“So what do you think?” he demanded of Milo. “This dead girl have something to do with Tori?”

“I don’t know enough to think anything yet, sir.”

“But you figure Tori’s dead, right?”

“I couldn’t say that either, Mr. Giacomo.”

“You couldn’t say but you know it and I know it. Two years. No way she wouldn’t call her mother.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“The other girl,” said Giacomo. “Who killed her?”

“The investigation just opened.”

“You get a lot of those? Girls wanna be movie stars getting into big trouble?”

“It happens- ”

“Bet it happens plenty. What’s the name of the acting school the other girl went to?”

Milo rubbed his face. “Sir, it really wouldn’t be a good idea for you to go over there- ”

“Why not?”

“Like I said, it’s a new investigation- ”

“All I wanna do is ask if they knew Tori.”

“I’ll ask for you, sir. If I learn something, I’ll call you. That’s a promise.”

“Promises, promises,” said Giacomo. “It’s a free country. Nothing illegal about going over there.”

“Interfering with an investigation’s illegal, sir. Please don’t complicate your life.”

“That a kinda threat?”

“It’s a request not to interfere. If I learn anything about Tori, I’ll tell you.” Milo put money on the table and stood.

Lou Giacomo got up, too. Picked up his red suitcase and fished in a rear pants pocket. “I’ll pay for my own beer.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t worry, worrying’s a waste of time. I’ll pay for my own beer.” Giacomo pulled out a wallet stuffed so thick it was nearly round. Taking out a five, he tossed it near Milo’s cash.

“If I call your medical examiners, ask about unclaimed bodies, what’re they gonna tell me?”

“What makes you think that happened to Tori, Mr. Giacomo?”

“I was watching this show on cable. Forensics detectives, something like that. They said bodies don’t get claimed, sometimes you do a DNA, solve an old case. So what would they tell me if I asked?”

“If a decedent is identified and someone offers proof of family relationship, they’re given forms to fill out and the body can be released.”

“Is it one of those long pain-in-the-ass red-tape things?”

“It can usually be done in two, three days.”

“How long do they keep ’em around?” said Giacomo. “Unclaimed bodies.”

Milo didn’t answer.

“How long, Lieutenant?”

“Legally, the maximum’s a year but it’s usually sooner.”

“How much sooner?”

“It can be thirty to ninety days.”

“Whoa. In and out, huh?” said Giacomo. “What, you got a dead body traffic jam?”

Milo was impassive.

“Even if it’s a murder?” pressed Giacomo. “For a murder they got to keep it around, right?”

“No, sir.”

“Don’t they need to hold on to it for all that forensic stuff?”

“Evidence is collected and stored. What’s not…necessary isn’t kept.”

“What, some union flunky’s getting paid off to ditch bodies?” said Giacomo.

“There’s a space issue.”

“Same deal even with murder?”

“Same deal,” said Milo.

“Okay, then what? Where does the body go if nobody claims it?”

“Sir- ”

“Just tell me.” Giacomo buttoned his jacket. “I’m one of those people, meets crap face-to-face, don’t do no running away. I never fought in no wars but the marines trained me to deal. What’s the next step?”

“The county crematorium.”

“They burn it…okay, what happens to the ashes?”

“They’re placed in an urn and kept for two years. If a verified relative steps forward and pays $541 to cover transportation costs, they get the urn. If no one claims the urn, the ashes are scattered in a mass grave at the Evergreen Memorial Cemetery in Boyle Heights- that’s East L.A., near the coroner’s office. The graves are marked with numbers. It’s a group scattering, no individual identification is possible. Not all the unclaimed bodies are kept at the main crypt. Some are out in Sylmar, which is a suburb north of L.A., and others are even farther out in Lancaster, which is a city in the Antelope Valley- the high desert, maybe seventy miles east.”

Rattling off the facts in the low, emotionless voice of a reluctant penitent.

Giacomo took it without flinching. Seemed almost to revel in the details. I thought about the cheap plastic urns the county used. Bundles stacked in room after room of the cold-storage basement on Mission Road, bound by sturdy white rope. The inevitable rot that sets in because refrigeration slows decomposition but doesn’t stop it.

During my first visit to the crypt, I hadn’t thought that through and expressed surprise to Milo at the greenish patches mottling a corpse lying on a gurney in the basement hallway.

Middle-aged man with a John Doe designation, awaiting transfer to the crematorium. Paperwork laid across his decaying torso, listing the meager details known.

Milo’s answer had been painfully glib: “What happens to steak when you leave it in the fridge too long, Alex?”

Now he told Lou Giacomo: “I’m really sorry for your situation, sir. If there’s anything else you want to tell us about Tori, I’d like to hear it.”

“Like what?”

“Anything that would help find her.”

“The restaurant she worked, her mother thinks it had something with ‘Lobster’ in it.”

“The Lobster Pot,” said Milo. “Riverside Drive, in Burbank. It went out of business eighteen months ago.”

“You checked it out,” said Giacomo, surprised. “You’re looking for Tori because you do think it had something to do with the other girl.”

“I’m exploring all the possibilities, sir.”

Giacomo stared at him. “You got something you’re not telling me?”

“No, sir. When are you going back home?”

“Who knows?”

“Where are you staying?”

“Same answer,” said Giacomo. “I’ll find something.”

“There’s a Holiday Inn on Pico past Sepulveda,” said Milo. “Not far from here.”

“Why would I wanna be close to here?” said Giacomo.

“No reason.”

“What, you wanna keep tabs on me?”

“No, sir. Got plenty to do.” Milo motioned to me. The two of us headed for the door.

The bespectacled woman said, “Was everything tasty, Lieutenant?”

Milo said, “Great.”

Lou Giacomo said, “Yeah, everything’s fantastic.”

Giacomo’s rental Escort was parked in a loading zone ten yards from Café Moghul, the predictable ticket secured by a wiper blade. Milo and I watched him snatch the citation and rip it into confetti. Paper snow floated to the curb.

He shot Milo a defiant look. Milo pretended not to notice.

Giacomo stooped, picked up the shreds, put them in his pocket. Rolling his shoulders, he got in the Escort and drove off.

Milo said, “Every time I start off in one of those situations I tell myself to be sensitive. Somehow, it gets messed up.”

“You did fine.”

He laughed.

I said, “With all his frustration and grief it couldn’t have gone any differently.”

“That’s exactly what you were supposed to say.”

“At least something in life’s predictable.”

We walked east on Santa Monica, passed an Asian import shop where Milo stopped and pretended to be fascinated by bamboo.

When we resumed walking, I said, “Think Giacomo’s right about Tori being dead?”

“It’s a distinct possibility, but maybe her mother’s right and she’s off partying in Capri or Dubai. What do you think of the acting-school angle?”

“Lots of those in L.A.,” I said.

“Lots of young waitpersons aiming for bigger and better. Be interesting if Tori took classes at the PlayHouse but short of that you see any stunning parallels?”

“A few similarities but more differences. Michaela’s body was left out in the open. If Tori was murdered, the killer sure didn’t want her discovered.”

We turned right and walked south on Butler.