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“You got that,” said Morega. “If they don’t cause problems. Or win big.”
“Not a lot of those.”
“That’s the point, Lieutenant. Quiet and steady is what keeps us humming.”
—
Next step: pulling up Richard Brett Barlett’s DMV data.
Five-ten, one forty-eight, brn, brn, clean record, corrective lenses required. Barlett’s face was pale, narrow, and hollow-cheeked topped by unruly wavy hair, horizontally banded by steel-rimmed eyeglasses and bottomed by a patchy dark beard.
I avoid reading too much into official photos but it was hard not to see these eyes as sad.
Milo said, “No resemblance to our gal that I can see. You?”
I shook my head.
He moved on to Barlett’s driving record. “Not even a speeding ticket. Let’s see what Meagin’s social circle has to say.”
—
This time, Dr. Lana Demarest was in her office and got on the line.
She said, “Richard who?”
“Barlett.” Milo spelled the name.
“No, sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. Who is he?”
“Someone Meagin called a couple of months ago.”
“Months? How many times?”
“Once, Doctor.”
“Oh,” said Demarest. “That doesn’t sound like much of a clue.”
Toni Bowman said, “Itoldyou a week.”
“I’m calling about another matter, ma’am.”
“Now what?”
Milo explained.
She said, “I have absolutely no idea who this person is. And frankly, it sounds like you’re desperate.”
One last try: Rhonda “Rikki” Montel’s cellphone. Mumbling, “Like she’s gonna answer.”
She did, sounding cheerful but slurred. Steady bass beat in the background dusted with conversational hum.
“Who is this? Oh, you. You solved it?”
Milo explained.
She said, “Never heard of him. One time? Sounds like a pocket call.”
Click.
