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along to the killer, and is available to help scrub it down afterward, maybe drive it back. Combine all that with the killer making sure to limit his contact to the front seats, and the time pressure would reduce.”
    “Homicidal pit crew,” he said. Cracking the claw along the joint, he sat motionless, as if taking in the sound. “The goodfellas haven’t been a major factor since Mickey Cohen, but there are some loan sharks floating around the Valley and over in that arcade on Canon Drive in Beverly Hills.”
    “Canon’s also close to the rental lot.”
    “So it is.” He pulled a tube of meat from the claw, ate, repeated the process with another leg. “So what, our nice little retired schoolteacher has a dark past as a moll?”
    “Or a hidden vice. Like gambling.”
    “She managed to rack up a big enough debt on her pension to get sliced and diced? Make no sense, Alex. The last thing a shark wants to do is snuff the minnow and end any hope of getting paid.”
    “Unless the shark has given up on collecting,” I said. “Or she wasn’t the gambler, someone else was, and they used her as an example.”
    I described the unhappy exchange Moskow had witnessed between Ella and the blond man he assumed was her son.
    “Arguing,” he said.
    “Nothing causes conflict like money. Maybe Junior asked Mom for money and she turned him down.”
    “What I don’t see is even a big-time shark butchering an old lady just to strike terror into her mope kid’s heart.”
    “You’re probably right,” I said. “But it is a new, cruel age.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Turn on the news at random.”
    He dove back into his food.
    I said, “Here’s another way to spin it: The blond man’s not her son, he’s the collector.”
    Removing a blue plastic binder from his attaché, he handed it over. Inside was a prelim crime report form yet to be filled out, a few of what looked to be Ella Mancusi’s personal papers, and an envelope that held a three-by-five color photo.
    In the snapshot, a tiny white-haired woman in a belted floral dress and high heels stood next to a flabby-looking fair-haired man in his forties. Behind them was mint-green stucco. Ella Mancusi had a bird-face and sparkling dark eyes. Her lips were rouged and her nails were polished. Smiling, but something was missing from the upturn of lip.
    The blond man stood with his arms at his sides. Tight around the shoulders, as if posing for the picture had been an imposition.
    I said, “Fits the guy Moskow described.”
    “Read the back.”
    I flipped the photo.
    Anthony and me, my birthday. I baked a chocolate cake.
The writing was elegant cursive. The date was December, two years ago.
    “Devoted son lets her bake her own birthday cake,” I said.
    I studied Ella Mancusi’s smile some more and realized what was missing. Maternal pride.
    Milo said, “I’m figuring he’s an only child because the few photos in the house were all of him, mostly when he was a kid, all the way back to grade school. She held on to his birth certificate and twelve years of report cards. C minus student when he applied himself. There’s one Anthony Mancusi in the county and the only thing on his record is a DUI six years ago, pled down to misdemeanor. If he’s got a drinking problem, doesn’t look to be genetic. The only booze Ella had was a bottle of sherry, unopened, dust all over it.”
    He rubbed his face. “She didn’t own much, Alex. All her important papers were in three cigar boxes near her bed. Eighteen years ago she retired from L.A. Unified. Her last job was teaching social studies at Louis Pasteur Junior High, they wrote her a nice letter. She was widowed way before that – when Anthony was a teenager. Husband was Anthony Senior, supervisor at a dairy in Santa Fe Springs, died on the job of a heart attack. The house has been paid off for eleven years, between her pension and Senior’s she did okay. Your basic upstanding, middle-class lady living out her days in a low-crime