“It did occur to me.”

Reed laughed. “Back when I was born, my mother was kinda biblical.” A beat later: “Moses never got to see the Promised Land.”

Milo said, “Tell me about the Brandt kid.”

Good-looking kid, insolent eyes.

Chance Brandt sprawled on an oversized brocade sofa in the oversized great room of an oversized Mediterranean mansion on Old Oak Road in Brentwood. The house smelled of take-out pizza and expensive perfume.

Chance wore tennis clothes. So did his mother, a stunning, long-legged blonde with sea-green eyes and obviously dominant chromosomes. Some of her frosted lipstick had caked and her mouth was pale. She wanted to hold her son’s hand but didn’t dare.

Sitting on the boy’s other side was Dad: dark, beefy, huge-chinned, bald, still in blue dress shirt and gold Hermès tie.

Enraged attorney, always a joy to behold.

“Unbelievable. Now this.” Steve Brandt glared at his son as if Oedipus had materialized.

The boy said nothing.

Brandt said, “I do wills and estates, can’t help you here, Chance.”

Susan Brandt said, “I’m sure there’s nothing to help.”

Her husband aimed venomous eyes her way. She gnawed her lower lip rosy, folded her arms.

Moe Reed said, “Chance, tell us what happened.”

Steve Brandt snorted. “Without benefit of counsel? I think not.”

“Sir, if all he did was take a phone call, there’s no need for counsel.”

Chance smiled.

His father flushed. “Something’s funny, genius?”

Susan Brandt’s breath caught, as if snagged on barbed wire. Green eyes moistened.

Milo said, “As Detective Reed explained, we’re investigating a homicide. If Chance is involved, he absolutely does need legal advice and we want him to have it as soon as possible. But we have no indication of that. Certainly, it’s your prerogative to request a lawyer in any circumstance, and if that’s the route you take, we’ll have this conversation at the police station, in an interview room with videotaping, paperwork, et cetera.”

“You’re threatening me,” said Steve Brandt. His smile was unpleasant.

“Absolutely not, sir. It’s simply what we’d need to do. At this point, Chance isn’t being looked at as anything other than a witness. To a phone call, at that. So I really don’t see why you wouldn’t want to cooperate fully.”

Chance’s eyes shifted to us. No more smugness, just confusion.

Steve Brandt folded his arms across his chest.

Milo said, “Okay, sir, please make sure Chance is here tomorrow at seven a.m. when we send a squad car for him. Or, if the paper clears sooner, it could be tonight.”

He started to rise.

Steve Brandt said, “Hold on. Let me talk to my son in private. Then I’ll inform you which way we’re going with this… mess. Fair enough?”

Milo sat back down. “We work hard to be fair.”

One hundred fifty-eight seconds later, father and son returned to the room, walking four feet apart.

Father said, “He’ll tell you everything. But could you please let me know how things got to this point? So I’ll know he’s being straight with me.”

Son stared at a window with a view of a black-bottomed pool.

Moe Reed looked at Milo. Milo nodded.

Reed said, “At eleven-thirty p.m. we received a call about a dead person in the Bird Marsh. The caller heard about it from someone who heard about it from Chance.”

“How do you know that?” said Steve Brandt.

“Our caller said someone had phoned the marsh volunteer office earlier that evening, talked to Chance, told him to look for a body. Chance thought it was a joke. Our caller took it seriously.”

“Who’s the caller?”

“We’re checking that out.”

The boy’s posture remained slack but sweat had popped on his forehead.

“Thirdhand gossip?” said Susan Brandt. “That doesn’t sound like much.”

Her husband glared. She began fooling with a French-tipped thumbnail.

Steve Brandt said, “Kids blabbing and fantasizing, that’s the sum total?”

“Might’ve been,” said Reed, “except we did find a body. And mode of death was homicide.” Swiveling toward Chance. “We need to know exactly what happened.”

The boy didn’t speak. His father placed a hand on his shoulder, thick fingers digging into white pique, nothing tender about the gesture. Chance squirmed out of his grip.

“Tell them what you know and let’s finish with this.”

“Like you said, someone called,” said the boy.

Reed said, “Who?”

“Some asshole with a weird voice.”

“Language, Chance,” said Susan Brandt, in a defeated voice.

Moe Reed said, “Weird how?”

“Um… like hissy.”

“Hissy?”

“Whispery. Like one of those grinder movies. Some death-bot, whatever.”

“Someone disguising their voice by hissing.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you imitate this person, let us know what it sounded like?”

Chance laughed.

“Do it,” said his father.

“I’m not in Drama, Dad.”

“You’ve caused plenty of drama in this family.”

Shrug. “Whatever.”

“Do it.”

The boy’s lips formed an “F.” Steve Brandt’s knuckles whitened.

Milo said, “Someone hissed at you, Chance. What did they say?”

“Like… uh… there’s something down in the marsh. Something dead.”

“What else?”

“That’s it.”

“Male or female?”

“Male… probably.”

“You can’t be sure?”

“It was like… hissy. Bogus.”

“Faking,” said Reed.

“Yeah. I thought I was being pranked.”

“By who?”

“Whatever. Friends.”

Milo said, “ Prince Albert in a can.”

Chance’s stare was uncomprehending.

Milo said, “Something dead in the marsh.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What else did this hissing person say?”

“Nothing,” said Chance. “It sounded stupid, that’s why I didn’t tell it to the guy who came in right after.”

“What guy?” said Reed.

“Guy who runs the place, real tool. Always checking on me.”

“What’s the tool’s name?” said Reed.

“Duboff. He’s like a hippie you read about in History.”

“Mr. Duboff came into the office right after you took the call.”

“I didn’t take it. I just listened and hung up.”

“How soon after did Duboff come in?”

“Like right.”

“Checking up on you.”

“Yeah.”

“And you told him…”

“Everything’s cool.”

“You made no mention whatsoever of the hissing call.”

“I thought it was bogus,” said Chance. “Ethan or Ben, Sean, whatever.” Peering at us as he dropped the names. Trying to figure out who’d given him away.

Reed said, “What time did this hissy call come in?”

“Um… um, um-like um nine thirty.”

“Like articulate,” said Steve Brandt. His wife looked ready to cry.

Reed said, “Can you give a more precise estimate?”

Chance said, “It was like… oh, yeah, before I looked at my watch and it was like nine twenty something, so it was after that.”

“Nine thirty or so.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess.”

“Jesus,” said Steve Brandt, “it’s not rocket science.”

Chance’s shoulders bunched. His mother had gnawed her lip scarlet.

His father said, “I think it’s obvious math isn’t his strong suit, that’s how we ended up in this mess in the first place. The indignity of an algebra test that required minimum effort to pass.”

Chance chewed his lip. More genetics? Or would living with Steve Brandt drive anyone to it?

Brandt loosened his tie. “We’re still trying to figure out if he has a strong suit.”

His wife gasped.

“Get real, Suze. If he hadn’t cheated in the first place, we’d never be talking to the cops.” To us: “Maybe as long as you’re here we should set up some tough love for my son. One of those programs you put youthful offenders into? Working at the morgue, getting in touch with reality?”