Milo said, “Let me help you with that, sir.”

Teague ignored him and gave the lock another stab, with no more success. Breathing hard. I could smell his sweat, vinegary, overlaid with the rotted malt of too many beers. He pounded the fence again, cursed raggedly. Getting a closer look at him sprang a memory latch in my head. Same face, but his features had coarsened and his eyes had regressed to piggish slits. A clot of scar tissue weighed down on the right eye. Still bearded with a full head of long, wavy hair, but the strands were gray and drawn back in a ponytail that dangled over one beefy shoulder, and the once-barbered facial pelt was an unruly bramble.

As he attacked the fence his biceps bunched and his chest swelled. Big, slablike muscles but slackened – drained of bulk, like goatskins emptied of wine.

“Give that to me,” said Milo.

Teague ceased punching, stared at the lock, panted, tried once more to fit the key into the hole. His knuckles were bloody, and wild hairs, pale and brittle as tungsten filament, had come loose from the ponytail. The shotgun, lying in the dirt like a felled branch, might’ve made him feel younger, sharper.

Finally, he succeeded in springing the lock, ripped the chain free, and flung it behind him. It clattered in the dirt, and he yanked the gate open, holding his hands out defensively, letting us know he didn’t want to be comforted.

“Inside,” he said, hooking a thumb at his house. “Fuck if I’m going to let any of these bastards see it.” Squinting at me, he stared, and I prepared myself for recognition. But he turned his back on both of us and began marching toward his front door.

We walked along with him.

Milo said, “By the bastards you mean the neighbors?”

Teague grunted.

“Neighbor troubles?” asked Milo.

“Why do you think I came out carrying? If the assholes were human, they’d be neighbors. They’re fucking animals. Couple of months ago they poisoned my Rottweiler. Tossed in meat laced with antifreeze, the damn dog got kidney failure and started shitting green. Since the summer we’ve had three drive-bys. All those shitty apartments crammed with low life. Fucking wetbacks, cholos, gangbangers – I’m not prejudiced, hired plenty of them in my day, for the most part they worked their asses off. But that scum, over there?” His lower jaw shot out and beard hairs bristled. “I’m living in a war zone – this used to be a decent neighborhood.”

The shotgun was in reach. Milo got to it first, emptied the weapon, pocketed the shells.

Teague laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m not blowing anyone’s head off. Yet.” He stared at me again, looked puzzled, turned away.

“Yet,” said Milo. “That’s not too comforting, sir.”

“It’s not my goddamn job to comfort you.” Teague stopped, placed his hands on his hips, spit into the dirt, resumed walking. The shorts rode lower, and strands of white pubic hair curled above his waistline. I remembered the way he’d dressed to showcase his body. “Your job is to find the low-life motherfucker who killed my daughter and bust his fuckin’ ass.”

“Agreed,” said Milo. “Any suggestions in that regard?”

Teague halted again. “What’re you getting at?”

“Any specific low-life motherfucker in mind?”

“Nah,” said Teague. “I’m just talking logic… How’d they – What did they do to her?”

“She was shot, sir.”

“Bastards… Nah, I can’t tell you a damn thing. Lauren never told me a damn thing.” Wolfish grin. “See, we didn’t relate. She thought I was a piece of shit and told me so whenever she had the opportunity.”

We reached the house. The door was still open. Reaching in, Teague switched on a light. A bare bulb hung from the raw fir ceiling of a twelve-by-twelve living room paneled in rough knotty pine. Red linoleum floors, faded hooked rug, brown-and-black-plaid sofa, coffee table hosting a Budweiser six-pack and five empties. A green tweed La-Z-Boy faced a big-screen TV. Illegal cable converter on top. Very little space to walk. Two openings along the rear wall, one leading to a cramped kitchen, the other exposing a chunky corridor with two doors to the right. The smell of must and lager and salted nuts, but no clutter. The carpet was old but clean, the linoleum rubbed dull. Different tax bracket.

Teague said, “You can sit if you want, I’m staying on my feet.” Standing next to the recliner, he folded his arms across his chest. The scar tissue over his eye was the color of cheap margarine. A hairline scar ran from the corner of the socket down to his jaw. The right eye was filmy. Not inert, but lazier than its mate.

Milo and I remained standing. Teague looked us over, tilting his head so his left eye caught a full view of my face. “Do I know you?”

“Alex Delaware. Lauren was my patient-”

“The shrink?” His jaw shoveled. “Oh, fuck – what are you doing here?”

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware’s a police consultant. In the case of your-”

One of the hallway doors opened and a woman’s voice called out, “Lyle, everything okay?”

“Go back inside,” Teague barked. The door shut quietly. “Consultant? What the hell does that mean? You’re saying you know something about Lauren? She’s been seeing you again?”

“No,” I said. “Lauren went missing and your ex-wife called me because she’d heard I had police contacts-”

“Police contacts.” Teague grabbed the bottom of his beard, twisted, let go. To Milo: “What is this bullshit?”

“Just what the doctor said. Now, I’d like to ask you-”

“Missing?” said Teague. “For how long?”

“Several days.”

“From where?”

“Her apartment.”

“Where’s that? She never told me where she was bunking down.”

“Hauser Street, in L.A.”

“She used to live all over,” said Teague. “The streets. After she ran away. She got wild – which any idiot could see coming.”

“Where on the streets, sir?”

“Hell if I know. Jane used to call me up to go looking for her, I could never find her. Hauser… That where it happened?”

“She was found on the Westside,” said Milo. “Back of a furniture store on Sepulveda. Someone shot her and left her body in an alley.”

Spitting out the details matter-of-fact, watching Teague’s reaction.

Teague said, “West L.A. We used to live there, over near Rancho Park.” He began to draw himself up. Gave up and slumped. “This is shit. My life can’t be this fucked up.”

The door opened again, and the hallway light went on. A woman stepped out wearing a long blue Dodgers T-shirt and nothing else. Seeing us, she threw a protective hand over her belly, ducked back inside, reappeared seconds later wearing acid-washed jeans under the same shirt.

“Lyle? Something the matter?”

“I said go inside.”

The woman stared at us. “What’s going on?” Bleary eyes, faint southern inflection. A good deal younger than Teague – maybe thirty, with long, limp, brown hair, grainy skin, wide hips, dimpled knees. Full face distorted by confusion. Well-proportioned but forgettable features. As a child she’d probably been adorable.

“Lyle?”

Teague swiveled fast and faced her. “They’re the goddamn police. Lauren got herself murdered tonight.”

The woman’s hand slapped over her mouth. “Oh my God – Omigod!”

“Go back to bed.”

“Omigod-”

Milo extended his hand. “Detective Sturgis, ma’am.”

The woman blubbered, shivered, hugged herself. Took the hand. “Tish. Tish Teague-”

“Patricia,” corrected her husband. “Keep it down. Don’t wake up the kids.”

“The kids,” said Tish Teague, dully. “You don’t need them, do you?”

“Oh, Jesus,” said Teague. “Why the hell would he need them? Get back in and go to sleep. It doesn’t concern you. You and Lauren had nothing, you can’t do any good.”

The young woman’s lips trembled. “I’ll be here if you need me, Lyle.”