“Ma’am,” said Milo. “I’m not here to tell you something definitely happened to Lurlene and I really hope it didn’t. But if you don’t mind giving me a cheek scraping we can find out-”

“Oh, something happened, all right, Lieutenant. I’ve been dreading this moment for an entire year. Because that’s how long it’s been since I heard from Lurlene. And no matter what happened, she always called. Always. It would start off like a genuine conversation. ‘How’re you doing, Mommy.’ But by the end it was always the same. She needed money. Money was the reason she went that way in the first place. More accurately, something that cost a lot of money.”

Her voice had climbed but her face was impassive. “It started in high school, Lieutenant. Someone gave her amphetamines to lose weight. It didn’t work, she never lost a pound. But that didn’t stop her from getting addicted and that was the beginning of the end.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“Lurlene was my only heavy one. Took after her father. The rest of us girls never had problems in that area. In fact my second did some fashion modeling.”

I said, “Must’ve been hard for Lurlene.”

Her head dropped, as if suddenly too heavy. “Everything was hard for Lurlene. She was the smartest of the four, but the weight ruined her life. Being ridiculed.”

She began crying silently. Milo found his stash of tissues and gave her one.

“Thank you… I didn’t realize until later what a burden it was for her. All those arguments over too much butter on the bread… she was an eleven-pound baby. None of my others topped eight.”

Milo said, “She started with amphetamines.”

“Started, yes,” said Beatrix Chenoweth. “In terms of what else she got into, I don’t know, you can probably tell me more than I can tell you.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“I want to know, Lieutenant.”

“From what I can tell from her arrests, cocaine and alcohol were issues, ma’am.”

“Alcohol, yes, I knew that. Lurlene got arrested once for being drunk.”

Twice; Milo didn’t correct her. “Did she get in contact with you after she got arrested?”

“You mean to help her with bail? No, she told me afterward.”

“Someone else paid her bail.”

“She said she’d paid it herself, Lieutenant. That was the point of the call. Bragging. I asked her how she got the money and she laughed and we got into a… discussion. I suppose I knew how she was supporting herself. I suppose I chose to pretend I didn’t.”

She cleared her throat.

Milo said, “Can I get you some water, ma’am?”

“No, thank you.” Touching her neck. “It’s not thirst that’s caught in here.”

“Ma’am, what can you tell us about Lurlene’s friends?”

“Not a thing,” said Beatrix Chenoweth. “She didn’t expose me to her personal life and as I said, I didn’t want to know. Does that sound uncaring, Lieutenant?”

“Of course not-”

“It wasn’t. It was… an adaptation. I’ve got three other daughters and five grandchildren who need my attention. I can’t… couldn’t…” Her head bowed again. “Every single counselor we spoke to said Lurlene would have to bear the consequences of her own actions.”

I said, “Were there a lot of counselors?”

“Oh, yes. First from the schools. Then we went to a clinic our HMO recommended. Nice Indian man. Dr. Singh. He said the exact same thing. Lurlene had to want to change. He suggested Horace and I have a few sessions, to learn how to cope. We did. It was helpful. Then he died. Horace, I mean. A stroke. A month later, when I tried to contact Dr. Singh, he’d moved back to India.” Frowning. “Apparently, he was some sort of intern.”

Milo said, “Is there anything you can tell us about who Lurlene associated with?”

“Not since she took that path.”

“How old was she when she-”

“Sixteen. She dropped out of school, ran away, called when she needed money… she was a fighter, Lieutenant. You’d think she could’ve fought the damn drugs.”

“It can be really hard, ma’am.”

“I know, I know.” Beatrix Chenoweth’s long, bony fingers gathered black trouser fabric. “When I say fighter, I mean it literally, Lieutenant. Lurlene bucked authority for the sake of it. It got so her father had to leave the house to cool off. One time she hit her baby sister so hard, Charmayne’s head just about spun around and she had pain for days. It got to the point where-God help me for saying this-we were thankful Lurlene stopped coming by.”

“I can understand that, ma’am.”

“Now someone hurt her.” She stood, smoothed her pants. “I’m going to go off by myself for a while and then I’ll call Lurlene’s sisters and they’ll have to figure out what to say to their children. That’s their responsibility, all I want to do is have fun with my grandkids… would you please see yourselves out?”

So much for Duchesne as a factor,” said Moe Reed as we waited for the woman to return from the bathroom.

He and Milo and I sat in an orange plastic booth in a chicken-and-pancakes joint on Aviation near Century. The restaurant smelled of burnt feathers and hot fat. Jumbo-jet thunder shook the room at random intervals, thrumming cloudy glass and Z-Brick and threatening to shake asbestos loose from the goose-bump ceiling.

Three coffee cups in front of us, untouched brown surfaces skimmed with rainbow oil slick. The woman had ordered extra-sweet, extra-crisp thighs and wings, a double plate of cinnamon waffles, and a jumbo orange soda. She’d finished one plate of chicken, asked for another, made her way through most of the breading before needing “a woman break.”

Her name was Sondra Cindy Jackson and she called herself Sin. Twenty-three-year-old black female, pretty face, wounded eyes, huge blue talon-nails, half of them inlaid with rhinestones. Her teeth were straight but her left incisor was a gold cap. A complex cornrow tested the boundaries of string theory.

She was the eighteenth prostitute Moe Reed had talked to in two days of canvassing the airport hot zone, and the first who was sure she knew the identity of Jane Doe Three.

Built like a dancer, her appetite was astonishing. So far she’d flirted, shoveled food down her gullet, played coy.

Reed was antsy. Milo emitted an odd Buddhic calm.

Over the same forty-eight hours, he’d contended with a continuing trickle of worthless tips, learned nothing more about Big Laura Chenoweth, failed to locate Sheralyn Dawkins’s family anywhere in San Diego, Orange, or L.A. County. That kind of fun often erodes his patience but sometimes it works the other way.

Reed eyed the ladies’ room. Our booth was positioned so Sin couldn’t leave without passing directly in front of us.

“When she gets back, I’ll press her.”

Milo said, “Sure. Or you can let it play out a bit longer.”

The young detective had switched from jacket and tie to a gray polo shirt bisected by a wide red stripe, fresh blue jeans, snowy white Nikes. His eyes were clear, his ruddy face shaved glossy. Side-of-beef pectorals and massive shoulders strained the shirt.

Aiming to blend in, but he might as well have worn the uniform.

Sondra Cindy Jackson had known what he was right away. Sixty dollars and the promise of dinner had induced her to get into the Camaro.

Milo said, “Be sure to put in for reimbursement.”

Reed said, “Eventually.”

“I’m back!” came the cheery announcement.

Sin’s pink velvet bra and white lace hot pants showed off her skin tone. Slender girl except for breasts enhanced to cartoon proportions. Somehow, she’d found the money.

“Welcome back,” said Milo. “Bon appétit.”

She flashed a gold smile, slid into the booth, got to work on the second plate of chicken.

Four swallows later, she said, “Y’all are so quiet.”

“Waiting for you,” said Reed.

“To do what?” Batting her lashes.