Milo’s shoulders bunched like a bull’s as he stepped closer to Dugger. Dugger’s hands rose protectively, but Milo stopped several feet away. “Disgusting? A beautiful girl like Lauren? What’s disgusting about sleeping with a beautiful girl?”

Once again sweat beaded Dugger’s upper lip. “Nothing. I didn’t mean it in that sense. She was – a lovely girl. It just wasn’t like that. She was an employee. It’s called professionalism.”

“An employee with whom you had dinner, several times.”

“Jesus,” said Dugger. “If I’d have known that would set you off, I’d never have mentioned it. We talked about psychology, her career plans. That’s it.”

“Beautiful girls aren’t your thing either?”

Dugger’s hands lowered, curled into fists, opened slowly. He smiled, brushed dandruff from his sweater. “As a matter of fact they’re not. Per se. I’m sure you’re constructed differently, but external beauty means very little to me. Now please leave – I insist you leave.”

“Well,” said Milo, remaining in place. “If you insist.”

“Oh, come on,” said Dugger. “Why does this have to be adversarial? I realize it’s an occupational hazard, but straighten your sights. Lauren deserves that.”

His head dropped, and he covered his eyes. But I saw what he was trying to conceal. The glisten of tears.

Before we got back in the car we stopped at the Chinese restaurant, got some egg rolls and wontons to go, showed the proprietors Lauren’s picture.

“Yes,” said the cook, in perfect English. “She came in here a few times. Chicken fried rice to go.”

“Alone?”

“Always alone. Why?”

“Routine investigation,” said Milo. “What about Dr. Dugger? From next door.”

“No,” said the cook. “All these years we’ve been neighbors, and he’s never come in. Maybe he’s a vegetarian.”

Milo drove six blocks, pulled over, ate a roll in two bites, scattering crumbs and not bothering to brush them off. I got to work on a wonton. Greasy and satisfying.

“How’d he react when I popped Shawna’s name? I didn’t pick up anything striking.”

“No reaction at all,” I said. “Which is interesting in itself. Wouldn’t you expect some puzzlement?”

“Or, as you remind me from time to time, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” He opened the envelope with the time cards that Ann Buyler had given him, and I read over his shoulder. Ten to twenty hours a week, the last pay period three weeks ago.

I said, “So either Dugger’s concealing something or Lauren lied to Salander about going to work during the break.”

“Dugger concealing? What, you don’t believe him about no hanky-panky with the help, no attraction to mere physical beauty?”

“He was sweating again.”

“Noticed that. And did you see those tears when he went on about Lauren? What’s with the guy?”

“He’s holding back something.”

Still eating, he pulled away from the curb, and I slapped his sleeve lightly. “Mean, bad policeman. You made him cry.”

“Jesus, you’ve turned into a hard case,” he said, finishing another roll and reaching for a third.

“That marketing company of his,” I said. “There’s a phony feel to it – He got really defensive when you asked him about clients, claimed to be between jobs. Maybe because he doesn’t get many. Doesn’t need to, because he’s got funding from the Duke Foundation – overtly or otherwise. And that would’ve raised the blackmail stakes: What if the old man’s getting tired of financing Junior’s supposedly pure lifestyle? Especially with Ben distancing himself from all Tony Duke regards as holy. But still takes the money. What if Duke’s looking for an excuse to cut Ben off? A nasty scandal would play nicely into that. More than Dugger’s reputation could be at stake.”

“Well, let’s see if anyone around here remembers him doing anything scandalous. With Lauren or anyone else.”

We spent the next two hours cruising Newport and showing Lauren’s photo to restaurant servers and hosts, dropping Ben Dugger’s name, getting absolutely nothing. More than once someone said, “A face like that I would’ve remembered.” A kid in a seafood joint said, “If you find her, can I have her number?”

As we left the final restaurant Milo said, “If Dugger and Lauren were trysting, they weren’t doing it over food.”

“Maybe food’s not his thing either. How about motels?”

He groaned but nodded. Another hour was lost questioning desk clerks. Same result. Milo cursed all the way back to the 55.

“Maybe the guy’s gay,” I said. “You sense any hint of that?”

“What, I’m supposed to have gaydar?”

“Touchy.”

“Low blood sugar – anything left in that bag?”

“One wonton.”

“Hand it over.” Between mouthfuls: “Maybe he is gay. Or asexual, or virtuous, or Lord knows what.”

“Asexual,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be something? The Grand Stud spawns a son who’s anything but.”

“You don’t like him. I wouldn’t wanna go bowling with him either – guy’s a priss. But being Tony Duke’s kid isn’t grounds for a warrant. He’s untouchable with regard to Lauren, and so’s all his intimacy data. When we get back I’m getting on the horn to Central and the coroner, see if anything’s come up on Michelle. If they pull a bullet out of her head and it matches the nine millimeter in Lauren’s, maybe I can talk to someone about leaning on Gretchen. Right now, it’s time for that second face-to-face with Jane Abbot. Speaking of which.”

He placed another call to the Sherman Oaks number, got another taped reply. This time he hung up without leaving a message.

“I’ve also got a call in to Westside Vice about Gretchen. Be interesting if she’s gotten active again. If anything leads back to her and Duke, I’ll be on Junior like a rash. Let’s hit the Abbot house, see if the neighbors know where Jane and Mel are. I’ll leave my card in the mailbox, and if she doesn’t respond to that, I’ll really want to know why.”

“Would you consider a detour to Westwood?” I said. “Mindy Jacobus works at the Med Center in public relations. Adam Green feels she didn’t want to be helpful. Any statements from her in Riley’s file?”

“Just the library story.”

“Green checked out the library. No one remembers Shawna ever being there.”

He looked at his watch, gazed through the windshield at the clean stretch of freeway. Midday lull: just a few trucks and cars, and us in the fast lane, under a browning sky that mocked the virtues of progress.

“Nice little off-ramp in Westwood,” he said. “Why the hell not?”

Adam Green had described Mindy Jacobus as “no Shawna,” but she turned out to be a stunning young woman with flawless, lightly tanned skin and one of the healthiest heads of glowing black hair I’d ever seen. A tall, long-legged sylph in a pale blue knit dress and high-heeled white sandals, she strode out of the public relations office into a hallway that reeked of rubbing alcohol carrying a gold Cross pen, moving with a confidence that made her seem older than twenty.

More planes than curves; Tony Duke would probably have walked right past her, so maybe that was what Green had meant. But her stride was a hip-swiveling sashay that transcended lack of flesh.

“Yes?” she said with a publicist’s ready smile. Her I.D. tag read, M. JACOBUS-GRIEG. ASSISTANT PUBLICIST. Milo had given the front desk his name only, no title. The smile wavered when she got a good look at him. No way could that face – that tie – mean philanthropy or any other brand of good news.

When he flashed the badge her confidence shut down completely, and she looked like an overdressed kid. “What’s this about?”

“Shawna Yeager, Ms. Jacobus-”

“How weird.”

We were in an administrative wing of the Med Center, far removed from clinical care, but the hospital smell – that alcohol stink – brought back memories of mass polio vaccinations in school auditoriums. My father accepting the needle with a smile, biceps tensing so hard the blood ran down his arm. I, five years old, fighting to squelch my tears as a white-capped nurse produced a frigid cotton swab…