Reed's love interest was a physical anthropologist in the bone lab. "Liz is cool. And the girl's probably Muslim. They don't drink."

"Good point," said Milo. "Okay, candy's still dandy."

"You want me to go easy or hard on her?" said Reed.

"I want you to do what it takes to squeeze out every bit of info she's got on Prince Teddy and that Swedish girl."

"I'm thinking I'll go real slow, not threaten her unless I'm smelling bulls.h.i.t, then it's full press."

"Keep doing that, Moses."

"Doing what?"

"Thinking," said Milo. "Be the guy who stands out from the crowd."

I drove away from the station with Milo in the Seville's pa.s.senger seat, fidgeting, rubbing his face, growling about L.A. traffic, all those scofflaw morons who kept cell-phoning, look at that idiot weaving, look at that brain-dead a.s.shole stopped at a green, what's a matter, don't we have a shade you like, loser?

The Star Motor Inn sat on a gray block of Sawtelle, between Santa Monica and Olympic. Ricki Flatt answered the door wearing the same high-waisted jeans and an oversized black Carlsbad Caverns T-shirt. Her hair was loose and frizzy, her mouth small. Behind her, the bed was made up to military specs. Images flashed on a TV screen not much larger than my computer monitor.

"Lieutenant."

"May we come in?"

"Of course."

The room smelled of Lysol and pizza. No sound from the TV. The show was a cooking demonstration, a fluorescent-eyed woman so thin her clothes bagged, bouncing with joy as she stir-fried something. Carrots, celery, and a lump of what looked like yellow Play-Doh.

One of Milo's rules-to-live-by is Never Trust a Skinny Chef. Sometimes he applies that to detectives. To any profession at random, depending on how the day's going.

One time I couldn't resist and asked about personal trainers.

He said, "I'm talking real jobs, not s.a.d.i.s.ts."

His mood during the drive had grown progressively more foul. You'd never know it from the way he handled Ricki Flatt. Sliding a chair close to hers, leaving me to perch on a corner of the bed, he un-holstered his softest smile-the one he uses with little kids and old ladies. With Blanche, too, when he thinks no one's looking.

"Get any sleep, Ricki?"

"Not much."

"Anything you need, please tell me."

"No, thanks, Lieutenant. Did you get into the storage unit?"

"Haven't heard back from Port Angeles PD yet."

"I just hope Scott doesn't find out I held on to the money."

"I explained that to them."

"It makes me nervous-having it in my possession."

"It'll be out of your life soon."

"Is it drug money, Lieutenant?"

"No evidence of that."

"I really don't see it. Desi was never into drugs."

Milo shifted closer. "Ricki, we're working really hard to figure out who murdered Desi, but honestly, we're knocking our heads against the wall. If I ask you questions you may find upsetting, can you handle them?"

"Questions about what?"

"Desi's early days. When he was seventeen."

"That far back?"

"Yes."

Ricki Flatt's eyes tangoed. "You're talking about the Bellevue fire."

Milo began to blink, managed, somehow, to curtail the reflex. He moved even closer to the bed. "We need to talk about the Bellevue fire, Ricki."

"How'd you find out?"

"Doing our homework."

"Someone's murdered, you go into their childhood?"

"We go as far back as we need to."

Ricki Flatt picked at the bedcovers.

Milo said, "The fire's been on your mind. That's what you meant by political."

"Not really," she said. She hugged herself. Rocked. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I'm not trying to be evasive, but I just can't accept the fact that my brother was some sort of paid arsonist. But fifty thousand... that's why I didn't sleep last night. And the Bellevue house was huge and so was where Desi was... I can't bring myself to say it. Where it happened."

"Two huge houses," said Milo.

"I drove by last night in a cab. To that place. Even with just the framework I could tell it was ma.s.sive. I kept telling myself it meant nothing, what connection could there be?"

"Tell me what you know about the Bellevue fire, Ricki."

"That boy-Vince. He wasn't murdered, he burned himself up, it was basically an accident."

"Van Burghout."

"Van," she said, trying on the name.

"You didn't know him well?"

"I'm sure I saw him if he came to the house with Desi but he never registered. Desi was popular, there were always kids over. And when the fire happened, I was at college."

"Out of town?"

"No, U of W," she said. "Geographically not far, but I was into my own life."

"The arson file names Van as one of Desi's hiking companions."

"Then I guess he was."

"Did your family discuss the fire?"

"We probably talked about it, it was a big local story. But as I said, I wasn't living at home."

Ricki Flatt folded her lips inward, fighting tears. Milo placed a hand atop hers. She lost the battle and burst out sobbing.

Rather than hand a tissue to her, he dabbed.

Ricki Flatt said, "Now I'm a traitor."

"To who, Ricki?"

"My family. I just lied, we didn't talk about the fire. It wasn't supposed to be talked about. Ever."

"You parents said that?"

"Unspoken rule, Lieutenant. Something I just knew not to talk about. That wasn't my parents' usual way. That's why I've always suspected Desi was involved."

"Those kinds of secrets," said Milo, "every family has them. But being honest doesn't make you a traitor. Not now, that's for sure."

Silence.

"You want justice for Desi, Ricki. Would your parents have had a problem with that?"

No answer.

"Would they, Ricki?"

Slow head shake.

"Tell me what you know."

"I don't know anything," she said, "I just feel it. Always have."

"Apart from your parents clamming up, what gave you the feeling?"

"For a start, Desi's books. He had these counterculture books in his room. How to build homemade weapons, how to disappear and hide your ident.i.ty, techniques of revenge, The Anarchist Cookbook. A whole shelf of that, above his computer."

"Your parents were okay with that."

"What I told you was true. Mom and Dad were all about developing our own sense of morality. Though one time I did hear Dad make a comment, being a firefighter he still had that law-and-order thing going on. I overheard him telling Desi those books would've been branded as treasonous in other societies and Desi answering that those societies deserved to disappear because without free speech nothing mattered. And Dad coming back that free speech was important but it ended where someone's chin met someone's fist. And Desi ending the argument the way he usually did. By being charming. 'You're absolutely right, Pops.' Dad laughed and it never came up again. That was my brother, all honey, no vinegar. Unlike me, he never wasted energy arguing with Mom and Dad. He was the easy kid."

"No overt rebel," said Milo. "So he got to hold on to his treasonous books."

"And his foldouts from Hustler, no matter how gynecologic and how much Mom considered herself a feminist. And his Che poster and whatever else he wanted. I'm sure Mom and Dad never imagined him doing anything more with those books than reading."

"Until the fire."

"The weekend after the fire, I was home for the weekend. Getting my laundry done, Ms. Independence. Mom and Dad were at work but Desi was home so I knocked on his door. He took a really long time to unlock, didn't seem thrilled to see me, wasn't the least bit warm. Which was odd, generally we'd share a big hug. But this time he looked fl.u.s.tered, like I'd interrupted something. My first thought was something adolescent-you know what I mean."

"Those Hustler foldouts."

"He was seventeen." Blushing. "Then I saw that his room had been completely rearranged, even the bed was in a new place. Desi was always neat but now it looked downright compulsive. A lot less stuff in the room. Including the books. All gone, and in place of the Che poster he'd hung a photo of moose in the forest. I made some wisecrack about redecorating, had he turned gay or something. Instead of laughing like he normally would've, he just stood there. Then he edged me away from the door. Not by touching me, by inching forward, so I was forced to leave or b.u.mp into him. Then he closed the door behind him and we both went to the kitchen and he was the same old Desi, smiling and funny."

I said, "Focusing on you instead of his room."

"Desi was great at that. He could make you feel you were the center of the universe. Then he'd ask for something and you just said yes, no hesitation."

"Did you ever bring up the fire?"

"Not with Desi, just with Mom. She got a strange look in her eye, changed the subject. That whole weekend was strange."

"All three of them nervous."

"I felt like a stranger. But in the beginning, I didn't connect it to the fire. It was only after I found out that Desi and some of his friends were questioned by the police that things started to click."

Milo said, "Were you ever questioned?"

"No, and I wouldn't have said anything. I had nothing to offer, anyway." She wadded a tissue, released her fingers and watched it open like a time-lapse flower.

I said, "Did Desi keep anything suspicious in his room besides books?"

"If he did, I wouldn't know. He had a lock on his door and used it."

"Liked his privacy."

"Sure, but what teenager doesn't? I figured it was because of all those girls he took in there. Was Doreen one of them? Probably, but only one, he might as well have had a revolving door. And, no, my parents never objected. Desi would play music to block out the sound but sometimes you could hear the bed knocking against the wall. Mom and Dad just continued to read or watch TV, pretended not to hear."

"So your parents were used to looking the other way."

"You're saying that made it easier for them to cover for Desi when he did something really bad?" Long exhalation. "Maybe."

Milo said, "After the FBI questioned Desi, you started to wonder."

"The FBI? All I heard about was the police. The FBI actually came to the house?"

"They did, Ricki. Talked to your parents, as well as Desi."