I ate an Oreo while phoning Milo.

He barked, “Yeah?”

“I woke you?”

“Oh, it’s you-nah waking assumes I sleep. Up and festive-vacation, remember?”

“Congrats.”

“Are you talking with your mouth full?”

I swallowed. “Not anymore.”

“Late-night gourmet snack?”

“A cookie.”

“Got milk? My bud at the phone company found Patty’s old billing records. Cherokee was her first L.A. address. According to some vets Petra talked to the block was a big drug market back then. Interesting housing choice for a nice, respectable nurse, no? And she stayed six years.”

Perfect time to let go of my dope suspicions, but I held back.

He said, “Rick says she was thrifty bordering on Scrooge, so maybe cheap rent attracted her. Still, bringing up a little kid in a tough part of Hollywood doesn’t seem optimal.”

“She never expected to be bringing up a little kid.”

“True…I haven’t had time to look for open homicide cases near any of her cribs except for Hancock Park. Only thing that went down there was on June Street, one block west and two blocks south. Victim was a diamond dealer named Wilfred Hong, three masked gunmen broke in at three a.m. after disabling the alarm, shot Hong as he sat up in bed, no warning, but they didn’t shoot Mrs. Hong or two kids sleeping down the hall. After forcing her to pop the safe, they tied her up and made off with bags of loose stones and cash. Rumor had it Hong owed money and gems to lots of people. It stinks of pro talent and insider knowledge, so unless Patty was part of some high-level jewel heist gang, it ain’t worth our time. If anything is. Any new thoughts about the bigger picture?”

“Nope. Isaac said he’d run some calculations.”

“Beats hand-searches of old murder books. I’ve been thinking, Alex, before we spend any more time surmising, let’s visit each address, see if we can locate any neighbors who knew Patty. If no one remembers anything remotely homicidal, I say we’ve got license to quit and you find a way to break it to Tanya.”

“Okay,” I said. “When?”

“Pick me up at my place tomorrow morning, say ten. Bring bright-colored clothing, piña colada mix, and a celebratory attitude.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“I’m on vacation, remember? Or so they say.”

“Who’s ‘they’?”

“The gods of false hope.”

The small, neat house Milo shares with Rick sits on a West Hollywood side street shadowed by the green-blue bulk of the Design Center. Quiet during the week, sleepy-silent on Saturday.

The drought-resistant shrubs Rick had planted during a dry year were handling a wet year with mixed success. As I drove up, Milo was kneeling and pinching off dead branches. He straightened quickly, as if caught in a shameful act, patted the place where his gun bulged his jacket, and loped over to the car.

The jacket was a limp, brown, almost-tweed thing. His shirt was yellow wash-and-wear with a curling collar. Soot-gray trousers puddled over tan desert boots.

“That’s vacation garb?” I said, driving away.

“Conceptually, it’s a workday.”

A block later: “With no pay, I might add.”

“I’ll buy lunch.”

“We’ll go somewhere expensive.”

As I turned from Hollywood Boulevard onto Cherokee, he narrowed his eyes and lasered the block. When I pulled up in front of the brick-colored building, he said, “Definitely a dump. Any idea which apartment was hers?”

“One of those two in front.”

“Not what I’d want, security-wise…okay, let’s go bother someone.”

Knocks on both ground-floor units were met by silence. As he pushed the glass door to the main entrance, I said, “When I was by here, an older guy stepped out and got kind of territorial. Maybe he’s been around for a while.”

“Territorial how?”

“Glaring, wanting me gone.”

“Show me his door.”

Music seeped from the other side of the brown wood panel. Janis Joplin offering a piece of her heart.

Milo rapped hard. The music died and the man I’d seen yesterday came to the door holding a can of Mountain Dew in one hand, a Kit Kat bar in the other.

Thin gray hair flew away from a high dome. His horsey face was all wrinkles and sags. Not the easy transition of nature-the muddiness of premature aging. I revised my estimate to early fifties.

He wore a light blue pajama top under the same Dodger jacket. Blue satin was grease-speckled and moth-eaten, bleached to pink in spots. Frayed red sweats exposed white, hairless ankles. Bare feet tapered to ragged yellow nails. Where stubble didn’t sprout, his skin was pallid and flaky. Dull brown eyes struggled to stay open.

The room behind him was the color of congealed custard, strewn with food wrappers, take-out boxes, empty cups, dirty clothes. Warm, fetid air escaped to the hallway.

Milo’s badge didn’t do a thing for the man’s wakefulness. Bracing himself against the doorjamb, he drank soda, gave no sign he remembered me.

“Sir, we’re looking into a tenant who lived here a few years ago.”

Nothing.

“Sir?”

A hoarse “Yeah?”

“We were wondering if you knew her.”

Runny nose that he swiped with his sleeve. “Who?”

“A woman named Patricia Bigelow.”

Silence.

“Sir?”

“What’d she do?” Clogged voice. Slurred enunciation.

“Why would you think she did anything?”

“You’re not here…because you…like my cooking.”

“You cook, huh?”

The man chomped the candy bar. The interior of his mouth was more gap than tooth.

Warm day but dressed for chill. Snarfing sugar, rotten dentition. No need to roll up his sleeves; I knew we wouldn’t be invited inside.

Milo said, “So you remember Patty Bigelow.”

No answer.

“Do you?

“Yeah?”

“She’s dead.”

The brown eyes blinked. “That’s too bad.”

“What can you tell us about her, sir?”

Ten-second delay, then a long, slow, laborious head shake as the old addict nudged the door with his knee. Milo placed a big hand on the knob.

“Hey.”

“How well did you know Ms. Bigelow?”

Something changed in the brown eyes. New wariness. “I didn’t.”

“You were living here at the same time she was.”

“So were other people.”

“Any of them still around?”

“Doubt it.”

“People come and go.”

Silence.

“How long have you been living here, sir?”

“Twenty years.” Glance down at his knee. “Gotta take a leak.” He made another halfhearted try at closing the door. Milo held fast and the guy started to fidget and blink. “C’mo-on, I need to-”

“Friend, I’m a murder guy, don’t care what magic potion gets you through the day.”

The man’s eyes closed. He swayed. Nodding off. Milo tapped his shoulder. “Trust me, pal, I’m not on speaking terms with any narcs.”

The eyes opened and shot us a who-me? “I’m clean.”

“And I’m Condoleezza Rice. Just tell us what you remember about Patty Bigelow and we’ll be out of your life.”

“Don’t remember anything.” We waited.

“She had a kid…okay?”

“What do you remember about the kid?”

“She…had one.”

“Who’d Patty hang with?”

“Dunno.”

“She have any friends?”

“Dunno.”

“Nice lady?”

Shrug.

“You and she didn’t hang out together?”

“Never.”

“Never?”

“Not my type.”

“Meaning?”

Another look at his knee. “Not my type.”

“When she lived here did anything of a criminal nature go down near the building?”

“What?”

“Murder, rape, robbery, et cetera,” said Milo. “Any of that happen here while Patty Bigelow lived here?”

“Nope.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

Hesitation. “Jordan.”

“That a first or a last?”

“Les Jordan.”

“Leslie?”

“Lester.”

“Got a middle name?”