“Don't go on Jeopardy! What's the case?”

I heard him sigh. “A kid, Alex. Fifteen years old.”

“Oh.”

“I know how you feel about that but this is an important one. If you have any time at all I'd appreciate tossing things around.”

“Sure,” I said. “Come over right now.”

He showed up carrying a box of files, wearing a turquoise polo shirt that proclaimed his gut, wrinkled brown jeans, scarred beige desert boots. His weight had stabilized at around 240, most of it distributed around the middle of his six-three frame. His hair was freshly cut in his usual style, though to use style in conjunction with Milo was a felony: clipped short at the sides and back, shaggy on top, sideburns to the earlobes. Gray was winning the battle with black and the sideburns were nearly white. He's nine months older than I am and sometimes looking at him reminds me time is passing.

He put the box down on the kitchen table. His pocked face was chalky and his green eyes lacked spark. A long night, or several of them. Looking at the refrigerator, he frowned. “Need I spell it out?”

“Solid or liquid?” I said.

“Been working on this since six.”

“So both.”

“You're the doctor.” He stretched and sat heavily and I heard the chair creak.

I fixed him a cold roast beef sandwich and brought it over along with a quart of milk. He ate and drank quickly and exhaled noisily.

The box was filled to the top. “Looks like plenty of data.”

“Don't confuse quantity with quality.” Pushing his plate away, he began removing bound folders and rubber-banded stacks, arranged them neatly on the table.

“The victim is a girl named Irit Carmeli. Fifteen, slightly retarded. Thirteen weeks ago, someone abducted her and killed her during a school field trip up in the Santa Monica Mountains- some nature conservancy owned by the city. Her school goes there every year, the idea is to get a little beauty into the kids' lives.”