Now, facing Simone Vander’s gate-call button, the young detective jammed his hands in his pockets and chewed his cheek.

“Go ahead, this is your time to shine,” said Milo, jabbing air with his finger.

“Anything you want me to concentrate on?” said Reed.

“Follow your gut,” said Milo.

Reed frowned.

“That’s a reward, not a punishment, Moses.”

Reed pushed the button.

Milo said, “You get good grades, I’ll let you spin the steering wheel. But only when the car’s in the driveway.”

A young-sounding female voice said, “Yes?” Another female voice sang sweetly in the background.

“Ms. Vander? Detective Reed, L.A. police.”

“Is something wrong?”

“We’d like a few minutes of your time, ma’am. Regarding Travis Huck.”

“Oh.” The music receded. “Okay, one sec.”

Several minutes passed before the carved door opened. The woman in the opening was medium height, pale, stick-thin and leggy, with a gamin face under a layered mass of long black hair. She wore a white-and-pink-striped boat-neck top, white knee-length cargo pants fastened with bows at the patella, backless pink sandals with stilt heels. Gold hoop earrings large enough to be visible across the motor court caught sunlight.

She studied us. Waved.

Moe Reed waved back. She clicked the gate open.

“I’m Simone. What’s going on?” Soft, melodic voice, a vibrato that made each word sound tentative. She was one of those people who look better upon close inspection. Porcelain skin, gray-blue capillary mesh at the temples, fine features, graceful posture. Her eyes were brown and round with enormous irises. Dilated pupils implied curiosity. Her brows had been artfully plucked.

An ivory hand cradled the remote module. She smiled and looked younger.

Moe Reed reintroduced himself, identified Milo, then me. Leaving out my title. No sense complicating matters.

Simone Vander said, “So many people. I guess it’s pretty important.”

Before Reed could respond, an engine growled behind us.

A silver Porsche cabriolet idled behind the gate. The top was down, revealing terra-cotta leather. Behind the wheel sat Aaron Fox, wearing mirrored sunshades, a beige linen jacket, a black shirt.

“Oh, good,” said Simone Vander as she clicked him in.

Fox got out of his car buttoning his jacket. Perfectly cut linen pants made the outfit a suit. Black snakeskin loafers were cut low, revealing mocha shins.

“P.I. Fox,” said Milo.

“Lieutenant Sturgis. In the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by.”

He headed for Simone Vander. Moe Reed blocked his way.

Fox said, “Excuse me?”

“Not a good time.”

Simone said, “I called Aaron. Right after you rang in. Boy, you got here fast.”

Milo said, “Why’d you call him, ma’am?”

“I don’t know-I guess I thought he should be here. He’s the one who knows all about Travis.”

Reed half turned to face her. Next to his lifter’s bulk, she looked like dry twigs. “You paid him to learn.”

Simone Vander didn’t reply.

Aaron Fox said, “Ms. Vander has a perfect right to hire me to do anything legal. And as she just said, whatever she knows about Mr. Huck, I told her. So why don’t we just-”

“We’ll do what we need to do,” said Reed, shoulders spreading as he tried to enlarge himself. He was wider than Fox but shorter by a couple of inches. Fox stood straight, aiming to widen the disparity.

Simone Vander stared at both of them.

Dominance duel.

Toss-up.

Milo said, “Aaron, we appreciate your loyalty to your client-”

Reed said, “Not to mention billing by the hour-”

“-but right now we need to talk to her alone.”

Fox’s smooth brown face betrayed no emotion.

Reed said, “Alone, Mr. Fox.”

Fox’s grin was too sudden and wide to imply anything close to cheer. Tugging linen lapels, he shrugged. “I’ll stay close, Simone. Call me when you’re through.”

“Okay-thanks.”

Still smiling, Fox clapped his brother on the shoulder, hard enough to echo. Reed’s meaty hands rolled tight.

“Always great seeing you, bro.”

Climbing back in the Porsche, Fox revved, shifted into gear. Twisted his head clear of the windshield. Gave the thumbs-up, focused on Reed.

“Nice touch, the Caddy.”

Simone Vander’s living room was cheerful and cozy and overfurnished, with chintz chairs, oak pieces that might’ve been old, floral prints in white distressed frames. A collection of Japanese dolls filled a hutch that bordered a bright red tile kitchen. Warming our feet was a lavender-and-cream Aubusson rug. The music wafting from a Bang & Olufsen entertainment center was Tori Amos, singing about a black dove.

A Chinese camphor-wood trunk served as a coffee table. Three gilt-framed photos stood on the top, along with flowers and candles.

Two shots were of Simone Vander: straddling a beautiful brown horse, and a close-up that had her holding a coffee cup, backed by the ocean.

The largest photo, positioned dead center, was a formal portrait: a tall, stooped, sixtyish bearded man with thin gray hair brushed forward in an awkward comb-over, a tiny, pretty Asian woman at least twenty years his junior, and an almond-eyed boy around eight holding both their hands. The boy and the man wore tuxedos, the woman a long red gown. Both adults smiled. The child’s mouth was tiny and tight.

Simone Vander touched the frame with a French-tipped nail and smiled. “That’s my brother Kelvin. He’s a genius.”

She switched off the music as Milo and Reed and I settled on the longest sofa. Our combined weight compressed fluffy down cushions a foot or so. Simone Vander asked us if we wanted something to drink and when we demurred, she took a hard-backed chair and crossed her legs. The chair was high, and we had to look up to make eye contact with her.

She fussed with a sleeve. One pink sandal dangled. “Sorry,” she said. “For calling Aaron. It’s just that he’s been really helpful to me.”

“Investigating Travis Huck,” said Reed.

“Uh-huh.” She pushed thick black hair behind a flat, delicate ear. Another network of blue veins marked the juncture of jaw and lobe, suggesting translucence.

She hugged herself. “I guess you’d like to know why I hired him in the first place.”

Reed said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Aaron came highly recommended,” she said. Searching our faces for confirmation or debate.

“Who referred you to him, ma’am?”

“A man who’s worked with my father-doing real estate deals-had used Aaron before, said he was the best. It wasn’t something I was sure about, the whole thing felt kind of strange. Hiring a private eye, I mean. But I just felt I had to. When I heard about Selena.”

“You knew Selena,” said Reed.

“She was my brother’s piano teacher. Sometimes she’d show up at the house when I was there, and we’d talk. She seemed like a really nice person. I was so upset when I heard what happened to her.”

Reed said, “Talk about what?”

Simone smiled. “You know, casual stuff. She seemed sweet. Kelvin-my brother-really liked her. He’s been through other teachers-strict, really stuffy-professors from conservatories. They leaned hard on him and Kelvin had enough. He’s been playing since he’s three, got tired of practicing six hours a day. Just because you’re a genius doesn’t mean you’re a slave, right? He also had his fill of classical music, wanted to write his own songs. Dad and Nadine-Kelvin’s mom-were fine with it. They’re not like other parents in that situation.”

“What situation is that?”

“Having a genius. A prodigy,” said Simone Vander. “From what I saw, Selena was a great fit for Kelvin. She told me she’d gone through the same thing. Being real talented, expected to practice all the time.” Frown. “This is horrible. Kelvin’s going to freak out.”