“You want to know who he was? Miles Zambelli. That was his name. The guy I slept with. Like it really matters. There. You satisfied now? You expect me to act like I have something to be ashamed of, and I don’t.”

The shower doors were fogged with steam. I said, “Try knocking next time.”

“He didn’t mean anything to me, Logan. And I didn’t mean anything to him. And I resent the hell out of you demanding that I somehow have to account to you for my personal life!”

“Your father’s legal advisor. That Miles Zambelli? That’s who your ‘mistake’ was?”

Savannah blinked, stunned that I would know.

“Thirty. Dark hair. John Lennon glasses. Reeks of Ivy League.” I slid open the shower door wide enough as modesty would allow — no sense in showing her all the splendor she’d been missing — and grabbed a towel off a wall hook. “The age difference there is what, fifteen years? Rather cougar-ish, wouldn’t you say, Savannah?”

“How do you know Zambelli?”

“I met him yesterday.”

“You met him yesterday? You want to tell me how that happened?”

“Not especially, no.”

I wrapped the towel around my waist and crossed to the vanity, a converted antique sideboard, French mahogany, with double porcelain sinks and a beveled mirror. I wiped the steam off the glass and combed my hair. Savannah stood behind me, her expression one of incredulity.

“My father came to see you. That’s why you talked to the police, isn’t it?”

I should have said that it’s a small world, and that I just happened to have met Zambelli on the street, or in some restaurant somewhere. Better yet, I should’ve just kept my mouth shut. But I didn’t.

“Your father didn’t come to see me, Savannah. I went to see him.”

She planted her hands on her hips and glared. “I don’t believe this! I ask you to talk to the police and you tell me to kiss off. But my father asks and it’s, ‘Yessir, Mr. Carlisle. Whatever I can do for you, sir!’”

“He wants to know who killed Arlo as much as you do. He asked me to talk briefly to the police. I did.”

I walked into the guest bedroom. She stormed after me.

“He paid you, didn’t he?”

“I’m getting dressed now, Savannah. You have two options: Do a one-eighty or enjoy the show.”

She turned her back to me, arms folded indignantly. I dropped my towel and dug a clean pair of boxer briefs out of my flight bag.

“How much, Logan?”

“That’s between your father and me.” I stepped into my underwear, then put on a fresh polo shirt. I retrieved my semi-dirty jeans from the bed where I’d left them to go swimming and pulled them on. “Show’s over,” I said, cinching my belt. “You can turn around now.”

“Miles Zambelli couldn’t have killed Arlo,” Savannah said, turning to face me. “He would’ve had no reason to. There was absolutely nothing between us. Just the one night. Like I said.”

“How long before Echevarria was killed did you sleep with Zambelli?”

“I don’t know. Three weeks. A month. I really don’t remember.”

“Did you tell the police this?”

“Why would I tell the police? I told you. It had nothing to do with what happened to Arlo.”

“Does your father know?”

“He knows. Zambelli’s the son my father never had. He wasn’t exactly thrilled, but he understood. Things happen. God only knows my father has made his share of mistakes, too.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed and tied my shoes. The thought of somebody like Zambelli having had his way with Savannah, however briefly, made my stomach raw.

“Anybody else you did I should know about?”

“Jesus, you’re really something, you know that?” She turned and started to walk out.

“I need to borrow your car,” I said.

“Seriously? You treat me like shit, then expect me to let you borrow my car? Just like that?”

“I need to go see where Arlo died.”

Savannah’s Jaguar had a dash-mounted GPS with one of those automated voices that remind you when to turn and when to “stay on the motorway.” The voice was male and upper-crust British and irritating as hell. I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off without turning off the whole navigational system.

“Please… return… to… route.”

“Please shut the hell up.”

Whoever programmed The Voice never factored in normal counter-surveillance methods. Descending the Hollywood Hills to the flats below, I negotiated several quick turns onto twisty side streets, checking my mirrors, pulling over and killing my lights, trying to spot any tails, the little revolver tucked under my left thigh for easy access. Each deviation from my designated route prompted a rebuke from The Voice.

“Please… return… to… route.”

With the possible exception of the Invisible Man, no one was following me. I merged onto the Hollywood Freeway and headed westbound into the San Fernando Valley, toward Northridge and 5442 Williston Drive, the address Savannah had given me, where Arlo had lived out his final days.

It was nine-thirty on a Friday night, long past rush hour, but traffic remained at a crawl. Brake lights sparkled ahead of me, an endless ribbon of rubies, while to my left, four lanes of headlights gleamed like rhinestones from the southbound procession of cars inching along in the opposite direction. Nobody honked their horn. Being trapped in your vehicle at any given time surrounded by thousands of other similarly imprisoned Los Angelinos is an accepted part of life in Southern California. A land going nowhere fast. It took me more than an hour to travel less than ten miles.

“Exit right in… one-half mile.”

I got off the freeway on Reseda Boulevard and turned north. It was a five-minute drive to the working class suburb of Northridge. The Voice told me to make a hard right onto Roscoe Boulevard, then a left, another left, then a right. In the darkness, every street looked the same, every home the same as the one before it. The houses were tired and small, cracker boxes that once trumpeted the embodiment of postwar, middle-class privilege, but were now the domain of low-income renters, immigrants mostly, struggling to hang on in a weak economy.

The Voice announced that I had arrived at my destination. It was a good thing, too. I would’ve otherwise cruised right past 5442 Williston Drive.

I parked the Jag at the curb, behind a primer-gray Pontiac Bonneville. Bolted to the Bonneville’s left front wheel was a yellow Denver boot for unpaid parking citations. On the back bumper was a sticker that said, “How’s My Driving? Dial 1-800-EAT SHIT.” Somewhere down the street, a small dog yapped incessantly. I untucked my shirt, slipped the revolver into my belt, and got out.

A real estate broker’s sign was planted in the tiny patch of coarse, yellowed grass that had passed for Echevarria’s front yard. On the wooden post below the sign was a clear plastic box with one-page color flyers inside. I took out a flyer and read it under the fluorescent mantle of a street light. The house boasted two bedrooms and one bath, fresh carpet, new paint, a self-defrosting refrigerator, and a “private and secure” backyard. It was, according to the flyer, “freeway convenient” and close to shopping — the “perfect, affordable home for the young professional or a small family just starting out.” What it didn’t say was that 5442 Williston Drive was a dump at any price. Nor did it say that a man had been shot to death just inside the front door. The wonders of creative marketing.

I folded the flyer and put it in my back pocket. Then I tried the door. Locked. Likewise the front window. I rubbed the back of my neck. I didn’t know what I hoped to discover inside, only that on some vague level I couldn’t define, I felt the need to find something that might help explain why Echevarria had been killed. I thought about the chase with the Honda, and about what Savannah had said, her concern that I might be next. I needed to rule out that possibility before I could return with any sense of security to my regular scheduled programming. For the moment, anyway, whether I liked it or not, I realized my future and Echevarria’s past were linked.