"Thanks for the compliment, Loot."

"Thank me by producing."

We sped back to my house where Milo commandeered the computer.

Sometimes money intersects with fame. At a higher level, it can also purchase obscurity.

Keywording myron wydette produced only five hits and a single image.

The citations were a quintet of charity benefits with Myron and Annette Wydette's names embedded in lists of major donors.

American Cancer Society, the eye clinic at the U., Planned Parenthood, a pair of galas for Windsor Preparatory Academy.

Only the ophthalmology reference hinted at the source of Wydette's income: Mr. and Mrs. M. Wydette and the Wydette Orchard Foundation.

Muttering "peaches," Milo found a handful of references to a family fruit-growing concern founded by Myron's great-grandfather during Gold Rush days and sold a decade ago to Trident Agriculture, a publicly traded corporation. Myron Wydette's name remained on the board of directors but he didn't seem to be involved in day-to-day activities.

The solitary image was of a broad, ungainly-looking white-haired man with a benevolent, somewhat bleary-eyed frog-face, arm in arm with a tightly coiffed, tightly toned, tightly tucked brunette half a head taller.

Milo said, "Sounds like Tristram got his looks from Mommy."

Pairing wydette and stanford pulled up a three-year-old article in the university's magazine about a trio of incoming freshman, ostensibly picked at random. Annie Tranh was the granddaughter of Vietnamese boat people and a Westinghouse Science Award winner. Eric Robles-Scott was a biracial kid from Harlem who'd won a national competition in foreign languages by demonstrating proficiency in French, Swedish, and Gullah dialect.

Aidan Wydette of L.A. was the tenth member and fourth generation of his family to grace the Palo Alto campus.

Aidan's headshot revealed a dark-haired, thick-necked boy with an open, confident smile. Note was made of the Wydette clan's long history of contribution to higher education but no dollar amounts were mentioned and care was taken to list Aidan's qualifications: "outstanding scholar and athlete" at Windsor Preparatory Academy in Brentwood, National Merit Scholar, summer internship at a Washington, D.C., think tank where he'd co-authored a paper on fiscal policy in emerging democracies, followed by a summer at the sports section of The New York Times.

Achievements at Prep included "a full academic load," varsity letters in golf, hockey, and soccer, captain of the Model U.N. team and mock trial, co-captain of the business club, co-founder of a program donating unused restaurant food to the homeless.

Milo said, "Guess the Nobel comes in his sophomore year."

I said, "Three sports for him, only two for Tristram, Tristram serves on Model U.N. and mock trial, but Aidan's the captain of both teams."

"If Li'l Bro doesn't make National Merit, he's reduced to peasant status? Yeah, that would kick up the pressure."

"Merit scholarships are based on PSAT scores. Your percentile's high enough, you write a legible essay, you're in."

"Fake a score, get an award," he said. "Hell, maybe we're not just talking Tristram. For all we know Aidan's resume got pumped up the old-fashioned way."

"Cheating as a way of life."

"You read the papers." His pocket jumped as his phone played a too-fast Bach prelude. No more "Fur Elise." Did that mean something?

Moe Reed broke in. "Can't find a single link between Tristram Wydette and Garret Kenten, though Garret did graduate from Prep four years ago."

"He goes to college somewhere local?"

"There's no record he goes anywhere, the only thing that comes up under his name is a band. You'll love this: the Slackers. But there is a kid in the yearbook who's with Tristram in ten photos. Seven are from the baseball team, but there're also shots of the two of them horsing around on campus. To me they look like buds, Loo."

"What's this prince's name?"

"Quinn Glover. He doesn't have a record and neither does Tristram but your idea about parking was good because Tristram has piled up a lot of paper on or near Los Angeles Street, downtown. That's industrial but there used to be rave clubs in vacant buildings so maybe there're strip clubs."

"They bother enforcing parking there?"

"A while back there were complaints about drug deals so Central blocks off the area after six p.m. I guess once in a while they do enforce."

He read off the addresses on the citations. "One more thing, Loo. Quinn Glover's daddy is CEO of Trident Agriculture-that's the outfit Tristram's daddy sold his orchards to."

"Multigenerational ties that bind," said Milo. "Make up six-packs with each of these kids' faces. I'm gonna troll for a couple of pole dancers."

The block was grubby, dim, lined with warehouses and industrial buildings, a good half of them vacant. Loose garbage specked the sidewalk. The air smelled oddly of raw pork and rubber cement. Signs every ten yards warned No Parking 6 p.m. to 6 a.m. No one in sight but for a few homeless men lolling or driving carts. Some of the drivers managed a straight line.

The Hungry Lion Gentleman's Lounge occupied a windowless maroon cube. A stretch of dirt and broken asphalt running behind the buildings served as parking. The space behind the club was empty. Posted hours on the gunmetal door out front said the merriment wouldn't start for another two hours.

A sign above the building featured a leering simba wearing a red paisley shirt and mirrored sunglasses and sporting a slicked-back mullet-mane. One manicured paw clutched a glass of something fizzy. The other held a wild-eyed, grinning, unclad blonde. The girl's expression said her ultimate life goal had been achieved.

Milo said, "King Kong was ambivalent, this critter's licking his chops. Hungry, indeed." He rapped the metal door, evoked a barely audible thud.

One of the cart-pushers rounded a corner, spotted us, and nearly overturned as he attempted a sharp U-turn. Contents shot out of the cart. We caught up as he stooped to reload cardboard boxes, newspapers, cans, bottles.

Milo bent to help him with the last few treasures.

"That's okay, Officer, I'm fine."

"Know anything about that club, friend?"

"I know to stay away, Officer."

"Bad influence, huh?"

"Bouncer getting upside your head is a bad influence, Officer. Used to be quiet around here, nice place to spend the night, then that place opened and it's like they own the whole street."

"Ever get close enough to see the girls?"

"The girls go in through the back."

"Same question, friend."

"Something happen there, Officer?"

"Still the same question."

The man said, "Sometimes the girls come out in front to smoke."

Milo produced Brianna Blevins's and Selma Arredondo's DMV photos. "That include these two?"

"These two," the homeless man echoed. "Big and little." Massaging his chest. "Yeah, they're always together."

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

"The last time… hmm." Something changed in the man's eyes. Clearer, more purposeful. "I could sure use some breakfast, Officer."

"It's closer to dinnertime-what's your name, by the way?"

"I'm called L.A."

"Love your city?"

"It's for Loving Albert. My auntie who raised me called me that. She was a moral lady, would sure like me to have breakfast-I like breakfast anytime of day, Officer."

"Help me out, L.A., and you'll be breakfasting with the best of them. When's the last time you saw these two girls?"

"The last time… I'm thinking two nights ago, yeah, two, not last night, last night was the Ebony Princess contest, they had only black girls. Plenty of white guys coming in to watch, though."

"Two nights for sure or a guess?"

"For sure, Officer."

Milo gave him a twenty.