“Sounds like an assertive weirdo,” said Milo.

“Kat thought it was hilarious,” said Amelie. “I was appalled. Everyone’s got their secrets, why make them feel stupid?”

“Then what happened?”

“The guy stared some more, finally gave in and left quickly. Kat said she made sure to laugh some more. So he could hear her as he slunk away. It’s probably nothing, but you asked about problems.”

“Did Kat describe this guy?”

Black-rimmed eyes rounded. “You think it could be him? Oh, no, what if he comes back?”

“I’m sure there’s no connection, Amelie. We just need to collect as many facts as possible.”

“That would really freak me out,” she said. “The thought of being here with-”

“You’ll be fine, Amelie. Did Kat describe him?”

“No, no. She just told the story and laughed. It kept her giggly the whole rest of the day.”

A jewelry store named Cachet was visible at the end of the block.

Milo said, “Being a big-time hoohah detective, I’m willing to guess that’s where Beth Holloway works. But first, blood sugar therapy.”

I followed him into the coffee store. The place was nearly empty but it took a while to get the attention of the iPod-wearing kid hiding behind the espresso machine.

Milo bought two Frisbee-sized bagels smeared with crème fraîche, filled a small paper cup with free water, brought his bounty to a corner stool.

One bagel down. He wiped his chin. “Been a while since I worked a case with overtones.”

Years ago, he’d reported to a captain who’d made sure to assign him every homicide with “unconventional overtones” that came through the division. Meaning anything but male on female, the more lurid the better.

Kat Shonsky’s body bore the signs of a lust homicide – blitz-attack head wound, overkill knifework, sexual positioning, the contemptuous placement of the driver’s license. But nothing suggested it was anything but male on female.

“I’m not sure I see overtones, Big Guy.”

He smiled.

“What’s funny?”

“Wherever it leads.”

Glitter and temptation filled the jewelry store’s windows. A spade-faced young man in a dark suit studied us before buzzing us in. Once we entered, he kept his hands beneath the counter.

Milo identified himself and asked for Beth Holloway and the guy relaxed.

“That’s Beth.” Eyeing a petite honey blonde showing a gray velvet tray of cocktail rings to a stooped white-haired man around eighty.

Beth Holloway had large pale eyes, flawless skin, smooth, bronze arms. A mini-collection of bangles circled delicate wrists. She wore a clingy, low-cut taupe dress, enjoyed frequent bends that flashed a freckled wealth of cleavage. The customer’s attention kept shifting between all that skin and the toys on the tray.

She said, “Pretty gorgeous, Mr. Wein. No?”

The old man sighed. “This is always difficult.”

Beth touched his wrist. “You always know what to do, Mr. Wein.”

“If you say so…” He held up a platinum-and-sapphire piece. “What do you think?”

“Perfect, she’ll love it.”

Wein held the ring to the light and turned it.

“Would you like a loupe, sir?”

“Like I know what I’m looking at.”

Beth laughed. “Take it from me, Mr. Wein, these are really great stones. And those are teeny baguettes, not chips.”

A few more turns. “Okay, this is fine.”

“Great! I’ll have it sized and ready for Mrs. Wein in two days. Would you like me to deliver it to your house?”

“No, not this time, I’m going to give it to her at dinner.”

Beth clapped her hands. “So romantic! She’s a lucky woman, Mr. Wein.”

“Depends what day you ask her.”

He left and she turned to us, smoothing her dress. “Hi!”

Milo introduced himself and told her why we were there.

She froze.

Burst into tears. Covered her face with one hand and pressed the other against the countertop.

The man in the dark suit took the tray of rings, locked it up, and looked on curiously.

Milo said, “Sorry to have to tell you.”

Beth Holloway ran toward the rear of the store, threw a door open, and disappeared.

The dark-suited man said, “We’re talking Kat, from La Femme?”

“You know her?”

“Wow,” he said.

Milo repeated the question.

“I went in there a couple of times, maybe get my wife something.”

“Kat waited on you?”

“She was there, but she didn’t do much,” said the man. “It’s her, huh? Weird.”

“What is?”

“Knowing someone who got killed.”

“What can you tell us about her?”

“Nothing. I’m just saying.”

“Saying what?”

The man’s lips screwed up.

I said, “She wasn’t a helpful salesperson.”

“Yeah, but it didn’t bother me,” said the man. “I like to do my own thing. With jewelry, you’ve got to guide them. But clothes, it’s whatever works for you.”

Beth Holloway reemerged wearing a chocolate-brown sweater over her dress. Her eyes were puffy. Her lips looked bruised.

“What happened to Kat?” she asked.

Milo said, “We don’t know much yet. Can you spare some time?”

“You bet. Whatever it takes to find the animal who did this.”

“Any candidates come to mind?”

The man in the dark suit had sidled closer.

Beth Holloway said, “I wish, but no.”

Milo said, “Let’s take a walk.”

When the three of us were outside, he pointed to the coffee emporium.

Beth Holloway said, “I’d throw up. Let’s just walk.”

She took off, arms swinging. “What I really need is a ten-mile run.”

Milo said, “We’d need the EMT rescue van for me.”

“You should get into it. It’s therapeutic.”

“Kat into exercise?”

“Not a lick. And I tried.” She slowed down, picked up speed again. We hustled past storefronts, dodged pedestrians. Beth Holloway forged through the crowd like a woman with a plan.

Milo let her dissipate energy for a block and a half. “Anything you want to tell us before we start asking questions?”

“Kat had a thing for losers but I can’t imagine anyone that evil.”

“How about some names?”

“There was Rory – Rory Cline. With a C. Works in the mailroom at the CRP agency, thinks he’s going to be a big-shot agent. Must be forty but he tries to look younger. Kat met him at a club, I don’t know where. She was attracted to him but he had no interest in sex, just wanted to hold hands and listen to music. That made her feel unattractive.”

Milo wrote down the name. “Next?”

“Next was Michael… what was his last name…” Tapping her hair. “Sorry, it’s escaping me. Michael… unlike Rory, he loved sex. All the time. Kat said he was a stud but turned out he was married. An accountant or something… Michael Browning, there you go.”

“Did Kat stop seeing him when she found out?”

“Nope. But she got bored. With him and the sex. All quantity, no quality, she said. The third one was a real asshole – some hick who worked on Rolls-Royces.”

Milo said, “Clive Hatfield.”

Her shoulders tightened. “You suspect him?”

“Riana gave us his name so we went over to talk to him.”

“And?”

“No Prince Charming. Unfortunately, he’s got a tight alibi. Any others?”

“No,” she said. “Rory, Michael, and Clive, the loser brigade.”

Milo had her recount the last night of Kat Shonsky’s life. She was forthcoming about her “growing serious” relationship with Sean the surfboard sander. “It’s a real connection, you know? I mean I’m sorry Kat had to drive home alone, but that’s not my fault, right?”

“Of course not.”

“She was p.o.’d. Did what happened to her relate to drunk driving or something?”

“Doesn’t seem that way.”

“Thank God, I’d feel terrible about that.”

“Beth, is there anyone besides Rory Cline and Michael Browning we should know about?”