“You’re doing fine, ma’am.”

She laughed. “Sure I am. My baby’s dead and the one upstairs will be beeping me soon. I’m doing fantastic, just fantastic.”

“I’ll do everything I ca-”

“Find whoever did this, Detective. Take this seriously and find him – not the way the cops took it like a joke when Lauren went missing-”

“Of cour-”

“Find him! So I can look him right in the eye. Then, I’ll slice his balls off.”

MILO QUESTIONED HER a bit longer, honing in on Lauren’s finances, any jobs she might’ve worked between seventeen and twenty-five, any business acquaintances.

“Modeling,” said Jane. “That’s the only work I know about.”

“Fashion modeling.”

Nod.

“How’d she get into that, ma’am?”

“I guess she just… applied and got work. She’s – was a beautiful girl.”

“Did she ever mention an agent? Someone who got her work?”

Jane shook her head. She looked miserable. I’ve seen the same thing happen to other surviving parents. The pain of ignorance, realizing they’d raised strangers. “She paid her own way, Detective, and that’s more than you can say for a lot of kids.”

She unlaced her hands, glanced toward the elevator. “I don’t like it when he gets too quiet. As is, I barely sleep – always worried about something happening to him.” Sickly smile. “This is a bad dream, right? I’ll wake up and find out you were never here.”

She sprang up, ran to the elevator. We saw ourselves out, trudged back to the Seville. From somewhere in the hills, an owl hooted. Plenty of owls in L.A. They eat rats.

Milo looked back at the house. “So she knows nothing. Think it’s true?”

“Hard to say. When you asked her about Lauren’s travel, her eyes got jumpy. Also, when she began talking about Lauren’s modeling. So maybe she knows – or suspects – about how Lauren really paid the rent.”

“Something else,” he said. “She was quick to tell us about her prenup with Mel. But even if she did marry him for the loot, I can’t see what that has to do with Lauren. Still, I think I’ll follow the money trail – Lauren’s finances. This one smells like money.”

“Sex and money,” I said.

“Is there a difference?”

I got behind the wheel and turned the key. The dash clock said 1:14 A.M. “Too late for Lyle in Reseda?”

He stretched the seat belt over his paunch. “Nah, never too late for fun.”

I drove back to Van Nuys Boulevard, turned right and picked up the 101 west at Riverside. The freeway had nearly emptied, and the exits before the Reseda Boulevard off-ramp zipped by like snapshots.

As I got off, Milo said, “Daddy and Mommy live pretty close. Wonder if they had any contact.”

“Mommy says no.”

“So near and yet so far – nice metaphor for alienation, huh? Not that I’m in any mood for that kind of crap.”

Lyle Teague’s street was a scruffy, treeless stretch, south of Roscoe, smelling of infertile dirt and auto paint. Apartments that looked as if they’d been put up over the weekend mingled uneasily with charmless single-family boxes. Old pickups and cars that had rolled off the assembly line without much self-esteem crowded curbs and front lawns. Crushed beer cans and discarded fast-food containers clumped atop storm gutters. My slow cruise brought forth a chorus of canine outrage. Dogs that sounded eager to bite.

The Teague residence squatted on a third-acre table of what looked to be swept dirt. Eight-foot chain link gave the property a prison-yard feeling. Something in common with his ex-wife: They both liked being boxed off.

But this house was dark, no outdoor lighting. Milo used his penlight to sweep the property. The narrow beam made it a lengthy exercise, alighting on windows and doors, lingering long enough to arouse suspicion, but neither that nor the continuing hound concerto brought anyone out to check.

The flashlight continued to roam, found a GUARD DOG ON DUTY sign, but no animal materialized to back up the warning. A chain heavy enough to moor a yacht tied the gate to the fence. A fist-sized padlock completed the welcome. The house was a basic box with a face as flat as Spike’s but none of my pooch’s personality. Pale stucco on top, dark wood siding below. A few feet away sat a prefab carport. A long-bed truck with grossly oversized tires and chromium pipes rested in front of the opening. Too tall to fit inside.

“No squawk box, no bell,” said Milo, scrutinizing the gate.

“Different tax bracket than Jane’s.”

“Could make a fellow irritable.” He rattled the chain, called out, “Hello?” got no response, pulled out his cell phone, dialed, waited. Five rings, then a voice on the other end barked loud. I couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear.

“Mr. Teague – Sir, please don’t hang up – This is Detective Sturgis of the Los Angeles Police Force… Yes, sir, it’s for real, it’s about your daughter… Lauren… Yes, sir, I’m afraid I am… Sir, please don’t hang up – This isn’t a prank… Please come outside, we’re right in front of your house… Yes, sir, at the gate – Please, sir. Thank you, sir.”

He pocketed the phone. “Woke him up and he’s not pleased.”

We waited. Two minutes, three, five. Milo muttered, “Tobacco Road,” checked his watch.

Still no lights on in the little house. Finally, the door opened and I saw the outline of a figure standing in the opening.

Milo called out, “Mr. Teague? We’re over here.”

No answer. Twenty seconds passed. Then: “Yeah, I see you.” Gravel voice. Thicker than I remembered, but I didn’t remember much about Lyle Teague. “Whyn’t you show some I.D.?”

Milo flashed the badge and waved it. The skimpy moon provided little help, and I wondered what Teague could see from this far.

“Do it again.”

Milo’s black brows rose. “Yes, sir.” Another wave.

“How do I know it’s not a Tijuana special?”

“Department’s not that hard up, sir,” said Milo, forcing himself to keep his voice light.

Teague took a few steps closer. Silent steps. Bare feet, I could see them now. Saw the barrel of his bare chest. Wearing nothing but shorts. One hand tented his eyes, the other remained pinioned to his side. “I’ve got a shotgun here, so if you’re not who you claim to be, this is fair warning. If you are, don’t lose your cool, I’m just protecting myself.”

Before the speech was complete, Milo had stepped in front of me. His hand was under his jacket, and his neck was taut. “Put the shotgun down, sir. Go back inside your house, phone the West L.A. Division at a number I’m going to give you, and check me out: Milo Sturgis, Detective Three, Homicide.” He recited his badge number, then the station’s exchange.

Teague’s shotgun arm flexed, but the weapon remained sheathed in darkness.

Milo said, “Mr. Teague, put the shotgun down, now. We don’t want any accidents.”

“Homicide.” Teague sounded uncertain.

“That’s right, sir.”

“You’re saying… This is about Lauren? You’re saying she…?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Teague.”

“Shit. What the hell happened?”

“We need to sit down and talk, sir. Please put down the shotgun.”

Teague’s gun arm remained pressed to his side. He stumbled closer, catching just enough moonlight to limn his flesh. But the light didn’t reach above his shoulders, and he turned into a headless man: white torso, arms, legs, making their way toward us unsteadily.

“Fuck,” whispered Milo, stepping back. “Put the gun down, sir. Now.”

“Lauren…” Teague stopped, spit, kneeled. Placed the shotgun on the ground, straightened, shot both arms up at the sky. Laughed and spit again. Close enough so I could hear the plink of saliva hitting dirt.

“Lauren – Lord, Lord, this is fucked.”

He made his way over to the gate, head down, arms stiff and swinging. Reaching into a shorts pocket, he took a long time to produce a key, tried to spring the padlock, fumbled around the hole, cursed, began punching the chain link.