Milo phoned Jean Barone and after she got over the shock, she said yes, she’d drawn up Mrs. Mancusi’s will, preferred not to discuss client matters over the phone.

As we headed for Santa Monica, Milo said, “Maybe it’s me, but she sounded eager.”

Jean Barone met us in the cramped, empty lobby of her building, a two-story structure just west of Yale. The space needed freshening. She looked as if she’d just renewed her makeup.

She was a middle-aged, wavy-haired brunette packed tightly into a peacock-blue knockoff Chanel suit. After checking Milo’s I.D., she took us up in the elevator to her two-room suite. No name on the plain white door but hers. Below her degree, supplementary credentials as a Notary Public and Certified Tax Preparer.

Her office smelled of Shalimar. She took a seat behind a dark, wood-like desk. “So horrible about Mrs. Mancusi. Any idea who did this?”

“Not yet. Is there anything you can tell us about her, ma’am?”

“Not really. The only thing I did for her was draw up the will, and that was five years ago.”

“Who referred her to you?”

“The yellow pages. I’d just graduated, had no referral base yet. She was one of my only clients in six months. It was easy, basically boilerplate.”

She opened a drawer and drew out a single sheet of paper. “Here’s your copy. No confidentiality for deceased individuals.”

“There was no copy in Mrs. Mancusi’s house.”

“She didn’t want one,” said Barone. “Said I should keep it.”

“How come?”

Barone shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t want anyone finding it.”

Milo scanned the will. “This is all of it?”

“Given her situation, there was no need to get fancy. The estate was her house, plus a pension, a little cash in the bank. No liens, no encumbrances, no attachments.”

“Only one heir listed.”

“Her son,” said Barone. “I did suggest there were steps she could take to reduce the estate tax burden on him. Like putting the house into a joint trust with a lifetime usage clause for her. She wasn’t interested.”

“Why not?”

“She wouldn’t tell me and I didn’t pry. She was more interested in my hourly rate, clearly didn’t want to spend an extra dime.”

Milo handed me the will. In the event of Anthony Mancusi Jr.’s pre-deceasing his mother, everything was willed to the Salvation Army.

Milo said, “She talk at all about the son?”

“Is he a suspect?”

“We’re looking into everyone close to her.”

“Bet that’s not a huge crowd.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She was polite,” said Jean Barone, “but a little… I got the feeling she wasn’t too sociable. No interest in small talk, cut to the chase. Or maybe she was just minimizing the billable hours. You know that generation. Careful with a buck.”

“Unlike today’s generation,” said Milo.

“My two kids have great jobs but they’re overdrawn on their credit cards.”

“Maybe Mrs. Mancusi thought her son was irresponsible and that’s why she didn’t want to give him the house.”

“She wouldn’t have actually been giving it to him, just – ” Barone smiled. “Functionally, it’s the same thing, so maybe you’ve got a point. But if she didn’t trust him, she didn’t tell me. I can’t overemphasize how reserved she was. But polite. Ladylike. It’s so strange to think of her being murdered. Was it a robbery?”

“Doesn’t seem to be.”

“You’re thinking the son wanted to push things along?”

“We’re not thinking anything yet.”

“Whatever you say.” Barone batted her lashes.

Milo got up. “Thanks for the copy. And for the nonbillable time.”

“Sure,” she said, touching his hand. “You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.”

During the ride down I said, “Must be the uniform – oops, you’re not wearing one.”

He said, “Nah, my cologne. Eau de schmo.”

It was four p.m. by the time we headed for the Prestige Rent-A-Car lot in Beverly Hills. During the drive, Milo called the motor lab. A couple of errant hairs and various wool, cotton, and linen fibers had showed up in the Mercedes, but no blood or body fluids. The car had been vacuumed recently by someone who’d taken care not to leave prints. The lab would be removing the door panels tomorrow but the tech cautioned Milo not to expect too much.

He said, “Story of my life,” and drove faster. “Ella’s estate was mostly her house. What do you think it’s worth?”

I said, “That part of Westwood? Million three, minimum.”

“That’s what I was thinking. Nice windfall for a loser like Tony.”

I said, “Ella wasn’t interested in reducing his tax burden and she stood by as he lost the apartment on Olympic and ended up in that dive.”

“Mommy thinks he’s a loser and he knows it.”

“Nothing like self-loathing to stoke rage,” I said. “And this was a healthy, youthful seventy-three-year-old who planned to be around for a while. Meaning extended poverty for Tony.”

The unmarked’s radio kicked in with a message to call the station.

“Sturgis, I’m on my way to a… who? Okay, tell them… tomorrow. Afternoon. I’ll call them in the morning to set up a time… handle them with care.”

Click.

“Antoine Beverly’s parents dropped by the station. Downtown told them I’m on the case, they want to meet me. Feel like sitting in? It could turn out to be a situation where psychological sensitivity is called for.”

“Sure, just give me a couple hours’ notice.”

He said, “Thanks – oh, man, look at all that chrome.”

Prestige Automotive Executive Services amounted to a cracked concrete lot covered by a canvas awning. Small-print signage, two dozen vehicles crowded nose-to-bumper, and a shed-like office to one side.

“All that chrome” was a mass of Porsches, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, a mammoth Rolls-Royce Phantom, a pair of Bentley GT coupes – smaller cousins to Nicholas Heubel’s stately sedan. Up in front, three Mercedes S600s.

Two silver, one black. A vacant slot next to the black car.

Iron posts marked both edges of the driveway. Between them, a limp length of chain snaked across the cement. A key lock was looped to a ring that passed through the right-hand post. Shiny, but cheap.

Milo’s laughter lacked amusement. “A gazillion worth of wheels and they use drugstore crap. I could pick this under the influence of any number of mind-altering substances.”

In the office, a small man around thirty sat next to a folding card table and listened to reggaeton. The tag on his blue shirt said Gil. The tattoos brocading his neck and arms said his pain threshold was high. His black hair was perfectly combed, his soul patch squared to the size of a Scrabble tile. On the wall were a tool-company calendar and Playboy centerfolds that made me feel like a ten-year-old kid.

Milo flashed the badge. The man switched off the radio. “Yeah, they told me you were coming.”

Milo said, “You’re off the beaten path, Mr…”

“Gilbert Chacon.”

“How do customers find you, Mr. Chacon?”

“We don’t rent to no customers. The rental lot’s on La Cienega. This is the ultra-luxury lot. We do calls from hotels, it’s all delivery.”

“Guest wants a car, you bring it to them.”

“Yeah,” said Chacon, “but we don’t deal with no guests, just the hotels, everything goes on the hotel bill.”

“So not much traffic here.”

“Nobody comes here.”

“Someone came here last night.”

Chacon’s mouth screwed up. “Never happened before.”

“What’s your security setup?”

“Chain and a lock,” said Chacon.

“That’s it?”

Chacon shrugged. “The police is what, a minute away? Beverly Hills, you got cops all over the place.”

“Is there a night watchman?”

“Nope.”

“Alarm system?”

“Nope.”

“All those fancy wheels?” said Milo.

Chacon reached back. His fingers grazed a clapboard wall. He must’ve liked the feel because he began stroking the wood. “The cars got alarms.”