Milo and I walked south on Butler Avenue. The cold glare of government architecture gave way to postwar bungalows and apartment buildings and the sky grew bluer, as if in sympathy.

He said, “Any new thoughts about Huck? Or anything else?”

“Now we’ve got two bald-guy sightings-the date Luz Ramos saw with Selena, along with Mr. Scalpel-so I like him a whole lot better. But at this point, short of watching him, I don’t see what you can do.”

“Too early to invite him for a chat?” he said.

“With crimes this calculated, he’s likely to lawyer up. I’d want ammunition before I shoot.”

Half a block later, he said: “That Camaro that Reed just peeled out in was either borrowed or a rental. AutoTrack says his drive of record is indeed a clunker. ’Seventy-nine Dodge Colt hatchback, bought used ten years ago. Before that, he sported around in a ’73 Datsun wagon.”

“Doing deep background on the staff?” I said.

“Perish the thought.” Since the arrest of a corrupt private eye and several cops for trafficking in official data, the rules forbade traces on anyone but suspects.

I said, “What got you curious about Reed’s wheels?”

“It seemed to be an issue between him and Fox.”

“One of many.”

“Exactly. Last thing I need is personal drama impinging on the investigation.” Small smile. “Such as it is.”

“What does Fox drive?”

“Brand-new Porsche C4S.”

“Tortoise and hare,” I said.

He lit up, blew smoke rings at the heavens. Aiming for casual but cherries in his jaw said he was faking.

I said, “Fox and Reed bother you.”

“I asked around. Fox’s dad was a Southwest patrolman named Darius Fox, murdered on the job thirty years ago. Before my time but I know the case. Everyone knows it because it’s used during training. As in What Can Go Wrong.”

I said, “Domestic call or traffic stop?”

He removed the cigar. “You read tea leaves, too?”

“Just playing the odds.”

“Routine early-morning stop, Caddy with a broken taillight, Thirty-seventh just west of Hoover. Car came up stolen, but not before Darius and his partner made a bonehead goof. Instead of running the tags first, the partner did it while Darius went over to check out the driver. We’re talking way before MDTs, everything was called in over the radio, records weren’t computerized, it could take time. All the more reason to be careful.”

“Rookies?” I said.

“On the contrary, Darius had eight years, the partner six, nearly all of it worked with Fox. Maybe that was part of it-comfortable marriage, taking too much for granted. It was close to shift’s end, maybe they were eager to sign out, got sloppy. Whatever the reason, Darius walks up to the Caddy, raps the window, down it comes, a gun sticks out and…” Cupping his hands, he clapped three times.

The noise assaulted the afternoon. An old woman tending her flowers looked over. Milo ’s grin caused her to grip her pruning shears as we walked on.

“Direct hit, point-blank,” he said. “Darius left a widow and a tyke. Aaron was three. The partner called in the Officer Down, got behind his door, started shooting. He managed to score a hit on the Caddy’s rear but couldn’t prevent it from driving off. He ran over to help Darius but Darius was gone before he hit the ground. Big citywide sweep for the car, everyone checking out hospitals, doctors, on the off chance the partner wounded someone. Nada, and two weeks later the Caddy shows up in a junkyard near the Wilmington docks. Windows busted out, seats ripped, bumpers removed, no prints, no nothing. Darius got a bagpipe funeral and the partner got investigated, reprimanded, and demoted. Soon after, he quit the force. What I hear is he worked construction for a while, got injured, lived off disability for five more years then died of liver disease.”

“Driven to drink?”

“Or maybe he had a problem before, don’t know, Alex.” Inhaling deeply, he burned through half an inch of cigar. “Seven months after Darius Fox’s funeral, partner marries the widow in Vegas. Two months after that, she gives birth to a kid.”

He dropped the cigar, ground it into the sidewalk. Picked it up and carried it at his side. “Figure out the punch line, Dr. Wizard?”

“Partner was Moe Reed’s daddy.”

“Guy named John ‘Jack’ Reed. People do say he tried hard to be a good father to both boys.”

I said, “Few years later, he’s gone, too.”

“And Momma marries twice again. She just buried number four.”

“Talk about baggage.”

“A planeload, amigo. Let’s hope it doesn’t ground us.”

Back in his office, he found half a dozen new tip messages, began the callbacks, sat up straight when he connected to the fifth.

He said, “That’s great, ma’am, really appreciate your taking the time, now if you’d be so kind as to give me your-”

Dial tone.

He held the phone at arm’s length. “Must be my breath.”

Pressing redial, he got no ring. Tried again, same result.

I said, “Someone worth listening to.”

“Someone refusing to identify herself wanting me to know that one of the Jane Does in the marsh might be someone named Lurlene Chenoweth aka Big Laura.”

He traced the caller’s number, dead-ended at a prepaid cell.

I said, “A female tipster with a prepaid might mean a pro from the area. Word travels fast, the girls know Duchesne visited, they’re making associations.”

Typing in Lurlene Chenoweth’s name brought up a scowling, ebony moon-face crowned by a cumulus of orange hair. Thirty-three years old, five nine, two seventy, no scars or tattoos. Four solicitation arrests, one cocaine possession, two drunk and disorderlies, three misdemeanor batteries, all bar fights pled down.

He said, “Big and scrappy.”

“She managed to avoid Skinhead’s knife because she moved to the door quickly. Maybe something about him tipped her off early in the encounter and she was careful.”

“An obvious weirdo? Too bad he found her later.” Swinging his feet onto the desk, he loosed the laces of his desert boots, flexed his toes. “Two of Duchesne’s girls die. What if that boils down to some stupid turf war between pimps and Skinhead was just hired help?”

“If that was it,” I said, “why’s Duchesne still operating? He’s not exactly an imposing figure. And how would Selena fit in?”

“ Three street girls and a piano teacher. You’re making a point.”

“A piano teacher who played swinger parties.”

“Like you said, rich folk moving from stale to fresh.”

“Rich folk with secrets could explain hiring Travis Huck.”

“He’s also into the scene?”

“Or just a guy with a past.”

“Tormented soul finally finds a legit job-with an ocean view. Yeah, that could inspire loyalty. ‘Estate Manager’ is rich-folk talk for gopher, right? Huck’s basically a procurer, gets sent out to bring back the goodies.”

I said, “Flowers, catering, victim of the evening.”

His laughter was metallic. “Joe Otto has no idea how small-time he is.”

Big Laura’s mother lived in a beautifully kept house in the Crenshaw District. Tall, like her daughter, Beatrix Chenoweth was as skinny as a walking stick.

She wore a mint-green blouse, wide-legged black trousers, and ballet slippers. Her living room was Delft blue trimmed in white, set up with floral couches and no-nonsense chairs and hung with prints of impressionist masterpieces.

Her reaction to our presence was dry-eyed resignation.

“I knew it…”

“Ma’am, we can’t be sure-”

“I’m sure, Lieutenant. How many girls are that size? And have taken that path?”

Milo didn’t answer.

Beatrix Chenoweth said, “I’ve got four daughters. Two are school-teachers like myself and the baby’s a flight attendant for Southwest. Lurlene was the third. She took every bit of fight out of me.”