Reed blinked.

Milo said, “To take the lead.”

“About… oh, yeah, Mantooth.”

Reed said, “Mantooth?”

“That’s her name, ’Tective Reed.”

“Mantooth.”

“Yup.”

Reed opened his pad. “That a first name?”

“Last name,” said Sin. “Dolores Mantooth but we jes’ called her Mantooth because it was a good one for her.” Wink wink.

Reed stared at her.

“Tooth. Chew. Like that song?” said Sin. “We chewin’ on it… what? Y’all don’t listen to the blues?”

Milo said, “Musta missed that one.”

“ ‘We chewin’ on it all day long.’ ”

I said, “Bonnie Raitt.”

“Yeah,” said Sin. “Nice dirty song. That was Mantooth. She had a mouth.”

Reed said, “Mouth as in…”

Sin said, “Huh?”

Milo said, “Who was her pimp?”

“Jerome.”

“Jerome who?”

“Jerome Jerome,” said Sin. “I’m not kidding, same first name and last name. I’m not claiming that’s what his momma called him but that’s what he was called. Jerome Jerome. Don’t go asking for him. Dead.”

“How’d he get dead?”

“O.D.” Lifting a wing, she held it daintily between two fingers, nibbled voraciously to the bone.

“When?” said Reed.

Shrug. “I just heard he was dead.”

“From an O.D.”

“What else?”

“You assumed he O.D.’d.”

Sin’s look was full of pity. “ ’Tective Reed, ’Tective Reed. Jerome was bagging all day, then he got dead. That sound to you like old age?”

Milo said, “Dolores never worked for Joe Otto Duchesne.”

“No way. Joe Otto works black, never looks back.”

“Tell us about Dolores.”

Sin waved a chicken bone. “Old. White. Ugly.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“Hmm… a year ago?”

“How old is old?”

“A hundred,” said Sin, laughing. “Maybe a hundred fifty, she looked real used.”

Peach-flavored ice cream disappeared between her lips. No new information made the reverse trip. Reed gave her his card and she looked at it as if it were an exotic insect.

After she left the restaurant, we walked to the parking lot and watched her sway south on Aviation. Reed’s Camaro had no computer so Milo had brought a newer Chevy sedan from the staff lot that was fully equipped.

No Dolores or Delores Mantooth in the system. A bit of LAPD Scrabble finally pulled up her I.D.

DeMaura Jean Montouthe. Blond and green, five five, one forty, DOB fifty-one years ago, thirty years of low-level arrests.

No mention of tooth anomalies but LAPD wasn’t interested in the finer points of dentition.

Milo called Vice and had the name of her pimp within seconds.

Jerome Lamar McReynolds. The crypt confirmed his death fourteen months ago. Heroin-cocaine overdose, COD determination based on track marks and blood work, no autopsy.

“Guy speedballs,” said Milo, “DeMaura’s freelancing, vulnerable. Bad guy senses it, moves in.”

“Perfect for some rich predators,” said Reed, massaging a swelling biceps.

“The key,” said Milo, “is to turn women into prey.”

Three days of not-so-happy hunting.

Milo and Reed’s canvass of the airport stroll revealed no other prostitutes who’d encountered a knife-wielding, bald-headed john. A Vice detective named Diane Salazar had arrested DeMaura Montouthe several times and thought her family was from Alabama but wasn’t sure. No one with the surname had come up in that state’s tax rolls.

“You wouldn’t happen to know her dentist, Diane.”

“You bet, Milo. Her hairdresser and her personal trainer, too.”

“What was she like?”

“Nice girl, not too bright, never fussed when we snagged her on decoy runs. Years ago, she was actually kind of pretty.”

“Only mug shot I’ve seen is two years old.”

“You know,” said Salazar. “The usual.”

No one had heard anything about DeMaura, Sheralyn Dawkins, or Big Laura Chenoweth working private parties.

“They’da done it, they’da bragged,” said one pimp. “Big L especially, she like to challenge you, give you the eye. You not agreeing with her, she got herself a reason to go off on you.”

“That happened to you?” said Reed.

“What?”

“Confrontation with Big Laura.”

“Hell, no. That happened to me, she’da hurt.”

“She did get hurt.”

“Whatever. Got to go.”

A hooker named Charvay, young, still lithe and unscarred and thinking she had a lifetime ahead of her, caressed her breasts and laughed and voiced the prevalent sentiment: “Them? With rich folk? What kind of Westside paparatz par-tey would be wanting that old skin?”

During the ride back to the office, Milo was sullen.

Maybe sensing it, Moe Reed drove fast. “Could be the Vanders have nothing to do with it and it’s all about Huck being a solo psycho.”

Surveillance on the estate manager had stalled. The top-of-the-hill, dead-end placement of the Vander estate limited vantage points on Calle Maritimo. The watch from two blocks down had produced nothing: Huck never left the house.

Milo decided to hold observation to after dark, told Reed they’d split the shift.

Reed said, “No prob doing all of it, Loo. I really want to check this guy out.”

“We go that way, kiddo, I’ll be partnering with the living dead.”

“Trust me,” said Reed. “With all due respect.”

“You don’t believe in sleep?”

“Don’t need much. I’ll move around, no one’ll spot me. I’m good at fading into the background.”

“Why’s that?” said Milo.

“Second kid.”

Most of Huck’s adult life was a blank space and one person who might be able to fill in the details was Debora Wallenburg, the lawyer who’d sprung him out of juvey jail. No sense suggesting that; attorney-client privilege meant a stone wall, at best.

At worst, she’d alert Huck and if he was dirty, he’d split.

With no need for my services, I took on a custody consult that didn’t look too fierce, had time for leisurely walks with Blanche, pleasant dinners with Robin.

In the midst of that, Emily Green-Bass phoned me from Long Island.

“I got your number from the state psychology board, Doctor. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. What can I do for you?”

“The reason I’m calling you and not Lieutenant Sturgis is-it’s not really about Selena’s case…” Her voice broke. “Can’t believe I’m using that word.”

I waited.

She said, “I’ve already spoken with Lieutenant Sturgis, I know there’s been no progress. The reason I’m calling you… actually, I don’t know why I’m calling you… I guess I feel… sorry for wasting your time, Doctor.”

“You’re not.”

She said, “You’re just saying that because… sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“You’ve gone through something most people can’t come close to comprehending.”

Dead air; when she finally spoke, her voice was low and hoarse. “I guess I-guess what I’m after… Dr. Delaware, I keep thinking about that meeting. At the station. My boys… we must’ve seemed like one big crazy dysfunctional family. That’s not how it really is.”

I said, “What happened was one hundred percent normal.”

“Was it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve seen other people in my… situation.”

“Lots of people. There’s no road map.”

Long pause. “Thank you. I guess what I want you to see was that we’re really pretty normal-typical people-now that I’m out with that, it sounds ludicrous. Why would I need to impress you?”

“You’re trying to get some control.”

“Which is impossible.”

“Still,” I said, “sometimes it’s good to try. What I saw in your sons was attachment and love. For you and Selena.”

Sobs broke like thunder, rattling the phone’s tinny speaker. I waited as the sound diminished.