Reed said, “Weirdo parties. We need to learn more about these people.”

An open door brought in a rush of traffic noise. A good-looking black man had entered the restaurant.

Early thirties, six feet tall, closely cropped hair, athletic frame packaged neatly in a body-conscious charcoal suit. A peacock-blue silk shirt gleamed. So did black alligator loafers.

The woman in the sari approached him. A few seconds of conversation got her to smile. The man headed for our table, gliding more than walking.

Milo said, “Blast from the past.”

Moe Reed shifted in his chair. His face had changed, lips folding inward, eyes tight, pale irises barely visible between half-closed lids. One hand gripped his tea glass.

A cloud of light, grassy cologne preceded the man’s arrival. He had the clean features and poreless skin of a young Belafonte. Grinning, he held out a hand to Milo. “Congratulations, recently promoted Lieutenant Sturgis.” The suit was hand-stitched with peaked lapels and working buttonholes on the sleeves. ADF monogram on the blue shirt. The reptilian shoes looked brand new.

Milo said, “Long time, Former Detective Fox. This is Dr. Alex Delaware, our consulting psychologist, and this is-”

Moe Reed said, “I know him,” and turned away.

The man stared at him for a moment. Tightened his jaw. Smiled at me. “Aaron Fox, Doctor. The world can use more psychologists.” I shook a warm, dry hand.

Pulling up a chair from a neighboring table, Fox positioned it backward and straddled. Pouring himself tea, he sipped. “Ahh, nice and refreshing, tastes like there’s some white tea in there, maybe a nuance of jasmine.”

Reed gazed out the window. Both his hands were curled into fists.

Milo said, “So there’s no need to introduce you two.”

Aaron Fox laughed. “Not unless one of us has Alzheimer’s.” He placed a palm on Reed’s beefy shoulder. “Your brain working okay, Moses? From what I can tell, mine’s still functional.”

Reed sat there.

Fox said, “Brain like yours, Moses, probably stay good in the foreseeable future.”

Reed stared past him.

Fox said, “He’s always been modest. Back when we were kids, I’d take every bit of exaggerated credit I could for the most trivial, picayune accomplishments. Marketing and promotion, right? It’s not enough to have the product, you’ve got to sell it. Little brother doesn’t believe in that. He’s smarter than me. But he’s never been one to toot his own horn.”

Reed removed Fox’s hand and set it down with exquisite care.

Aaron Fox said, “I’m always doing that. Embarrassing him. Older brother’s prerogative.”

Milo said, “You guys are sibs?”

“You didn’t know?” said Fox. “Oh, yeah, two dips into the same gene pool, but X chromosome only-same mommy, different daddies. I’ve always suspected she liked him better. He’d probably claim the opposite. That right, Moses?”

Reed pushed away from the table and headed to the bathroom.

Fox said, “Didn’t know I still had that effect on him.”

He drank more tea.

Milo indicated the food. “You like Indian?”

“Nothing against it, Milo, but I prefer fusion cuisine. Chinois, Medi-California, Southwest sushi. Artistic mélange of cultures brings out the best in human creativity. Been to that new place on Montana? Wagyu beef from Japan, they massage the beasts before cutting their throats. Kind of like the department, huh?”

Milo smiled. “How long you been out of the job, Aaron?”

“Centuries,” said Fox. “To be precise, three years this September. Maybe I should throw a party.”

“Looks like private enterprise agrees with you.”

“I don’t argue with it so it’s got no reason to disagree with me.” Touching a silk sleeve. “Yeah, it’s great, Milo. Rewards for initiative and achievement, lots of freedom, the only bosses are the people who write the checks and they’re entitled to make demands.”

“Nice,” said Milo. “Long as you produce.”

“So far, so good,” said Fox.

Moe Reed returned. Edged his chair away from Fox’s and sat down.

Milo said, “Why’m I thinking you’re not here by accident, Aaron? Or for the food?”

“Definitely not the food,” said Fox. “Had a late breakfast. Hotel Bel-Air with a prospective client.”

“Apricot crêpes, that sauce they have?”

“Nice, but too messy for a first date, Milo. Just eggs-shirred with chives.”

Reed muttered, “Call the Food Network.”

Fox said, “You’re right, bro, no more small talk. Nothing small about my intentions, I’m here about Selena Bass.”

“What about her?” said Milo.

“Got a suspect for you and asking nothing in return.”

Reed snorted.

Milo said, “Who?”

“Guy named Travis Huck.”

Reed said, “We’ve already run him through, no history.”

Fox grinned. “No history under that name.”

“He’s got an alias?” said Milo.

“Been known to happen,” said Fox. “Aka Edward Travis Huckstadter.” Taking his time spelling the last name. “No one’s going to write that down?”

“What’s he running from, Aaron?”

“What else? His past.”

Aaron Fox put down his tea and reached into an inner suit pocket. A wad of newspaper clippings dropped on the table in front of Milo. Great tailoring had hidden the bulge.

Milo said, “Why don’t you summarize for us civil servants?”

“Pleasure. Edward Travis Huckstadter grew up in Ferris Ravine, one of those scrubby ranch towns inland from San Diego. Daddy, unknown, Mommy, a crazy drunk. When young Eddie was fourteen he got into a shoving match with a classmate and the other kid died. Eddie got convicted of murder, spent some time in juvey lockup, then got shunted around the foster care system. That’s some psychological history, Doc.”

“Fourteen,” said Moe Reed. “He’s thirty-seven. We’re talking clean record for twenty-three years-”

“No arrests doesn’t mean no bad behavior, Moses. The relevant point is he killed one human being and now he’s associated with a homicide victim. On top of that, his whereabouts since he turned eighteen are a big blank. No Social Security card or tax returns until three years ago when he started working for a megabucks fellow named Simon Vander under the alias. Obviously, he lied to get the gig because I don’t see Megabucks hiring some mope with a felony record. You guys met him. You’re telling me he didn’t set off any alarm bells?”

Milo said, “How do you know we met him?”

“I pick up things.”

“You meet Huck yourself, Aaron?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure yet, but I’ve been watching him for the last twenty-four hours.”

“Why?”

“After your case hit the news, someone hired me to do so.”

“Selena hasn’t been in the news.”

“Not on TV,” said Fox. “Or the Times. But the Evening Outlook ran a paragraph. Want me to get you a copy?”

“No, thanks. You pick up anything watching him?”

“So far all he’s done is shop for groceries, but he’s got a mopey walk and a weird crooked smile.”

Reed said, “You don’t like his looks. There’s evidence for you.” Huck had been his choice for Prime Suspect but something else was at work here.

Fox patted the newspaper clippings. “He killed someone at a tender age.”

“Twenty-three years ago.”

“You have anyone better?”

Reed didn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought. I’m serving up a serious lead. What you do with it is your own business.”

Milo said, “Juvey records are sealed. How’d you find all this out?”

Fox smiled.

Reed said, “That’s real helpful.”

Fox’s gold-brown eyes flashed. Shooting a cuff, he glanced at a blue-faced Patek Philippe.

Milo said, “Sounds like you’re pretty invested in Huck being our bad guy.”

Aaron Fox took a nanosecond to decide upon an emotion. Settled for placid. “Not invested, just aware of the facts.”