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Milo.
    Duboff smiled. “Yes, but often a friend stays over. A bright, altruistic, sensuous woman who just happens to be in Sebastopol at the Green Fiber Music Festival. When did your murder take place?”
    “We’re still determining that, sir.”
    Duboff said, “It had to be after eight o’clock because I stopped by the marsh at eight and trust me, there were no bodies.”
    “How long were you here?”
    “Briefly, to check for trash. After that, I bought a sandwich at the all-night market on Culver. Greens and tempeh, if you must know. Then I dropped over at my office to see how our volunteer was doing.” He huffed. “Rich brat, got assigned to us for a community service punishment. He was doing fine, so I left him and drove to Santa Monica and ate my sandwich on Ocean Front. Then I returned to the office at ten oh five to make sure the brat had locked up. Which was fortunate, because he hadn’t. By ten thirty, I was with my
Utne.
”
    “Find any trash at the marsh?” said Milo.
    “Not this time… oh, yes, Alma — my companion — was due to call me from Sebastopol at eleven fifteen. And she did.”
    “Your volunteer,” said Moe Reed. “What’s he being punished for?”
    “Something to do with school,” said Duboff. “I didn’t ask, couldn’t care less. He’s no asset but he doesn’t cause problems.”
    “Alma,” said Reed, taking out his pad. “Last name, please.”
    Duboff’s eyes bugged. “Why would you want to talk to her?”
    “Routine—”
    “Unbelievable. I’m here to safeguard the marsh and you
storm-
troop me?”
    Reed said, “That’s a little harsh, sir.”
    “Is it? I think not.”
    Milo said, “Alma what?”
    “Good God — fine, fine, Reynolds, Alma Reynolds.” He recited a phone number. “Satisfied? Now you
must
let me through.”
     
     
    We followed Duboff’s race-walk to the anthropologists’ work site. Moe Reed caught up, asked Duboff if the name Selena Bass was familiar.
    “The only bass I know and care about are the striped ones. Grievously overfished because of American flesh-lust.”
    I said, “People,” wondering if he’d finally remember me.
    He said, “That song is absolute nonsense. Barbra had it completely wrong.”
     
     
    Dr. Hargrove’s team had removed a few small brown fragments and placed them on a blue tarp laid out on the bank. All three women were back in the water, heads close to the surface, sifting, peering.
    Duboff said, “What is
that
?”
    Reed said, “Human bones.”
    Duboff cupped his hand and called to the scientists: “Be careful, you!”
    The women looked up.
    Milo said, “This gentleman safeguards the marsh.”
    Duboff said, “Don’t make it sound trivial.”
    “This gentleman safeguards the marsh importantly.”
    Dr. Hargrove said, “Sir, we’re being extremely careful, making sure not to upset anything.”
    “Your very presence means the marsh has been upset.”
    Hargrove, Liz Wilkinson, and the freckled scientist stared.
    Duboff took another look at the bones.
    Milo said, “Sir, we need to clear out, let them do their job. Speaking of which, do you have one, Mr. Duboff?”
    “What are you implying?”
    Milo didn’t answer.
    “I most definitely did. Worked at the Midnight Run bookstore.”
    “They closed down last year.”
    “Ergo ‘did,’ ” said Duboff. “Over the years, I made some investments, can afford to take my time looking. And no wisecracks about oil and gas stocks, okay? I don’t own any.”
    “Boy,” said Milo, “must be hard on the shoulders.”
    “What is?”
    “Carrying around a chip the size of a redwood.”
    Duboff’s mouth dropped open.
    Taking hold of his arm, Milo said, “Nice meeting you, sir,” and guided him back to the street.
     
     
    Reed and I watched the two of them walk to Duboff’s dusty Jetta.
    Duboff shook a finger at Milo. Milo remained impassive. Duboff got in the car, still ranting. Drove off.
    Milo returned, scissoring his hand to mimic moving jaws.
    Reed said,