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“He crossed a husband in Italy with a short temper and a long memory? God, I hope not, Alex. Last thing I need is my suspect list expanding to international.”
The waiter delivered two plates of golden-tinged pasta topped by shavings of black truffle.
Milo said, “Thanks, Bartolomo.”
“Pleasure, sir. Enjoy.” Still curious. Still discreet.
Milo coiled tagliatelle onto his fork and held it, suspended.
I said, “Something the matter?”
“Waiting for you to start.”
“When did that become a thing?”
“Hey,” he said, “it’s not often you actually order something sinful. I want to see if it transforms you.”
I tasted, smiled. “Do I look different?”
He said, “Yeah, like a bon vivant. Or whatever that is in Italian.”
I ate.
He said, “You live with an Italian girl and don’t know how to say it?”
“Robin’s fourth-generation Californian and her mother was English.”
He worked his phone. “Same thing, bon vivant.”
I said, “Speaking of my girl, when did she call you and suggest you call me?”
His eyes, always a shockingly bright green, slid to the right. Seasoned detective giving off a liar’s tell.
He nibbled with atypical precision. Chewed even slower.
I said, “It wasn’t a trick question.”
“You’re making this assumption because…”
“The case doesn’t feel different. And no more about aura, please.”
“Someone’stesty…when did she call? I wasn’t supposed to let on but now you’ll go home and badger her, so fine. A week ago. She said you were champing at the bit. Assured me you were okay then wondered if I’d lost my nerve.”
He smiled. “She comes right to the point, Robin does.”
I said, “I appreciate your wanting to protect me but she’s right. I’m ready to go.”
He drank tea.
I said, “The problem is…”
He put down his glass. “I keep turning it over and over, wondering how things screwed up so badly that you were nearly…” He waved away the rest of the sentence. Specks of moisture had collected in the corners of his eyes.
“Nothing screwed up. It was unpreventable.”
“So you say.”
“Have you come up with anything that could’ve stopped it?”
