grudge?"

"Or he just knows a good scapegoat when he sees one. Moses, run him through every damn database you can find, then do a search pairing his name with Garret Kenten's. That comes up empty, go through the yearbook page by page to see if there's another male he's been photographed with consistently. If so, search that name also-and pair it with Garret, just to be safe. Sean in the shop today?"

"Still at the Mendoza house."

"At this hour?"

"Plainclotheser called in sick, Sean said he'd double-shift. Guy's got a bladder the size of Australia."

Milo said, "Don't rub it in, lad. One more thing: When you look into Tristram don't just count parking violations, look for consistent addresses on the citations, maybe it'll lead us to a strip joint or two or three. I need those girls."

"Done, Loo."

He got hold of Binchy, told him to get over to Harvey Blevins's house immediately, do his usual "eagle-eye."