Giacomo was standing outside the hotel wearing the same clothes he’d had on yesterday. When we pulled up, he said, “Can we go somewhere, maybe get a drink? This place is driving me up the wall.”

“The hotel?” said Milo.

“Your frickin’ city.”

Our second drinking hole tonight, this one a dank, would-be Irish tavern on Pico.

Lou Giacomo took in the décor. “This could be Queens.”

The three of us settled in a stiff-backed booth with Naugahyde cushions. Milo asked for a Diet Coke and I had coffee.

Giacomo said, “Bud, not Light, regular.”

This barmaid was young, with a lip-pierce. “I’d never take you for a Light guy.”

Giacomo ignored her. She shot him a sharp look and left.

He said, “You guys reformed drunks or something?”

Milo spread his shoulders and took up more space in the booth.

Giacomo massaged a thick wrist. “No offense intended, I’m not at my best, okay?”

“Sorry about Tori,” said Milo. “I mean that.”

“Like I told you the first time, I already knew. Now the wife claims she knew, too.”

“How’s she doing?”

“She wants me home a-sap. Probably gonna greet me with another nervous breakdown. I ain’t going back until I’m sure Tori gets a proper burial.”

His eyes watered. “What a stupid thing to say, it’s a fuckin’ skull, how the fuck can it get a proper burial? I went over there, to your coroner. They didn’t wanna show it to me, gave me all this bullshit, it ain’t like TV, you don’t have to see it. I made ’em show it to me.”

Spade-shaped hands shaped a shaky oval in the air. “Fuckin’ thing. Only reason they even had it was some lady was working with it, some fuckin’ science project, she’s putting holes in it, digging out the…”

His loss of composure was sudden as a stroke. Pale and sweating, he pressed himself against the seat, gasping as if he’d been sucker punched.

Milo said, “Mr. Giacomo?”

Giacomo clenched his eyes shut and waved him off.

When the young barmaid brought the drinks, he was still sobbing and she was mature enough to look the other way.

“Sorry about that faggy shit.”

“Don’t be,” said Milo.

“Well I fuckin’ am.” Giacomo rubbed his eyes, ran his jacket sleeve over the lids. The tweed left red trails across his cheeks. “What they told me is I gotta fill out forms so I can take it with me. After that, I’m outta here.”

He gazed at his beer as if it were a urine sample. Drank anyway.

“I got this to tell you: The few times Tori called, her mother bugged her- getting any parts, sleeping enough, dating anyone. I try to tell Arlene. Don’t bug her. She says ‘I do it ’cause I care.’ Meaning I don’t.”

Giacomo swallowed more beer. “Now all of a sudden, she’s telling me Tori was maybe dating someone. How does she know? Tori didn’t say so but she didn’t deny it.”

“Any details?”

Giacomo’s lip curled. “Mother’s intuition.” He rotated his mug. “That place stinks. Your coroner’s. Smells like garbage left out for a month. Any way you can use what I just told you?”

“Not without some kind of evidence.”

“Figures- I’m not trying to bust your balls, but what I got to look forward to when I get home ain’t no picnic. Dealing with the church, who knows what the pope’s position is on burying- my sister’s gonna talk to the monsignor, we’ll see.”

Milo sipped his Diet Coke.

Lou Giacomo said, “I keep telling myself Tori’s in a better place. If I can’t convince myself of that, I might as well…”

Milo said, “If I call your wife, is it possible she can tell me more?”

Giacomo shook his head. “But suit yourself. She was always bugging Tori- are you eating, are you exercising, how’re your teeth. What she never got was Tori finally wanted to grow up. So what do you think, is Tori connected to that other girl?”

Milo’s lie was smooth. “I can’t say that, Mr. Giacomo.”

“But you’re not not saying it.”

“Everything’s an open issue at this point.”

“Meaning you don’t know shit.”

“That’s a pretty accurate appraisal.”

Giacomo’s smile was queasy. “You’re probably gonna get pissed but I did something.”

“What’s that?”

“I went over there. To Tori’s apartment. Knocked on all the doors and asked if they remembered Tori, or seen any guy hanging around. What a dump. Mostly you got Mexicans living there, I’m gettin’ all these confused looks, no speaky English. You could get hold of the landlords and ask ’em to pull their rental records.”

“Seeing as you already tried and they said no?”

“Hey- ”

Milo said, “Don’t worry about it, just tell me what they said.”

“They said diddly.” Giacomo handed over a scrap of paper. Holiday Inn stationery. A name and a 323 number.

Milo said, “Home-Rite Management.”

Giacomo said, “Bunch of Chinese, I talked to some woman with an accent. She claimed they didn’t own the building two years ago. I try to explain to her this is important but I got nowhere.” He ran his hands along the sides of his head. “Stupid bitch- it’s like my brain’s gonna explode. I’m bringing Tori back home in a fuckin’ carry-on.”

We drove him back to the Holiday Inn, let the engine idle, and walked him to the hotel’s glass doors.

“I’m sorry about that alkie crack, okay? That other time, that Indian place, you guys had tea, I was just…” He shrugged. “Out of line, none of my business.”

Milo placed a hand on his shoulder. “No apologies necessary. What you’ve gone through, I couldn’t hope to understand.”

Giacomo didn’t repel the contact. “Be straight with me: Would you consider this a bad one? Compared to most of them that you get?”

“They’re all bad.”

“Yeah, of course, sure. Like someone else’s kid ain’t as important as mine. But my kid’s what I’m thinking about- think I’ll ever be able to not think about it?”

Milo said, “People tell me it gets easier.”

“Hope so. You find anything, you’ll let me know?”

“Of course.”

Giacomo nodded and shook Milo’s hand. “You guys are all right.”

We watched him enter the hotel lobby, pass the desk without word, and stand fidgeting in front of the elevator without touching the button. Thirty seconds later, he slapped his temple and pushed. Turned around, saw us, and mouthed the word “stooopid.”

Milo smiled. We got back in the car and drove off.

“ ‘People tell me it gets easier’,” said Milo. “Pretty therapeutic, huh? Speaking of lies, I need to get to the office, chart all that stuff Little Brie thought was off the record. Don’t wanna bore you.”

“Want me to meet you at Michaela’s apartment tomorrow morning?”

“Nah, that could be boring, too. But how about you phone Tori’s mom, see if a Ph.D. helps. The ex-husband, too. Here’s the numbers.”

I made the calls the following morning. Arlene Giacomo was a thoughtful, sane woman.

She said, “Lou drive you nuts?”

“Not yet.”

“He needs me,” she said. “I want him home.”

I let her talk for a while. Eulogizing Tori but providing nothing new. When I brought up the dating issue, she said, “A mother can tell, believe me. But I’ve got no details, Tori was really into being free, no more girl talk with Mama. That was something her father couldn’t grasp, he always bugged her.”

I thanked her and punched in Michael Caravanza’s number. A woman answered.

“Hold on- Mii-keee!”

Moments later a slurred, “Yeah?”

I explained why I was calling. He said, “Hold on- one second, babe. This is about Tori? You found her?”