“Marlon.”

“As in Brando.”

Les Jordan shifted his weight. “Gotta piss.”

From the stain spreading at his crotch, truth in advertising.

He stared at it. No embarrassment, just resignation. His eyelids fluttered. “Told you.”

Milo said, “Have a nice day,” and turned heel.

The door slammed shut.

Most of the other tenants were out. The few we found were too young to be relevant.

Back in the car, Milo phoned Detective Sean Binchy and asked him to run a criminal check on Lester Marlon Jordan.

While we waited, I said, “Sean’s back on Homicide?”

“Nah, still wasting his time on armed robberies and other trivial matters. But the lad’s grateful for my tutelage so he avails himself-yeah, Sean, hold on, lemme get a pen.”

When he hung up, he said, “The charming Mr. Jordan has accumulated multiple arrests. Possession of heroin-big shock-and disorderlies. Five dismissals, three convictions, all bargained down to short stretches at County.”

“Choosing the right lawyer,” I said.

“Or he’s too penny-ante to waste prison space on. Mister Rogers might love all his neighbors but you’d think Patty woulda been more discriminating.”

“Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

“Such as?”

I took a deep breath, unloaded my dope suspicions.

“Respectable nurse dealing hospital junk on the side?” he said. “Rick considers her next to saintly and my impression was you concurred.”

“I do. Just thought I should mention it.”

“Dealing,” he said. “Jordan did get a little edgy when I pushed him about knowing her…know what I find interesting? Here’s Patty, an alleged solid citizen living in a dive, and once she moves from there, she’s hopping around every coupla years. But a scuzzy junkie like Lester Jordan manages to stay at the same address twenty years.”

“Maybe his family owns the building.”

“Or he got a source of steady income that’s managed to elude the justice system.”

“Simple possession raps, but he deals,” I said.

“He’s made it this far without dying, Alex. Having some control over the product would help. Nice respectable hospital nurse moves in, you can see his digging that.”

“For Tanya’s sake I hope that stays a theory.”

“Tanya’s the one did the Pandora bit.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s ready for what flies out of the box.”

The two of us sat there for a while.

He said, “Why Patty would tell her anything is still beyond me. On the other hand, maybe she was pure and this is just us cogitating out of control. We’ve been known to spin some pretty good theories in our spare time.”

I said, “Some of them have turned out to be real.”

“Listen to you,” he said. “I thought the key was to think positive. Whatever the hell that means.”

I kept quiet.

“Any further wisdom at this juncture?” he said.

“Nope.”

“Onward to Fourth Street.”

Dappled shade from mature trees prettied the block. The same Mini Cooper was parked on the concrete pad. PLOTGRL.

Tanya had said Asians had lived above her so we headed for the duplex’s ground floor. The door was answered by a slim, ponytailed brunette in her late twenties. A pencil was wedged behind one ear. A fuzzy pink sweater hung over black tights. Freckled nose, amber eyes, sharp chin. Soft curves molded the sweater.

Milo’s badge made her giggle. “Cops? That is so weird. I’m right in the middle of a cop-show teleplay. Want to be my technical advisors?”

“What show?”

“A pilot,” she said. “The main hook is a girl detective who’s deaf because of a gunshot accident. She can’t hear the bad guys coming so she has to develop her other senses to their utmost. Overcompensation, you know? She’s an ace at sign language and that ends up being crucial in catching a serial killer.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Milo.

“Right now, it sounds sucko because what I’m really good at is comedy. But my agent says no one’s buying. Hopefully when I finish Hear No Evil it’ll suck less but not be too intelligent for the networks.”

She stuck out a hand, shook energetically. “Lisa Bergman. What brings you guys around on a weekend?”

Milo smiled at her. “Background check. You’re too young to help.”

“I’m older than I look, but you made my day. Can you at least tell me what’s going on-no names, just the basic story line? I can always use material.”

“The story line,” he said, “is we’re inquiring about a woman who lived here nine, ten years ago.”

“Nine, ten years ago,” said Lisa Bergman, “I was a junior at Reed.”

“There you go.”

“You’re saying something happened here?”

“A person of interest lived here. Who are your upstairs neighbors?”

“Four law students younger than me. What did this person of interest do?”

“She’s deceased,” said Milo.

“Deceased as in murdered?”

“Natural death, but we need to clear up some details about her life.”

“How come?”

“Financial issues. Nothing juicy enough for TV.”

“You’re sure?”

“Do debentures and tax-free municipal bonds sound like a hook?”

“Ugh,” said Lisa Bergman. Sliding the pencil from behind her ear, she touched the point to her lip, creating a tiny little temporary dimple. “You should go over and talk to Mary Whitbread. She’s the landlady.”

“Where can we find her?”

Stepping onto her porch, she pointed. “Five buildings down, the green one, first floor. She’ll probably be there.”

“Homebody?”

“No, she shops but mostly she’s around.” Nose-wrinkling frown.

“Nosy?”

“Between you and me, she drops by more than she has to,” said Bergman. “Supposedly to make sure the property’s being maintained but really just to schmooze. Once, I made the mistake of inviting her in for coffee. An hour later, she was still here and all my ideas for that day’s writing had floated away.”

She grinned. “Maybe that was good.”

Milo thanked her and wished her luck with her script.

She said, “From your mouth to God’s ears. If this gig doesn’t work out, I’ll have to go back to being an event planner.”

Mary Whitbread’s duplex was painted mint green with teal trim, fronted by impeccable grass, shaded by a gorgeously contorted sycamore.

Freshly swept tile porch, pretty flowers in pretty vases. A cheerful, “One second!” preceded the opening of a black lacquer door.

From Lisa Bergman’s description, I was expecting a mousy type in a housecoat. Mary Whitbread was fiftyish, tan, trim, and blond-coiffed, with huge blue eyes under eyebrows plucked to commas. Her white silk blouse was patterned with gold links and bugles and red orchids-Versace or trying to be-and tucked tight into tailored navy crepe slacks. Tiny waist, hard hips, sharp bosoms. Red spike-heeled sandals revealed nacreous toenail polish. Her fingernails were painted the crimson of the shoes.

“Hel-lo,” she proclaimed. “If you’re here about the vacancy, sorry, it’s been rented, the service forgot to de-list.”

Milo said, “Aw, shucks,” and flashed the badge.

“Police? My goodness.” Peering at us. “Now that I’m looking it’s obvious you’re not…in the market.”

“Is it.”

Mary Whitbread stepped out onto the porch and smiled. “What I meant was when I see two men looking for a place to rent together I assume-you know. Which isn’t to say that bothers me. Actually, they’re my favorite tenants. So meticulous, that great eye for proportion.”

She patted her hair. Flashed teeth. “So how can I help the police?”

“We’re inquiring about a former tenant.”

“One of my people got in trouble? Who?”

“No one’s in trouble, Ms. Whitbread-”

“Just call me Mary.” She took another step forward, moved right into Milo’s personal space.

“No one’s in trouble, Mary. One of your former tenants is deceased and there are some corollary investigations going on into financial matters.”