Reed examined the music. “Classical… more classical… some indie rock… more classical.”

Milo said, “No stereo, no CDs.”

Reed said, “There’s probably an iPod somewhere.”

“Then where’s the computer that makes all the other gizmos operative?”

Reed frowned. “Someone cleaned up.”

The two of them went through the dresser and the metal closet. Jeans, T-shirts, jackets, underwear in small sizes. Tennis shoes, boots, black high-heeled sandals, red pumps, white pumps. One end of the hanging rack in the closet bore half a dozen dresses in optimistic colors.

No discs, laptops, anything related to computers.

Reed kneeled in front of the dresser, slid open the bottom drawer. “Whoa.”

Inside was a leather bustier, two sets of fishnets, three pairs of orange-trimmed black crotchless panties, a trio of cheap black wigs, three enormous purple dildos.

Each of the hairpieces was shoulder-length with short bangs. A blue vinyl sewing box held bottles of white face makeup, black eyeliner, tubes of lipstick the color of an old bruise. When Reed pulled it out, a small, black leather riding crop rolled forward.

Milo said, “Dominatrix in her spare time? Maybe her real pad’s someplace else and she used this dump for partying.”

Reed seemed transfixed by the garments. “Maybe she also gave her music lessons here, Lieutenant.”

“Doubtful, no real piano, no instruction books.” Milo shut the drawer, took in the room. “If this was her main crib, she led a pretty bare life, even accounting for a cleanup. Five minutes inside and I’m ready to gulp some Prozac.”

He returned to the metal closet, ran his hand over the top shelf. “Well, looky here.”

Down came a cardboard Macy’s box stuffed with papers.

On top was Selena Bass’s tax return from last year. Income of forty-eight thousand from “freelance musical consulting,” ten grand worth of “equipment and supplies” deductions.

Beneath that, he found thirteen monthly checks clipped together in a precise stack. Four thousand dollars each, written on the Global Investment Co. account of The Simon M. Vander Family Trust, address on Fifth Street in Seattle.

Same memo for every payment in block printing: Lessons for Kelvin.

Reed said, “The kid on the Web.”

Milo said, “Nearly fifty K a year to teach Junior how to tickle the ivories.”

“One student paying all the bills, maybe he’s got serious talent, some kind of prodigy.”

“Or someone thinks he does. How about going out to the car and running Simon Vander’s name? The kid, too.”

“You bet.”

Milo resumed examining the papers in the Macy’s box. A California I.D. depicted a thin-faced, big-eyed girl with a pointy cleft chin and dirty-blond hair. Short bangs, just like the wigs. Easy fit for dress-up time?

I said, “Why would she need that if she had a license?”

He said, “Maybe she moved here without a license, got this in the interim.”

Beneath the card were receipts from a Betsey Johnson outlet in Cabazon, near Palm Springs, and a six-month-old credit card bill for five hundred dollars, recently paid off after six months of mounting interest at the typical usurious rate.

At the bottom sat a single e-mail, four months old, from engrbass345 at a Hotmail account. I read over his shoulder.

Sel, so glad you finally found a job. And a satisfying one, to boot. Be well, dear. Don’t take so long next time.

Love, mom.

Milo sighed. “Notification time.”

“Your favorite thing,” I said.

“That and drowning puppies.”

Reed charged back into the apartment, bright-eyed and waving his pad.

“Looks like Simon Vander’s a big-time money guy. The investment account might be in Seattle but he lives here, the Palisades. He owned a chain of supermarkets in Mexican neighborhoods, sold out two and a half years ago for a hundred and eleven million. After that, he drops off the screen except for three more hits for Kelvin, all recitals. Kid’s ten years old. Found one photo of him.”

He flashed a grainy black-and-white shot of a good-looking Asian boy.

Milo showed him the e-mail from Selena Bass’s mother.

Reed said, “Going to try her by computer?”

“If she’s local, we’ll do it in person.”

“ ‘engrbass,’ ” said Reed. “Maybe she’s an engineer. Meanwhile, should we start with the Vanders, see if they know anything about Selena’s personal life?”

Using the murdered woman’s first name. Beginning of the bond.

Milo said, “That’s what I’d do.”

Reed frowned. “Like I’m inventing the wheel.”

Five vehicles at two addresses were registered to Simon Mitchell Vander.

At Calle Maritimo in Pacific Palisades: a three-month-old Lexus GX, a one-year-old Mercedes SLK, a three-year-old Aston Martin DB7, and a five-year-old Lincoln Town Car.

At a Malibu listing on Pacific Coast Highway, a seven-year-old Volvo station wagon.

Moe Reed ran map traces. “ La Costa Beach and the north end of the Palisades. Pretty darn close.”

“Maybe he likes sand between his toes,” said Milo. “Middle of the week, I’m betting on the main house. If that doesn’t pan out, we get a day at the beach.”

The drive from Venice to Pacific Palisades was a slow drip along Lincoln, not much better on Ocean Front, followed by a quick drop onto Channel Road and a blue zip up the coast. A charitable breeze whipped the ocean into cobalt meringue. Surfers and kite runners and people who liked clear lungs were out in force.

Calle Maritimo was a snaky climb above the old Getty estate. As the altitude climbed, properties enlarged, soil growing pricier by the yard. Reed drove fast, clipping past bougainvillea hedges, rock walls, charitable glimpses of ocean.

A sign warned Dead End: No Through Traffic. Seconds later that promise was fulfilled by ten-foot iron gates.

Hand-fashioned gates, with stout posts resembling oversized stalks of coral and curving iron rods tangled like octopus tentacles. On the other side of all that foundry work was an oval motor court paved with precise slate squares. Recently hosed slate, still beaded in spots, and ringed by razor-cut date palms. Behind the trees, a surprisingly modest house.

Single story, dun stucco, red tile roof, enclosed courtyard hiding the front door. Off to the side were the four cars listed on Vander’s reg forms. Reed punched the call box. Five rings on the intercom, then silence.

He tried again. Four more rings. A boyish-sounding male voice said, “Yes?”

“ L.A. police here to talk to Mr. Simon Vander.”

“Police?”

“Yes, sir. We need to talk to Mr. Vander.”

A beat. “He’s not here.”

“Where can we find him?”

Two beats. “His last stop was Hong Kong.”

“Business trip?”

“He’s traveling. I can give him a message.”

“Who am I speaking with, sir?”

More hesitation. “Mr. Vander’s estate manager.”

“Name please?”

“Travis.”

“Could you please come out to the gate for a second, Mr. Travis?”

“Can I ask what this is-”

“Why don’t you come out and we’ll tell you.”

“Uh… hold on.”

Moments later, the courtyard door opened. A man in a navy-blue shirt, pale jeans, and a large gray knit cap squinted in our direction. The shirt was baggy and untucked, tails flapping like breakers. The jeans puddled over white sneakers. The cap was pulled down over the tops of his ears.

He walked toward us in an unsteady gait-uneven shoulders, a foot that turned outward every other step, on the verge of stumble. When he reached the gate, he studied us through iron tentacles, offered an iron-streaked view of long, gaunt face, hollow cheeks, deep-set brown eyes. A three-day stubble, mostly black, some gray, coated his face. Same for whatever cranium the cap revealed. His mouth was skewed to the left, as if set in perpetual regret. That and the rocky walk suggested some kind of neurological insult. I put him at thirty-five to forty. Young for a minor stroke, but life could be cruel.