Milo turned to me. “Where’s the nearest hardware store?”

“Nothing’s really close. Maybe Santa Monica near Bundy.”

Back to Ramos-Martinez. “Officer, here’s what I need you to do: Drive to the hardware store at Santa Monica near Bundy, buy a good-quality padlock and the shortest chain you can find, and bring all that back A-sap.” Fishing out his wallet, he handed bills to the young officer.

“Right now, sir?”

“Before now, Officer. Put a move on-pretend it’s a code-two. Don’t call in to report your location, either. Anyone fusses, blame it on me.”

“No sweat, sir,” said Ramos-Martinez. “I don’t mind fuss.”

“That so?”

“Yes, sir. Takes a lot to get me worried, sir.”

The day had remained warm and the turret should’ve reflected that. Instead, it felt chilly and dank and my nose filled with stink that didn’t exist. The same stench I’d carried around for days after my first visit, years ago, to the crypt on Mission Road. Some old cluster of olfactory brain cells, activated by memory.

Milo slouched and chewed his dead cigar. “Okay, we’re here. Give me some thunderous insight.”

“If the killer stalked Backer and Jane, I’m wondering why he chose to strike here. The staircase is pretty well hidden and he’d have to sneak his way up in the dark, be careful not to make noise. If Backer and Jane were close to the staircase, he’d risk being seen or heard well before getting to the top. And with them higher than him, he’d be at a serious disadvantage. One good shove and our boy’s tumbling.”

He said, “So maybe our boy knew Backer and Jane came up here regularly to mess around, and had the lay of the place-pun intended. Hell, Alex, if the two of them were bumping around, heavy-breathing, that would’ve blocked out footsteps.”

“Familiarity with the site could also mean someone who’d worked here, a tradesmen assigned to the job. Maybe someone who knew Backer through construction. If you find a history of violence, stalking, sexual offenses, you’ve got something to work with.”

“Jane’s jealous sig-oth just happens to be Joe Hardhat?”

“That or someone who’d seen Des with Jane and grew obsessed with her.”

“Job’s been dormant for two years, we’re talking a tradesman who moved on.”

“Maybe not far enough.”

He looked at his watch. “You go on home, I’m gonna do my own walk-through of the grounds, stick around until Ramos-Martinez brings the lock and chain.”

“Keeping Doyle Bryczinski out.”

“Keeping everyone the hell out,” he said. “Besides, I’m a prince among men. Why not pretend to have a castle?”

Robin was waiting for me in the living room, all sixty-three inches of her curled on the couch, listening to Stefano Grondona play Bach on old guitars. A white silk dress played off against her olive skin. Auburn curls fanned on the cushion. Blanche snuggled against Robin’s chest, knobby blond head resting near Robin’s left hand.

Both of them smiled. It can be jarring when a French bulldog’s flat face takes on an unmistakably human expression, and some people startle when Blanche switches on the charm. I’m used to it, but it still makes me wonder about the standard evolutionary charts.

I said, “Hey, girls,” and kissed them both. Lips for Robin, top of the head for Blanche. Unlike our previous dog, a feisty brindle male Frenchie named Spike, Blanche has no jealousy issues. I gave her bat-ears a scratch.

“You look tired, baby.”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you mind going out?”

I was still stuffed with Italian, said, “Not at all.”

We drove to a place at the top of the Glen where good jazz was mixed with decent food and a generous bar. The band was offset and the stand-in sound track was low-volume sax, something Brazilian-tinged, maybe Stan Getz. We drank wine, settled in.

Robin said, “What’s the case?”

I told her.

“Holmby. That’s close.”

“No danger, Rob. This was personal.”

I summed up Backer’s proclivities, the interviews of Holman, Sanfelice, and Passant.

She said, “They all sound like soap opera characters.”

“Don Juan and his fan club.”

“If he was a woman, he’d be labeled a slut.”

“Or a courtesan,” I said. “Or ambassador to a major ally. It’s always a matter of pay grade.”

“ Borodi Lane is serious pay grade, Alex. Maybe he took Jane there because she was a rich girl.”

“Her clothes didn’t say that. I was wondering about someone who worked in the neighborhood. Anyone who spent time there knew the job was inactive and security was lax.”

The food came. The band approached the stage.

Robin took hold of my hand. “Guess I should give you credit.”

“For what?”

“Not being a Don Juan.”

“That deserves a prize? Fine, I’ll take what I can get.”

“Hey,” she said, stroking my cheek. “Handsome dude with a fancy degree and no mortgage? Not to mention other… ahem… attributes. You could be partying like it’s 1999.”

“Bring on the platform shoes.”

“That’s the seventies, dear.”

“See,” I said. “I’m out of touch, would never survive the meat market.”

“Oh, you’d thrive, sweetie. It would be one thing if you were a twerp with no libido, but I know otherwise.”

“That’s me,” I said. “Sexual Superman with the morals of a saint.”

“You laugh,” she said. “I smile.”

We drove home well fed and watered. As I held the door open, Robin said, “Nice place you’ve got here, Don.” We disrobed in the dark, collapsed under the covers. Afterward, she said, “That was great, but next time platform shoes.”

I awoke at four eighteen, was at my desk five minutes later, pupils constricting as the computer screen filled with light. Plugging in the Borodi address produced a four-year-old squib in L.A. Design Quarterly.

“Masterson and Associates, Century City, will be the architects for a mammoth project planned in Holmby Hills this fall. The 28,000-square-foot residence sits on a 2.42-acre lot on Borodi Lane and will be the L.A. pied-à-terre for an unnamed foreign investor.”

Marjorie Holman’s dismissive comment about Helga Gemein flashed in my head. No need to work, Daddy was a German shipping tycoon.

A stretch, but you needed to be at that level for a project of that scope.

I searched some more, pairing Gemein and Borodi, found nothing.

Five hours later, I was in Milo ’s office and he was shaking his head. “Already checked the assessor, nada.”

“What about the building permit?”

“There’s a perfectly legit four-year-old permit on file. And that Century City outfit-Masterson-were the architects, but the property owner of record is a corporation called DSD Incorporated, Massachusetts Avenue, Washington, D.C., and for the last thirty-nine months, that address matches the headquarters of a soybean industry lobbyist who never heard of DSD. No corporate listings, anywhere. Maybe they were a sleazeball hedge fund that went poof.”

I said, “The article said foreign investor.”

“So DSD was a holding company set up as some kind of tax dodge. Does that bother me? Not unless it relates to two bodies in a turret.”

He opened a desk drawer, slammed it shut. Wheeled his chair back the three inches allotted and knuckled his eyelids. His windowless cell was ripe with stale tobacco and fumes from the burnt coffee cooked up in the big detective room. He’d fetched two cups, had finished his. Mine cooled, untouched. Life was too short.

I said, “Any word on the autopsy?”

“Bodies are stacked up in the fridge closet like firewood, coroner’s not seeing this as high priority because cause of death is pretty obvious. I bitched, but they’ve got a point. The X-ray of Backer’s head shows bullet frags in his brain, and Jane’s a clear strangulation. What they didn’t find was any sign of sexual assault. Oh, yeah, just in case I was getting the least bit cheerful, the only prints that show up in Backer’s car are his and Jane’s but since she’s not on record, big damn deal. She doesn’t have a single distinguishing scar, deformity, or tattoo. Though she did get a nose job, a long time ago. I’ve been trolling the Doe Network and every other missing persons database, but so far nothing, even allowing for a bigger schnoz. And Backer’s hard drive turned out to be more of the same: porn, ecology, architecture.”