Over the years I’ve accompanied Milo to lots of taverns and beer joints and cocktail lounges. A couple of gay bars as well. It’s an illuminating experience watching him function in that sphere.

This was a new dive, a narrow, dark tunnel of a place called Jody Z’s, at the southern edge of Pacific, just above the Marina. Arena rock on the jukebox, silent football rerun on TV, tired men at the urethane bar, rough paneling and fishnets and glass globes.

Plastic sawdust on the floor. What was the point of that?

A short drive to Robin’s house on Rennie. In another time and place, Milo might have mentioned that. The set of his jaw said the only things on his mind were the murders of two young women.

Once we’d finished a couple of beers and rehashed what we knew, there was little to talk about and he started to blend in with the dispirited clientele.

Phoning Michaela’s landlord in La Jolla, he confirmed the appointment tomorrow morning. Ground his teeth. “Bastard’s doing me a big, freaking favor.”

He looked over at the blackboard. Three specials, including the promise of fresh clam chowder. He chanced it.

“Not too bad,” he said, spooning.

“ ‘Not too bad’ and ‘seafood’ shouldn’t be uttered in the same sentence,” I said.

“If I die, you get the first eulogy. I wonder if Nora really gave in when Brad asked her to cool it with Meserve. Brad did raise one good point: Meserve’s nowhere to be found.”

“He seemed eager to steer you to Meserve as a suspect,” I said. “That’s in his best interest if he’s covering for Billy, but it doesn’t mean he’s wrong. Michaela told me she hated Meserve and Mrs. Winograd heard them fighting more than once.”

“Any theory about Dylan’s motive? For Michaela and Tori.”

“Maybe he’s just a bad guy who picks off girls at acting class. He played death games with Michaela up in Latigo and if Michaela was being at all truthful, he planned a calculated hoax. Toss in Brad’s suspicions about gold digging and it doesn’t add up to a character reference.”

“Michaela tell you why she went from being naked in the hills with him to seeing him as the enemy?”

“At the time, I assumed she was dumping the blame on him as trial strategy.”

“Lawyer games.”

“Guess who her lawyer was. Lauritz Montez.”

“That guy from the Malley case? Thought you two had friction.”

“We did but I’m the biggest, baddest, smartest shrink in the whole wild world. Gee willikers.”

“He schmeared you and you bought it?”

“The case interested me.”

“That’s a good reason.”

“As good as any.”

“Mind talking to Montez again, see if Michaela had more to say about her partner in crime?”

“Don’t mind at all,” I said. I’d been thinking of doing it, anyway.

He pushed aside a half bowl of chowder. Waved for another beer, then altered it to a Coke.

The sixty-five-year-old barmaid laughed. “When did you ever have self-control?”

Milo said, “Don’t be cruel,” and she laughed some more and left.

I realized all the patrons were men. Wondered about that as Milo ticked an index finger. “Meserve, Peaty, Brother Billy. Investigation 101 teaches you to narrow the suspect pool. I seem to be doing just the opposite.”

“The search for truth,” I said.

“Ah, the agony.”

By eight fifty-three p.m., we were parked four blocks west of the PlayHouse. As we headed to the school on foot, Milo’s bulk slanted forward, as if marching into a blizzard.

Scoping out streets and driveways and alleys for Michaela Brand’s little black Honda.

The alert for the car had been expanded statewide. Milo and I had cruised these same streets just a few days ago, no reason to look now.

The ability to put logic aside sometimes makes for a great detective.

We got to the building at five after nine, found people milling.

Dim porch light allowed me to count as we neared the front steps. Eight females, five males. Each one slim, young, gorgeous.

Milo muttered, “Mutants,” as he bounded up the stairs. Thirteen pairs of eyes turned to watch. A few of the women shrank back.

The men occupied a narrow height range: six to six two. Broad, square shoulders, narrow hips, angular faces that seemed curiously static. The women varied more in stature but their body shape was uniform: long legs, flat bellies, wasp waists, high-tucked butts, high puffy bosoms.

Manicured hands gripped plastic bottles of water and cell phones. Wide hungry eyes questioned our presence. Milo stepped into the middle of the porch and the acting students cleared space. The light played up every crease, pit and pucker and pore. He looked heavier and older than ever.

“Evening, folks.”

Dubious stares, general confusion, smirks and side glances of the kind you see in middle-school cafeterias.

One of the young men said, “What’s up,” with practiced slur.

Brando in On the Waterfront? Or was that ancient history?

“Crime’s up, friend.” Milo moved the badge so that it caught light.

Someone said, “Whoa.” Snickers petered to silence.

Milo checked his Timex. “Wasn’t class supposed to start ten minutes ago?”

“Coach not here,” said another Adonis. He jiggled the front door handle.

“Waiting for Nora,” said Milo.

“Better than Godot.”

“Hopefully, unlike him, she’ll show up.” Milo’s wolf-grin caused a reflexive tooth-bare from the young man. The guy threw back his head and a sheet of dark hair billowed, then flapped back in place.

“Nora late a lot?”

Shrug.

“Sometimes,” said a young woman with curly yellow hair and lips so bulbous they resembled tiny buttocks. That and blue saucer eyes gave her a stunned mien. Inflatable doll barely come to life.

“Well,” said Milo, “this gives us time to chat.”

Swigs from water bottles. Flips of cell phone covers nursed forth a series of electronic mouse-squeaks.

Milo said, “I assume you guys heard about Michaela Brand.”

Silence. A nod, then two. Then ten.

“Anybody has something to say, it would be much appreciated.”

A car drove west. Several of the acting students followed its diminishing taillights, grateful for distraction.

“Anything, people?”

Slow head shakes.

“Nothing at all?”

“Everyone’s freaked out,” said a dark, pointy-chinned girl with coyote eyes. Deep sigh. Her breasts rose and fell as a unit.

“I saw her a couple of times but didn’t know her,” said a man with a shaved head and bone structure so pronounced he seemed carved out of ivory.

“That’s ’cause you just started, Juaquin,” said the pillowly-lipped, curly-haired girl.

“That’s what I’m saying, Brandy.”

“Briana.”

“Whatever.”

“You knew her, Briana?” said Milo.

“Just from here. We didn’t hang out.”

“Any of you know Michaela outside of here?” said Milo.

Head shakes.

“She was, like, quiet,” said a redheaded woman.

“What about Dylan Meserve?”

Silence. Notable edginess.

“None of you knew Dylan?”

“They were friends,” said the redhead. “Her and him.”

“Any of you see Dylan recently?”

The red-haired girl pulled a watch out of her purse and squinted at it.

“Nine sixteen,” said Milo. “Nora generally this late?”

“Sometimes,” said Curly Blonde.

Someone else said, “Nora’s Nora.”

Silence.

Milo said, “What’s on the agenda tonight?”

“There is no agenda,” said the hair-flipper. He wore a plaid flannel shirt tailored tight to his V-frame, faded jeans, clean, crisp hiking boots that had never encountered mud.

“Nothing’s planned?” said Milo.

“It’s free-form.”

“Improv?”