“A spear.”

“She was skewered, Alex. A bullet to the brain wasn’t enough.”

“Overkill,” I said. “A message. Were they actually making love or were they positioned sexually?”

He flashed a frightening smile. “Now we’re veering into your territory.”

The techs and the coroner gloved up and did their thing under heartless floodlights. Milo talked to the uniforms who’d arrived first on the scene, and I stood around.

He loped over to one of the big sycamores, said something to no apparent listener, and a nervous-looking Hispanic man in baggy clothes stepped from behind the trunk. The man talked with his hands and looked agitated. Milo did a lot of listening. He took out his notepad and scrawled without breaking eye contact. When he was finished, the man was allowed to leave the scene.

The spear in the girl’s chest appeared to be a homemade weapon fashioned from a slat of wrought-iron fencing. The coroner who manipulated it free said so out loud as she carried it beyond the yellow tape perimeter and laid it on an evidence sheet.

The uniforms checked the property for similar fencing, found iron around a pool, but a different diameter.

DMV came through with the car’s registration: the Mustang was one year old and registered to Jerome Allan Quick, of South Camden Drive in Beverly Hills. A wallet in the pocket of the male victim’s khakis yielded a driver’s license that confirmed him as Gavin Ryan Quick, two months past his twentieth birthday. A student ID card put him as a sophomore at the U., but the card was two years old. In another pocket, the techs retrieved a joint wrapped in a baggie and a foil-wrapped condom. Another condom, out of the foil but unrolled, was discovered on the floor of the Mustang.

Neither the girl’s black leggings or her gold silk shirt contained pockets. No purse or handbag was found in the car or anywhere else. Blond, thin, pale, pretty, she remained unidentified. Even after the spear was removed, she lay contorted, chest thrust at the night sky, neck twisted, eyes wide-open. A spidery position no living creature would have entertained.

The coroner wouldn’t commit but guessed from the arterial blood spatter that she’d been alive while being impaled.

Milo and I drove to Beverly Hills. Once again, he offered to drop me off; once again, I laughed. Allison would be home by now, but we weren’t living together, so there was no reason to let her know where I was. Back when Robin and I did live together, I checked in most of the time. Sometimes I was derelict. The least of my sins.

I said, “Who was the guy you interviewed?”

“Night watchman employed by the real estate company. His job is to drive around at the end of the day, check out the high-priced listings, make sure everything’s secure. The brokerage gives the key out to their agents, and agents from other outfits can come by and borrow copies. Supposedly a foolproof system, but doors don’t get locked, windows and gates are left open. That’s probably what happened here. The house was shown today by three brokers. It was the watchman’s last stop, he covers everything from San Gabriel to the beach. He’s the one who found the bodies and phoned it in.”

“But you’ll paraffin him, anyway.”

“Done. No gunshot residue. I’ll also be checking the three brokers and their clients.”

I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard, drove east, headed south on Rodeo Drive. Shops were closed, but storefronts were bright. A homeless man steered a shopping cart past Gucci.

“So you’re taking the case,” I said.

He rode half a block before answering. “Been a while since I had me a nice little whodunit, good to stay in shape.”

He’d always claimed to hate whodunits, but I said nothing. The last one had closed a while back, a cold-hearted killer executing people with artistic talent. The day after Milo filed his final report, he said, “Ready for some low-IQ bar shootings, bad guys holding the smoking gun.”

Now he said, “Yeah, yeah, I’m a glutton for punishment. Let’s get this over with.”

Jerome Allan Quick lived on a pretty street a block and a half south of Wilshire. This was the middle ground of Beverly Hills, meaning pleasant houses on fifth-acre lots that ran between one and two million.

The Quick residence was a two-story white traditional, open to the street. A white minivan and a gray baby Benz shared the driveway. Lights out. Everything looked peaceful. That would change soon.

Milo phoned Beverly Hills PD to let them know he’d be making a notification call, then we got out and walked to the house. His knock elicited only silence. His doorbell ring brought footsteps and a woman’s voice asking who it was.

“Police.”

Lights on in the entry illuminated the peephole in the door. The door opened, and the woman said, “Police? What’s going on?”

She was in her midforties, trim but wide in the hips, wore green velour sweats, glasses on a chain, and nothing on her feet. Ash-blond hair was texturized to faux carelessness. At least four shades of blond that I could make out in the light over the doorway, blended artfully. Her nails were painted silver. Her skin looked tired. She squinted and blinked. The house behind her was silent.

There’s no good way to do what Milo had to do. She sagged and screamed and tore at her hair and accused him of being crazy and a goddamn liar. Then her eyes bugged and her hand snapped across her mouth and a retching sound forced its way through her fingers.

I was the first to follow her into her kitchen, where she vomited into a stainless-steel sink. Milo hung near the doorway, looking miserable but still taking the time to examine the room.

As she threw up convulsively, I stood behind her but didn’t touch her. When she was finished, I got her a paper towel.

She said, “Thank you, that was very…”

She started to smile, then she saw me for the stranger I was and began to shake uncontrollably.

When we finally made it to the living room, she remained on her feet and insisted we sit. We perched on a blue brocade sofa. The room was pretty.

She stared at us. Her eyes were bloodshot. Her face had gone white.

“Can I get you coffee and cake?”

Milo said, “Don’t go to any trouble, Mrs. Quick.”

“Sheila.” She hurried back to the kitchen. Milo clenched and unclenched his hands. My eyes ached. I stared at a Picasso print of an old guitarist, a reproduction cherrywood grandfather clock, pink silk flowers in a crystal vase, family photos. Sheila Quick, a thin, gray-haired man, a dark-haired girl about twenty, and the boy in the Mustang.

She returned with two mismatched mugs of instant coffee, a jar of powdered whitener, a plate of sugar cookies. Her lips were bloodless. “I’m so sorry. Here, maybe this will make you feel better.”

Milo said, “Ma’am-”

“Sheila. My husband’s in Atlanta.”

“Business?”

“Jerry’s a metals dealer. He visits scrapyards and smelters and whatever.” She fooled with her hair. “Have one, please, they’re Pepperidge Farms.”

Lifting a cookie from the plate, she dropped it, tried to pick it up, crushed it to crumbs on the carpet.

“Now look what I did!” She threw up her hands and cried.

Milo was gentle, but he probed, and he and Sheila Quick fell into a routine: short questions from him, long, rambling answers from her. She seemed hypnotized by the sound of her own voice. I didn’t want to think about what it would be like when we left.